No one answered.
Hadrian was afraid to—afraid to jinx what little luck they found by hitting the pool instead of jagged rocks. Gods looked for such hubris when deciding where to step, and so far good fortune had been scarce.
Of the group, Royce showed the least wear. His hood and cloak had survived without a tear, although he did have a nasty-looking cut across his forehead. His expression was sullen, but that was normal for Royce. It was only when he smiled that Hadrian worried.
Royce turned and cocked his head, like a dog listening. Always the first sign, the early indicator that life was about to get ugly again. Over the course of their underground journey, Hadrian had come to see his friend as a canary in a mine. He wished he could have been surprised to see his friend’s expression darken, but by then he would have been more astonished to discover they were safe. A second later, Hadrian heard the distant banging for himself. A long, familiar, striding rhythm that sounded like a god beating out a cadence using thunder as a drum.
“Nope,” Royce finally told Myra, as he helped Hadrian to his good leg.
“Why doesn’t it stop?” Wilmer cried. “Why doesn’t anything in here ever stop?” He was slapping the floor with his palms, fingers spread out.
The banging became hammering and then pounding as the sound grew nearer.
“Go! Go! Go!” Royce shouted, and they were up and running again. Hadrian limped, using his partner as a crutch.
Wilmer also struggled, his side still bleeding. The stain around the snapped arrow shaft had grown almost up to his arm and down to his hip. In contrast, Myra made better time, her wet skirt hiked to her thighs, modesty abandoned in favor of survival. They ran the only way possible, the only way they could see—toward the light.
“Door!” Royce shouted. Abandoning Hadrian, he raced ahead. Reaching it first, he knelt, as if proposing marriage.
Of course it was locked. He expected nothing less from that miserable place. Hadrian had never seen a lock that Royce couldn’t open, but they were in a race. The frightening bangs of giant footfalls became terrifying booms. Hadrian chanced a look but couldn’t see it. The thing was still in the darkness, and his imagination just made the panic more justifiable.
“Open!” Royce announced, and they raced through. Shoving the door closed behind them muffled the thunderous steps but also blotted out the light. Hadrian heard Royce twist the lock then the sound of a board sliding into place.
“We need a light,” Myra said.
“You’re the candle maker!” Wilmer shouted.
“Everything is wet.”
“Give me a second,” Royce said.
Outside, the thundering steps closed in.
Sparks flared several times before a flame developed, revealing Royce. Kneeling on the floor, he blew into a pile of gathered debris. Myra pulled candles out of her pack and began lighting them.
She must have a million in there.
Before setting out, Myra had possessed eight separate bags of luggage—some with hats, another with makeup, and several filled with fancy gowns. An entire bag had been devoted to uncomfortable shoes. Hadrian had persuaded her to leave most of them behind. His argument had become irresistibly convincing when everyone refused to help carry her load. She had kept only a single knapsack with food, water, the map pieces, and candles. As she opened her pack this time, Hadrian realized all that remained were the pieces of map and the candles.
Flickering light revealed an octagonal chamber the size of a barn. Chisel marks revealed a room carved out of the mountain—the handiwork of the jester.
Had he done this all himself?
It seemed impossible that anyone could hew a hall from solid stone. Dwarves were legendary for their mastery of such things, but Hadrian had long since been convinced the jester hadn’t worked alone. Even so, it must have taken years.
In the center of the chamber, a chest the size of a wagon sat on a stone dais. Built of steel with brass corners and coin-sized rivets, it was secured by a formidable padlock. On the far side of the room stood another door, also cast from steel with its own massive lock. The last remaining item was an iron lever and the thick chain that connected it to the keystone holding up the arched ceiling.
Royce was busy shoving another brace across the door they’d entered, and with the light of Myra’s many candles, Hadrian could see it was old and rotted. The door itself was an even greater concern. The iron hinges were rusted, the wood grooved from worms and termites. As the pounding grew closer, they all backed away, staring with anticipation at the rickety door that had become their castle gate.
“Better open that other door, Royce,” Hadrian said.
“Wait!” Myra shouted, and all of them froze. “It’s another choice.”