Chapter Three
In which the young master stretches his legs…
The ringing of the Night Bells filled his bedroom with small vibrations and chimes from other objects that were stirred by the sound. Lord Maslyn lifted his eyelids and stared at the canopy hanging over his four-poster bed. Sitting up, he stretched and turned to pull back the curtains attached to the frame. Soft, red light seeped into his coverlet and bathed the room in rich color. He strained his ears, listening for any movement from the corridor. Jori left long before, but the young master was still cautious. If he were caught, it could get Arna into trouble as well, because she had given him the candles.
He reached underneath his bed and felt the parcel he had stashed between the frames. The candles were long and thin. He removed them carefully so they wouldn’t break. The stand was a circular dish with a raised well in the middle. He placed one candle in the dish and rested it on his nightstand. The bed squeaked a bit as he stood and walked to his dresser. Earlier, he had been able to locate several pieces of black clothing in his drawers. Swiftly, he dressed.
Thanks to his dark hair and being garbed head to toe in black, it would be easier to hide himself if he had to. A feeling of adventure settled over him and he could not help the boyish smile that came to his lips every time he thought about the secret passage in the fireplace. He went back to the bed and sacked up the rest of the candles", attaching them to the belt he had found in his wardrobe. His appearance most likely looked thievish, but he was too excited to care. Going to the table, he pulled the flint and tinder from his pocket. He had never lit a candle before, but he had seen Jori and Arna do it plenty of times.
Soryn took the tinder—a wad of cotton—from the table and positioned it on the stone hearth at the fireplace. The candle dish clanked against the stone when he set that down. Next, he retrieved the steel piece that Arna had included with the flint and held it in his left hand. The flint was awkward to hold, but he was able to get a good grip on it. He positioned his hands near the tinder on the stones before he made his first attempt at striking a spark. A pitiful little clash came out, but no fire. Not to be discouraged, he struck the flint a little harder this time, making sure to angle it towards the cotton.
Sure enough, a spark singed the outer edge of the tinder. “Perhaps this time,” he thought. The third time, a little fire sprang up from the cotton fibers. He quickly lit the candle before blowing out the flame on the tinder. That way, he would be able to use it again in the future. The wax exteriors of the candles were marked for hours, so he would know how long it would take for him to explore the passage. With the light, he was able to see the hidden door latch clearly. If he had not known it would be there and what it was, he was sure he would not have noticed it. Tugging on the latch, the false stone wall swung open, silently, as before.
Somehow, he knew that door and that tunnel would change him. Lord Maslyn already felt more excitement than he had in six years, and his frozen body was beginning to thaw with the warmth coming from the open tunnel. He smelled that familiar fragrance again and felt the warmer air circulating through the space. The light showed that the stairs were even, smooth, and steep. The return trip up to the tower would be taxing—especially since he was accustomed to so little exercise. Still, nothing deterred him from stepping firmly onto the first descending step.
He went down a few and turned around, keeping his balance, and pushed the door so that a small crack was open for him to return, but so that it would look like a normal fireplace from the other side. The bed curtains were closed so it would appear that he was still in bed if Jori returned. Turning back around, he started down the staircase. The walls of the tunnel were a strange sort of material—not stone precisely, but almost dirt-like in its makeup. It reminded him of the strange bumpy earth that he played in as a child, when he and his brothers would dig deeply enough through the snow in summertime. The soil of Niflheim was a purple sort of color and the composition was more foam than particulate. It was seldom that any soil could be reached, since snow covered the world year-round and only partially thawed in the summer. Nevertheless, the tunnel walls surrounding him looked just like the dirt he remembered. It must have taken quite an effort to obtain so much of it.
There was no chance that he was underground—not with the tower being so high—so he wondered if the person who had created the tunnel had brought the earth here to insulate the walls. He attempted to keep count of the steps he went down and was already up to thirty when he realized the staircase was going to continue for quite some time. It was not a spiral, or a straight staircase, but one that wound on and meandered without a discernible pattern. Just when he thought he had it figured out, the tunnel would start off in a new direction, only to change again just as quickly.
He made it to step fifty-seven before he stopped to rest a bit. A skin for water would have been appreciated, but he had not planned on there being so many steps. His candle had not even passed the half-hour stripe. Given his frail and weak constitution, he supposed he was making good time. Perhaps the trips down from the tower and back could provide him with much needed exertion. Though he had no one to compare himself to, he figured he was stunting his growth by living his sedentary existence. He imagined most other twelve year old boys would have been more athletic. Air was flowing easier now, and he no longer had to gasp for breath. He steadied himself and continued to descend.
“Fifty-eight…fifty-nine…sixty…” On and on he counted this way. The candle lost an hour. The wax began to disappear past another half hour mark when he began to see level ground below. Almost in disbelief, he patted the floor with his foot to be sure he had reached the bottom of the tunnel. There were a total of one hundred and twelve steps. It was a long way down. On the way, he had discovered two things. The steps were created by someone with exceptional masonry skills. They were incredibly even despite their steepness and they had carvings Soryn could barely make out with the candlelight. Also, he was extremely lacking in physical strength and muscular fortitude.
He gently laid the candle stand on the last step and slumped to the carved stone floor, resting his back against the earthen wall. Empty silence permeated every inch of the tunnel. Soryn turned his head to his left where the tunnel remained flat and seemed to curve towards a room or alcove. If he was not mistaken, there was a faint glow coming from the direction of the flattened path. A knot of fear tied itself intricately into his chest. What if he got caught? Still, wouldn’t it be better to explore and risk discovery than to live forever in that tower room without experiencing anything different?
Taking all the courage that remained in his exhausted body, he raised the candle to his lips, took a deep breath, and blew it out. All was dark for several minutes, but he could eventually make out the muted orange light coming from farther down the tunnel. He left the candle on the floor and stood up, careful to make as little noise as possible. He removed his shoes. Walking in his sock feet, he tiptoed through the tunnel in silence. If there were people ahead, he hoped he would have more success in stealth than he had with Arna in the corridor earlier.
Using as much agility as he could muster, he managed to silently step his way over to where the corridor opened a little wider and curved to the right. That familiar scent he noticed the first time the door opened was very strong there and his brain suddenly began to flood his mind with snippets of disjointed memories. Unfortunately, he could not make any of them out. He was only able to glimpse brief snatches of color, white hair, a blurry face. Uneasiness tightened the knot of fear growing in his chest. “What is this place? Who built it? Does anyone else know about it?” Soryn’s thoughts raced through his mind.
The glow became a light when he turned the corner. He almost despaired when he saw more stairs until he counted them: only five. The light came from the top and he discerned a bumpy, purple-brown room. Shadows crawled across the rough ceiling and pooled in its corners. Deep breaths filled his lungs as he gathered his bravery. He climbed the five
steps quickly and stood at the top of the short staircase. Lord Maslyn marveled at the sight before him.