Then slowly, cautiously, she began to make her way down toward the edge of the lake.
But she had not gone more than a dozen yards before the hissing that had tracked her progress with its steady, insistent buzzing—the hissing she had gotten so used to she had almost forgotten it was there—suddenly increased in intensity. The volume rose abruptly, as if to acknowledge her presence and make known that it recognized her purpose. She stopped where she was, realizing suddenly what she was hearing.
It was the sound of voices whispering—hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, all speaking at once.
She held her ground a moment longer to see if anything else was going to happen, but after a few minutes in which nothing did, she moved ahead once more. Shadows layered the cavern floor in strange shapes, elongated and twisted in the bits and pieces of light, and she could have sworn that some of them moved. But she could find nothing living in the mix of light and dark, and even the sources of the whispering refused to reveal themselves. She walked alone, down through the tombs, down through the shadows, down to the edge of the green, still waters of the lake.
There she stopped, waiting.
Phryne, a voice called out to her.
Even though she had been expecting something to happen, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She wheeled right and left, searching for the speaker, the sound of her name echoing all through the chamber so that it was impossible to trace.
I am here, child.
And there was Mistral. Her grandmother stood next to a huge stone marker not twenty feet away, wrapped in her favorite cloak, the one into which she had woven impressions of the flowers of her gardens. She looked diminished standing in the shadow of the marker, a tiny figure, frail and old, her years a weight upon her shoulders.
She also looked dead. The faint light of the torches passed right through her, revealing her transparency, her changed state of being. She could no longer be seen as one of the living, even by Phryne, who very much wanted her to be. Whatever had happened aboveground, she had crossed over into the spirit world, her life come to an end.
Phryne gave a low moan of dismay and felt tears spring to her eyes. “Oh, Grandmother, no,” she whispered.
Her grandmother made a placating gesture. I know you are disappointed not to find me stil among the living. But I am as you see me, my life complete. I was alive when I made the avatar I hoped would bring you to me. I was alive when I made my escape from my home. But there were minions of Isoeld waiting for me, sent to kil me and take from me the Elfstones.
She couldn’t know for certain I had them, but she certainly suspected. Her creatures would find them on me or find them when they searched the cottage.
She sighed, a deep exhalation. My faithful friends, my oldsters from so many years, friends and lovers and servants, fought to save me and died doing so. I escaped because of their sacrifice but was grievously injured. Knowing I would die and pass from this world without ever having told you what I must or done what I had promised, I came here, down beneath the Ashenel , down to where the most powerful of the Elven spirit Queens dwel s with her people. Here, I could maintain a presence long enough for you to find me.
She made a curiously compelling gesture with one white hand. And you have found me, child. My trust in you was not misplaced. But your struggle has been every bit as difficult as mine, and for that I am sorry.
Phryne took a step toward her, wanting to embrace her, to feel the old woman’s arms around her one final time. But Mistral held up her hands in warning. You cannot touch me, Phryne. You must not. We can only talk now, nothing more.
“Grandmother, I just want—”
No, Phryne! Don’t say it! She made a quick, warding gesture. Things aren’t as they seem.
We have to hurry. Now talk to me. Tel me what happened to you after your escape.
The urgency in her voice was unmistakable. It caused Phryne to glance around hurriedly, searching for its source. But she found nothing different than it had been. The tombs were unchanged, the waters of the lake still, the torches casting shadows as before, the cavern vast and silent.
“There’s nothing to tell,” she answered her grandmother. “I escaped with the help of the Orullian twins and a young boy. The boy brought me to your cottage, which had been searched and abandoned. Your avatar appeared and directed me to the Belloruusian Arch. I fled there when Isoeld’s soldiers came to the cottage. At the arch, I passed through into the tunnels that led to this place.”