Wing was under constant guard. But none were at this door.
Dart continued onward, ready for living shadow to rush out and nab her. How had Yaellin obtained a shadowcloak? And how did he work its Grace to hide in the shadows? She had been taught that such blessed cloth would respond only to a knight.
She prayed the meager light cast by Pupp’s molten body would be enough to expose a hidden assassin like Yaellin. Because that certainly must be his purpose. Surely the blade could not kill Lord Chrism, but Mistress Naff had no defense against its curse.
Then again, what was Yaellin doing in Chrism’s rooms? Had he gone to harm the god? And what were Lord Chrism and Mistress Naff doing in her room? They had been searching for her, expressing concern for her safety. Did they already know of her nighttime intruder? Or maybe they were the ones who had come in the middle of the night, casting some blessing of protection upon her that she mistook for dark alchemies.
Her mind whirled with various scenarios.
They wound down and around the stairwell, then struck another hallway heading toward the southern half of the castillion. Where were they going? Occasionally a snippet of voice would carry back to them. Lord Chrism or Mistress Naff. But the words were unintelligible at this distance. So the two continued their pursuit.
Finally, another stair-an even darker stair-led downward again. It was narrow and dusty with disuse. Dart considered retreating back to the High Wing, but after coming so far, she had no choice but to continue.
The stair wound deeper and deeper.
“We must be well below the streets now,” Laurelle whispered. “I’ve never been down this far.”
Neither had Dart. Even the subterranean Graced Cache that stored Lord Chrism’s repostilaries was not buried this deep. The air smelled dank, of river water and muck. And a chill had grown around them. Even the stairs had become cruder, hewn roughly from the rock, the edges crumbling.
Laurelle slipped on a stair and clutched Dart’s shoulder to keep from falling. She gained her footing with care, but a slight limp marked her step.
“Are you all right?” Dart whispered.
“Bent my ankle a bit. But I can walk.”
“Are you sure? Maybe we should turn back.” A part of Dart hoped Laurelle would need to return. Determination could be sustained only so long. Fear had worn it thin.
“No,” Laurelle said, her voice struggling for firmness and failing. “We’ve come this far. And besides, right now, down is easier than up with my ankle.”
Dart nodded and slowly crept down the narrowing stairs. They had to proceed one after the other now. Laurelle kept behind.
“It’s dark as pitch now,” Laurelle said. “I can see no glow of the other’s lamp.”
Dart peered ahead. Laurelle was right. She had not noticed that the distant light had faded away.
A full flight ahead of them, Pupp continued downward, a ruddy ember rolling down the stairs. Rounding another turn in the stairs, firelight revealed the end of the staircase.
“There’s a door ahead,” Dart said.
“Where? How can you see?”
“I… I have good night sight,” she lied and guided her friend. “It’s this way.”
Taking Laurelle by the hand, she crossed down the last stairs and approached the door. It was made of stone. Markings etched the door’s surface. Ancient Littick from the look of the writing. And wound throughout, an intricate relief of a flowering wyldrose, the symbol of Chrism and Chrismferry.
Dart placed her hand on the door and felt a tingle under her palm. The door had been warded with Grace, sealed against intrusion. But now it stood ajar-surely left that way by the assassin who followed Lord Chrism. Yaellin must have broken the ward and kept the way open for a fast retreat. There was just enough room to slip through without moving the door. Dart feared the scrape of stone might alert Yaellin.
“This way,” she urged the blind Laurelle. She waved Pupp ahead of her. His ruddy form illuminated a tunnel beyond the door.
The passage was high and narrow, appearing almost to be a natural fissure in the rock. Dart entered first, followed by Laurelle. Bits of silvery quartz caught every trace of light and glistened like tiny stars.
Again the echoed murmur of a pair of voices reached them.
“Oh, I can see a bit of glow again,” Laurelle said, her feet growing steadier, less hesitant. “Where are they all going?”
Dart had no idea. They continued down the passage for a long stretch, chasing after the lamplight. Surely their destination could not be too much farther. In Pupp’s glow, Dart noted flashes of white in the walls. She peered closer at one, then pulled back.
Bones…
A tiny rib cage and skull of an ancient fish. More and more appeared around them, a veritable school of dead fishes… and some larger creatures among them, with pointed toothy jaws. Dart had seen fossilites before, but their presence now boded ill. It was as if they were treading through some haunted sea, frozen in time, populated by skeletal denizens.
At last, the tunnel seemed to climb. Roots began to appear, knotted and thick, frilled by tiny hairs. More and more draped from the high roof or kneed out from the walls. Rock vanished under the mass of vinelike rootlets and thick taproots, forming a leafless forest around them, festooned with hanging falls of moss.
From haunted sea to haunted forest…
“We must be under the Eldergarden,” Dart whispered. She pictured the massive myrrwood tree that graced the oldest section of the gardens. From its spreading limbs, roots dropped to the rich soil and grew into secondary trunks. New limbs then stretched farther, dropping more trunks, until one tree became a forest, filling most of the gardens.
Dart stared around her. She sensed they were under the spread of the myrrwood, with its dark bowers and sweet glens. The path had begun to angle upward, slowly wending back toward the surface. As she walked, she considered the warded door and the direction of the tunnel. She finally understood what path they must be walking, where it was taking them.
Into the heart of the myrrwood.
The tunnel must be Chrism’s secret passage, leading to his private sanctuary, a region of the myrrwood reserved for the god alone.
Dart’s feet slowed as they continued through the subterranean grove of roots and vines. It was not just fear of where she trespassed that heightened her caution. The growing tangle offered too many hiding places, too many cubbies in which assassins might conceal themselves. Furthering Dart’s unease, the hairy rootlets that fringed all the surfaces waved in strange dances, contrary to the breeze that had begun to whisper down the tunnel. When she brushed against them, they clung and snagged, tugging hems and hair, as if trying to pull them away.
Even Pupp seemed uneasy, sniffing the air, pausing there, dropping back closer to them. He kept to the center of the tangled pathway. Dart slowed in turn, needing Pupp’s glow to light her way.
“What’s wrong?” Laurelle asked, noting her caution.
Dart shook her head.
As Pupp edged around a bend in the tunnel, he brushed too closely against a hanging corkscrew of a root-or maybe it had reached for him. Either way, Pupp suddenly jerked away, darting forward, ripping away tiny root hairs… and yanking part of the root down.
It took half a heartbeat for Dart to realize the root had touched Pupp.
His body flared brighter, eyes flashing with fire. In the brightness, she saw the reason why. An oily wetness seeped from the torn root. It dripped to the floor and glowed against the dark stone. The crimson color could not be mistaken.
Blood… blood imbued with Grace.
Before she could react, Laurelle stepped around the bend. A small cry sounded. Dart glanced back. Laurelle’s eyes were huge, shining in Pupp’s radiance. Horror paled her features. Laurelle stumbled back, catching herself up among the roots. Tendrils snagged into her robe, nightclothes, hair. One long feathery root wrapped full around her stretched neck.
A scream strangled from her, coming out as a mewl.
Dart rushed to her, tearing, ripping, clawing at the clinging roots. She tugged Laurelle free, both of them
