“The lady lies beneath their knees,” Bran said in a whisper, looking up at the shadowed ceiling. A smile danced across his lips as he held up a hand to me. “Come here,” he said in a smoky tone that took my breath away.
As Bran held out a hand to help me down, his grin faded. I followed his gaze to where the statue’s arm met her shoulder. There was a dark seam in the otherwise flawless marble. He helped me down, handed me the stone, then reached up and pulled on the statue’s outstretched arm. Her shoulder joint gave way with a loud creak, followed by a horrible screech of stone as the statue began to turn.
When it stopped, it had turned ninety degrees, revealing an opening no more than two feet across. Situated at the base of the plinth, a perfect square of black now marred the white marble. It looked like a mouth waiting to consume us.
As we stared at what could only be the entrance to the Source, I took an involuntary step back. My throat closed, and the phobia I’d experienced since my time inside the nightmare tree roared to life.
That can’t be it. No way. It’s too small. Too small.
“Nope. Can’t do it. It’s too tight. I mean, don’t you see? There has to be another way. Yes, another way. Just have to keep looking.”
Understanding dawned on Bran’s face. “That’s what happened to you in the tunnels earlier. You’re claustrophobic.”
“Oh, okay, Einstein,” I said. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” My voice had gone all screechy and black dots now danced at the edges of my vision. I recognized the sign. The onset of a full-blown migraine.
Bran spared a quick glance over one shoulder. “How about this?” he said. “I’ll go in first. Scope it out, so to speak?”
Before I could argue, he grabbed the torch, dropped to all fours, and crawled into the entrance. An orange glow rimmed his body as he moved inside. After a moment, even that disappeared and I was left alone with only the bronze sculpture’s dwindling fire for company.
An eternity passed as I paced back and forth in the flickering circle. With every rotation, I glanced at the hateful square of blackness, praying for a glimpse of light. “Bran?” I whispered.
Nothing.
Is the fire going out? What if he never comes out? What if I end up alone here in the dark? I glanced back at the opening.
Darkness. Nothing. Alone.
I crouched before the entrance and tried again, his name wrenched from my lips in a primal scream. No answer. I closed my eyes and dropped back on my heels. “Where are you?”
Fire blazed up in my face. I yelped and I scuttled backwards—crab-like—damp palms slipping against gritty tile.
“Well,” Bran croaked as he crawled out. “That’s hardly the hero’s reception I was expecting.”
Feeling foolish, I rushed to help him to his feet. In an instant I could see that the exertion had cost him. He looked ghastly. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he was shivering convulsively. I knew by the way his skin scorched my palm that the fever was worse, so much worse.
How’s he still standing?
Bran’s elegant hands rested on my shoulders. “Okay. It’s not so bad.” His voice was gentle, coaxing, though I noticed he wouldn’t quite look me in the eye. “I mean, we probably wouldn’t want to summer there or anything, but it opens up nicely once you get inside.”
“How far inside?”
He waggled a hand back and forth. “Ehh . . . not that far.”
“Bran.”
He looked away. “A hundred meters or so.”
I did a quick conversion. “You expect me to squeeze through that tiny toothpaste tube of an opening, the length of a freaking football field?” Close to hyperventilating now, I eked out the words between inhalations. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t. You go. I’ll just stay here. I’ll become a seamstress or something. I’ll—I’ll whore on the streets if I have to. I don’t have any personal experience, but how bad could it be? And it’s nice here. No pollution. And—”
I stumbled over a fallen column and sat down hard, panting. Already I could feel the walls closing in around me.
Bran knelt before me. “I’d wager you can’t sew worth a damn. And as far as whoring goes”—he cocked a half grin—“I hear it’s an awful return on one’s investment. Especially during this age. You’d end up spending half your money on powdered goat balls, or whatever it is they use these days to get rid of the clap.”
“They didn’t have the clap in the twelfth century,” I rasped
“Syphilis, then.”
“Nope.” Wheeze. “That didn’t start until—”
“Either way,” he cut in, “I have to say prostitution wouldn’t be my first choice in career paths for you.”
Wheeze. Pause. One side of my mouth twitched as I met his eyes. “No?”
“No,” he said. “Decidedly not.”
In the uncertain yellow of the flame, Bran’s eyes burned like jewels in a face gone pale as porcelain, with beautiful, gaunt planes. The fever was eating him up from the inside. Without the proper treatment, the infection spreading from his wound would get worse. He’d get sick. He would die.