Clay set the lantern down and reached for his canteen, steeling himself against the increasingly unappealing burn of raw Green. The blood had begun to coagulate and he had to force down three gulps of what felt like cold slime on his tongue. He waited for the product to drown the pain in his leg before attempting to rise. Fortunately, Loriabeth had retrieved his crutches from the lake-shore and seen fit to leave them close by. He was obliged to clamp the lantern’s handle between his teeth as he rose precariously into his now-customary three-legged stance, swivelling his head about to illuminate as yet unseen corners. Starting forward, he saw the lake through the open doorway, the surface glittering in the distant glow of the three lights, a surface unbroken by any bridge. Whatever had raised it from the depths had subsequently seen fit to lower it.
“No way back, huh?” he mumbled around the lantern’s handle, turning himself about to regard the deeper recesses of the structure. The lantern’s beam played over a succession of pillars but failed to penetrate the gloom beyond. Lowering his head, he grunted in relief as the light revealed a line of footsteps in the dust. He didn’t have his uncle’s tracking skills but knew enough to discern two distinct sets of prints, one larger than the other. Sigoral, he decided, tracing the beam along the course of the tracks as they curved around the base of one of the pillars where they were swallowed by the shadows. Decided to have a good look-see, but didn’t come back. Loriabeth followed later. He knew she wouldn’t willingly have left his side except in dire need, and certainly not without waking him. She must’ve tried and couldn’t, he realised with a reproachful sigh. Too busy in the trance.
Clay swung himself forward on his crutches, following the tracks and wincing at the echo birthed by the thud of wood on stone as the trail led him into the absolute dark of the building’s innards. He soon came to a wall, the circle of the lantern’s beam playing over a dense mass of script carved into the interlocking blocks of granite. Looking down, he saw that the footprints overlapped at this point, indicating both Sigoral and Loriabeth had halted here, just like him, before following the line of the wall to the left.
He moved on, keeping close to the wall until he came to a gap. It was broad, clearly an entrance of some kind, and carved into the stone on either side of it was a pair of identical symbols. Clay swayed on his crutches, gaze swivelling from one symbol to the other as a rush of recognition set his pulse racing. This one he knew; a circle between two vertical curved lines.
The upturned eye, he thought, recalling the symbol that had adorned the building where he had found the sleeping White. He hesitated, swinging the lantern to illuminate the gap, revealing a long corridor, the end of which was beyond the reach of the light. Is it the White’s sign? he wondered, eyes tracking back to the symbol. A warning, maybe? Stay out or get eaten. It occurred to him that Silverpin might have the answer, but the thought of returning to the trance at this juncture was absurd. He couldn’t slip back into unconsciousness and commune with a ghost whilst Loriabeth remained unfound.
Clay clamped his teeth tighter on the lantern’s handle and swung himself forward. He counted his swings as he progressed along the corridor, reckoning each one to cover about a yard. After counting to thirty he stopped as a soft glimmer appeared in the darkness ahead.
Straightening, he fumbled his revolver into his hand, checking the loads and the action of the cylinder before returning it to the holster. He would have preferred to keep it drawn but needed both hands to grip the crutches. He moved with all the stealth he could muster, trying to place the crutches more softly on the floor and biting down on his grunts as he swung himself forward. Still, he doubted anyone with ears to hear would miss his intrusion.
The corridor came to an abrupt end after another twenty yards, the walls falling away to reveal a wide circular chamber. There were more pillars here, six of them arranged in a circle around a raised dais. Above the dais hung a slowly revolving crystal, floating without any visible means of support. A beam of soft white light issued from the base of the crystal to illuminate the dais where a curious object sat. It appeared to be fashioned from the darker material that had formed the spire and resembled a giant egg about twelve feet tall. Moving closer, he saw that it was split into three segments, revealing a hollow interior that gleamed with moisture. His gaze went to where a thin stream of liquid dribbled from the edge of one of the segments. Just hatched, he decided, eyes darting from one shadow to another. Wonder what it held. That’s no drake egg.
Shifting closer he drew up short as two slumped, unmoving bodies came into view. Loriabeth and Sigoral lay on their backs near the segmented egg, still and apparently unconscious.
“Lori!” The lantern fell from his mouth as he called her name, its light snuffed out as it shattered on the stones. He started forward, stumbling in his urgency and coming close to falling. He cursed and forced himself on, though a sudden upsurge of exhaustion and a flare of pain in his leg forced him to collapse against one of the pillars. He sagged, dragging air into his lungs, eyes fixed on Loriabeth’s immobile form. “LORI!” he called out, as loud as he could, but if she had heard him she gave no sign.
The panicked thought that she might be dead flicked through his head until he peered closer and saw the gentle swell of her chest. A glance at Sigoral confirmed he was also still alive, though he remained every bit as unconscious as she did. Clay could see no obvious sign of injury on either of them, although it did little to quell his rising anxiety. Someone had brought them here and it was a safe bet they weren’t far away.
He levered himself from the pillar, gripping the crutches with trembling hands as he swung himself to the edge of the dais. He was wary of letting the crystal’s light touch his skin, so could only crouch to peer closer at Loriabeth for any sign of injury. She slept on, seemingly quite peacefully, and remained deaf to his entreaties to “Wake up, cuz, Seer-dammit!”
Clay straightened, his gaze drawn inevitably to the crystal floating above. His mind was filled with all he had witnessed in the city beneath the mountain, all the Briteshore Minerals folk standing and staring at the Blue crystal in the dome, every one of them somehow transformed into Spoiled. This crystal, however, wasn’t Blue. In fact, as he squinted at its facets he saw that it seemed to hold myriad different colours within itself. “Whatever you’re doing,” he said, raising his revolver and aiming at the centre of the crystal, “chances are it ain’t good.”
He had begun to squeeze the trigger when he heard a soft thud at his back.
He whirled, losing his balance and staying upright only by virtue of colliding with the edge of the dais. A dim figure stood in the shadow cast by one of the pillars, a slender figure half-edged in white by the crystal’s light. The figure stepped closer, the light catching its face, a female face, the eyes narrowed in shrewd appraisal. Her skin was a shade darker than his own, but so completely absent of flaws that he couldn’t discount the thought that she was something conjured by his pain-addled mind. The sense of unreality was heightened by the fact that she was also completely naked but for a shiny silver belt about her waist.
Shoot her you Seer-damn fool! instinct screamed as his eyes alighted on something in the woman’s hand, something metallic with a short stubby barrel. He had time to half raise the revolver before she shot him in the chest.
CHAPTER 27
Lizanne