A flurry of splashing near him suggested neither Wilmer nor Myra could swim. Wilmer had never impressed Hadrian as athletic in any way. Given that walking had proved difficult for the pig farmer, swimming might be as impossible as flying. Similarly, Hadrian imagined Myra’s past experience with bodies of water would have been limited to lying in a brass tub while servants added scented oils and refilled her wine cup.
“There’s a blue light behind you,” Royce pointed out after peeling off his hood. “Looks like the edge of the pool is just ten feet or so. Can you make it?”
Hadrian turned and spotted the eerie glow coming from the cavern wall. Royce was right. The edge of the little lake was close. The subterranean pond was less a basin and more a stone fissure filled with water—likely with straight sides. The ice-cold pool sapped Hadrian’s strength, freezing his muscles and strangling his breath. A death trap.
“I can try,” Hadrian replied, still struggling to keep his head above the surface. Over his shoulder he called out, “Myra? Wilmer? You okay?”
“Forget about them,” Royce said. “Get yourself out.”
Hadrian struggled to see in the dim light. He could hear both Wilmer and Myra gasping, coughing. “I don’t think they can swim.”
“Not my problem—not yours either. Get to the edge.”
“If you won’t help them, I—”
“You’ll what? Help them drown?” Royce asked. He was somewhere behind Hadrian, somewhere in the dark, hardly making a sound. “You’ll be lucky to get out alive on your own.”
Royce was right, but when had that ever mattered? “I’ll do what I can.”
“All right, all right!” Royce barked, the familiar frustration in his voice. “I’ll help them. But get yourself out. I can’t save everyone.”
Hadrian swam as best he could, happy to be wearing leather and wool rather than chain mail. While down to only one sword, the two-handed spadone strapped to his back was still the biggest and heaviest he owned. His left arm, numb and useless, hung limp. The distance wasn’t far, just a few kicks away, but he only had one good leg. At least the cold water soothed the burns on his back, and—if the pool wasn’t putrid—it might help clean the claw marks raked across his chest.
Working as best he could, Hadrian swam until he reached the ledge. He hung for a moment, catching his breath. Then, using his elbow for leverage, he lifted and rolled onto the stone floor, carefully avoiding the burns on his back and the cuts on his chest. He lay on his side, panting, feeling the water drain from his clothes.
Opening his eyes, Hadrian saw they were in yet another massive chamber of the never-ending cave complex. How many were there? How deep did they run? How long could they keep going? They must have been a week underground. All the food they had brought was gone, but Royce still carried some of the wolf meat.
They all would have died if it hadn’t been for Royce. Not that his partner cared about Wilmer or Myra. They had stopped being important when the level of danger exceeded the twenty-five gold tenents Myra had offered them to serve as escorts. After only the first night inside, Hadrian had been convinced Royce would have abandoned the fee, along with Myra and Wilmer, if doing so would have caused a magic exit to appear. As it was, Hadrian worried what would happen when the wolf meat ran out.
They must be at the bottom. The roots of the mountain—that’s what was written on the map; that’s how the jester described the heart of the Farendel Durat range. Hadrian had always considered mountains to be beautiful—but learned this was only true from the outside and from a distance. On the inside, they proved terrifying.
The others crawled out of the inky pool, shivering in the faint glow emanating from the cluster of gems embedded in the cave wall. Myra looked dead, the blue light draining her skin of color, thin hair plastered flat. Upon first meeting, she had been lively as a rabbit and spoke so quickly they had needed her to repeat everything. Lying on the stone, coughing, shivering from the wetness, the widowed wife of the candle merchant looked more her age. Somewhere in her thirties, or maybe older, she was finally sapped of the insatiable drive that had powered her. The exhaustion showed in her eyes, a blurry, unfocused stare. She was a dormouse, caught too far from her hole by a bright light. She wanted it to be over—they all did.
Wilmer lay facedown a few feet away. Never more than a rag, his thin, homespun tunic—blackened on one side and bloodied on the other—had become the stained road map of where they’d been. Wilmer was still coughing, still spitting. That scream of his must have cost a lot of air. He’d likely swallowed water on the way up.
“Nice place, this,” Hadrian said and grunted, trying to shift position. “I think we should stay awhile.”
Royce knelt beside him, panting. “I’ll ask the innkeeper for extra pillows and blankets.”
“Tell him I’ll have the special—the special is always the best.”
Royce pulled up Hadrian’s shirt to examine the burns and the claw marks.
Hadrian saw him grimace. “Oh—nice bedside manner, pal. Why don’t you just pull my cloak over my face and recite something religious.”
“If I knew anything religious, I might.”
“Did we get away?” Myra asked.