The giant assumed the same stance he would if throwing a spear. The muscles of his massive back recoiled, and with a single thrust he drove the triatine deep into the fleshy wall. Then he dragged the weapon down, bringing the bulk of his weight to bear on it, tearing loose a hand-sized piece of semisolid fiber the consistency of melon. The musical vibration of the Tree, muted once they had entered the passageway in the root, surged around her in a frightening crescendo.
“Gods. Stop,” Rhapsody whispered, stepping down off her foothold and back into the mire. “Sagia. You’re hurting Sagia.” She stumbled blindly toward Grunthor, only to be brought to a halt by the grip of a iron hand.
“Nonsense. This is a trunk root; the Tree has thousands of them.” Grunthor ripped away a larger section of the fibrous wall, causing Rhapsody to shudder. “The hole in the root wall will close up once we’re outside; this corridor is filling in as we speak. Or hadn’t you noticed?” Achmed pointed to the viscous liquid in which they stood. Where once it had leveled off at her waist, the muck now reached almost to her breasts.
Once more the giant twisted the three-bladed weapon. The ripping sound reverberated off the liquid in which they stood. Then Grunthor looked back at them.
“Oi’m through, sir.”
Achmed nodded, then turned Rhapsody to face him as Grunthor backed into the hole he had just made.
“Listen carefully; I’m only going to explain this once. We need to leave the inside of this root and follow it along the outside. There is a tunnel of sorts that sheathes the root because its flesh expands and contracts, depending on how much water it is holding. That tunnel will serve as our corridor; we’ll find water and air there. With a good deal of luck it will lead us to a new place, somewhere safe from those who pursue us. Somewhere where Michael can never find you. But that is up to you.
“Now, you can come with us, or you can wait in here and drown inside the Tree when the root fills in. Your choice.”
Dazed, Rhapsody pulled free of his hands and waded to the hole Grunthor had torn in the root wall. The giant moved aside slightly as she leaned into the rip and stared down. All she could see was endless darkness below. She looked up. Above her was more of the same. The shaft ran, with no visible limit, along the pale root that reached down into the abyss beneath them.
Achmed was checking the bindings on his gear.
“Well? Are you coming?”
The enormity of her situation fell on Rhapsody like an avalanche of mud. She was trapped inside the Tree, with no way out, and nowhere to go but into the endless hole below her; where it led to, the gods only knew. It was bad enough to be exiled from Easton, but the realization of what else she would be leaving behind made Rhapsody break into a cold sweat.
Rhapsody shoved Achmed aside, waded back to where the shaft had been, and pounded wildly on the tree wall above her. As her panic broke loose she began to shout for help, crying out as loudly as she could, hoping the Lirin who guarded the sacred Tree would hear her and pry her free. She waited, listening frantically for the sound of help coming, but heard nothing.
Achmed and Grunthor looked at each other, then returned to watching her. When a few moments passed Rhapsody tried calling out again. She repeated this effort four times before Achmed finally lost patience. He reached out and tapped her shoulder in annoyance.
“If you’re done with your temper tantrum, I suggest you come with us. We’re leaving now. Your alternative is to spend the rest of your short life screaming at a wall of solid wood; not very productive, but your choice nonetheless, at least until the root fills in the hole.”
The finality of his words caused Rhapsody to dissolve into tears. It was not something she did very often; anyone who knew her would recognize it as a sign of utter despair. Achmed’s eyelids and skin rippled with searing pain as the vibration of her lamentation passed over him. He grasped her arm, his voice unsympathetic.
“Stop that immediately,” he ordered harshly. “I forbid you to do that. If you want to come with us, you had best understand that you are never to do that again. Weeping and wailing is banned from here on out. Now decide. Come if you want to—if you can refrain from that noise.”
He stepped through the hole, ignoring the hard look Grunthor cast his way after his tirade. The giant Bolg turned to her and gave her what she had come over the last two weeks to recognize as a smile.
“Aw, come on, miss, it won’t be that bad. Think of it as an adventure. ’Oo knows what we’re gonna find, and besides, ya won’t never have to see the Waste o’ Breath again.” He and Achmed exchanged a glance and a nod before the smaller man began to climb down the trunk root.
“Nor my family, nor my friends,” Rhapsody said, choking back tears.
“Not necessarily, darlin’. Just because ol’ Uchmed and Oi don’t plan to return to Serendair don’t mean you can’t. But you can’t get back from nowhere if you’re not there yet, can you?”
Rhapsody almost smiled in spite of herself. The giant monster was trying to comfort her, while the allegedly more human of the two treated her, as always, with consummate indifference. This whole event was taking on a surreal quality that made her wonder if she was, in fact, only dreaming. She rubbed the tears out of her eyes and sighed in exhaustion.
“Very well,” she said to Grunthor. “I guess there’s really no choice. There must be a way out somewhere, some place where the root comes up. Let’s go.”
“Atta girl,” said Grunthor approvingly. “You follow me, sweet’eart. Oi wouldn’t wanna take the chance o’ fallin’ on you.” He grabbed hold of the trunk root and began to lower himself into the black hole, which had already swallowed up his companion.
Rhapsody shuddered. “No, we certainly wouldn’t want that.” She stepped through the rip in the root wall and found the fibrous outgrowth that the two men were using as a rope to lower themselves down, then took hold of it herself. Carefully she began her descent into the flickering darkness of the vast hole that sheathed one of the main lifelines of the Oak of Deep Roots. She was about to discover just how aptly the Tree was named.
Michael walked among the bodies of his men, staring down at a scene of savagery he had never been able to match. True, he had been capable of deeper depravity; there had been no torture or ritual dismemberment in the course of this slaughter, just a ferocious efficiency that rippled the hair on his arms with electricity.
Gammon walked silently behind him, keeping his eyes to the ground. He was afraid to speak, afraid to even meet his leader’s glance because his own terror would be readily evident. Gammon had seen greater desolation, larger numbers of broken bodies beneath smoldering skies, but he had never seen so many men dispatched with such obvious indifference. At least Michael enjoyed his work. There was something far more frightening about this brutal nonchalance.
Finally Michael stopped. With a curt nod he directed Gammon to help the others, who were stacking the bodies neatly on the burial mound, then turned in a full circle, surveying the vast meadow where his hunting party had fallen.
He raised a hand to his brow and shielded his eyes, sensitive in their bright blueness, from the hazy afternoon light. There was no cover here, no place that the trap could have been easily laid. As far as his eyes could discern there was nothing but highgrass, brittle in the summer heat, waving silently as the warm breeze whipped through again, bowing in supplication before the sun.
There was only one answer. The Brother.
As the back of his throat tightened dryly, Michael thought about the girl. The sunlit meadow grass rippling in the wind reminded him of her hair, long tresses of golden silk entwined in his hands. How he had loved the feel of it on his chest in the darkness as she lay beneath him. He had carried the sensation with him even as he struggled to put other more erotic thoughts of her out of his mind, fearing the distraction might endanger him.
And now that she was gone, the highgrass would serve as a constant, nagging reminder of what he would never have again. For surely if the Brother
had taken her, she was lost to him; the Dhracian had undoubtedly killed her and tossed her body in the sea even before leaving Easton. Not much was known about the mythic assassin, but it was common knowledge that he had no heart, and no vices of the flesh. Those were the only things that would have given Rhapsody a chance.
“Burn the bodies,” he directed. “Gather whatever gear is left and saddle up. We’re finished here.”
8
Immediately there had been a problem.
Just below the rip Grunthor had torn in the wall of the root was a tiny ledge. It was more than likely a lichenous growth of a size that matched the mammoth proportions of the Tree, jutting out from the root wall. Rhapsody had lowered herself onto it without difficulty and peered over into the tunnel below, where the two men were rapidly disappearing, along with the weak, flickering light of the torch.
“Wait,” she called, her voice shaking a little. “You’re going too fast.” Shadows danced on the tunnel walls around and above her, leaving her dizzy and sweating.
“Funny,” replied the sandy voice from below, exaggerated and echoing. “One might rather think you’re not going fast enough.”
“Please,” she called again, choking back the panic that was filling her throat.
There was silence, then the ledge shivered. Two enormous hands appeared at the edge of the bulbous growth, and Grunthor hoisted his upper body into view, his face damp from the moisture of the root. Even in the dark Rhapsody could see him grin.
“What’s the matter, Yer Ladyship?”
“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, hating herself for the admission of weakness.
“O’ course you can, darlin’. Just take your time.”
“I’m Lirin—”
The Firbolg giant chuckled. “’Ey, don’t remind me. Oi ain’t eaten recently.”
“—we don’t do well underground.”
“Oi can see that. Well, ’ow about Oi give you a lit’le lesson ’ere? Come on, Oi’ll show you.” He beckoned her forward with the wave of one hand while maintaining his hold on the fibrous rope with the other.
Tentatively Rhapsody crept to the rim of the ledge, swallowed hard, and peered over the side again.
“Now, there’s your first mistake. Don’t look down. Close your eyes and turn around.” Awkwardly she obeyed. The vambraces of Grunthor’s armor squeaked as a thick, muscular arm encircled her waist and drew her backward off the ledge. Rhapsody stifled a gasp.
“Right. Now, keep your eyes closed, spread your arms wide, and hug the root. When you’re full around it, feel for an ’and’old.”
Within the circle of Grunthor’s arms Rhapsody reached both hands forward, running them along the surface of the root wall until her chest almost rested against the skin of the root itself. She shuddered as Grunthor shifted his weight to bring her even closer to it, the heavy, metallic odor of armor and sweat and the humid, earthy smell of the root filling her nostrils. After a moment she found a small indentation beneath her left hand, a thick root branch with her right. She gripped both firmly.
“Now the feet. Good. All right, now, open your eyes.”
Rhapsody obeyed. Before her loomed the exterior skin of the trunk root, a thick, mottled hide scarred with rhizomes and lichenous growths, as jagged and rough as the interior had been smooth. She rested her ear against it and inhaled, breathing in the rich, sharp scent of it, listening to the humming pulse that vibrated in her skin and the edge of her scalp. There was solace in its song, even here within the dark tomb of earth.
“Ya all right?”
Rhapsody nodded, still resting her head against the root’s sunless skin, ghostly pale in the blackness. The last of the feeble shadows fluttered, and the torch in the tunnel below flared out with a hiss.
“Now, ya see, you’re doin’ just fine. Don’t look down, and take your time. Oi’ll most likely catch you if you slip.” The giant patted her awkwardly, then began to descend once again.
“Thank you,” Rhapsody murmured. Carefully she felt for more handholds below. Upon finding them, she cautiously slid her foot down until she found another knot on the root. Her shoulders were on fire, her hands stung, her knees already felt the strain—and she hadn’t even started yet.
How long they climbed down into the darkness was impossible to tell—hours, certainly, though it seemed more like days. Each time Rhapsody found another large growth or rhizome on the trunk root’s fleshy skin she took the opportunity to stop and rest, allowing the screaming muscles in her shoulders and legs a moment’s respite from the grueling routine.
She could no longer see her companions for the darkness and the distance between them. Achmed had staggered the climb so that each of them could take advantage of the resting spots. As he came to each outcropping he called out its location, and she and Grunthor would hang in place, waiting for their turns to descend onto the new ledge.
It was during one of these momentary rests, with her feet wedged into a scarred crevice in the root, her arms entwined in a desperate embrace about it, that the panic resurged.
The tunnel that sheathed the root had been wide at the Tree’s base, stretching to unseen edges in the darkness around it. It had been carved out over centuries of the Tree’s growth and the swollen rains from hundreds of springtimes, and as a result had seemed a vast and endless cave when they first began the long climb down.
The farther along the root they went, however, the more narrow the tunnel became. The body of the root itself had grown thinner, with more radix and branch rootlets sprouting from it. The Earth itself was closing in around them, and the closer the tunnel walls came in, the louder Rhapsody’s heart pounded. She was part Lirin, a child of the sky and open spaces of the world, not made to travel deep within the earth as the Firbolg, Grunthor’s race, were. Each breath was bringing dirty heaviness to her lungs and torment to her soul.
Her head began to spin. Separated from the sky, she was buried alive within the Earth, in a living grave so far down that she could never be found. Even in death, Lirin never entombed one of their race within the ground, but rather committed their bodies to the wind and stars through the fire of the funeral pyre. The awareness of the depths to which they had tunneled dawned on her, leaving her terrified. Deep; they had gone so deep. Too deep.
Suddenly it was as if every grain of dirt, every clod of clay in the ground above her had settled on her shoulders, dragging the air from her lungs. Her grip on the trunk root tightened as she grew dizzy and hot.
The song of the Tree, so comforting and ever-present at the onset of the climb, had dwindled to a bare whisper, taking what little courage she had left with it. The sound of her breathing and the painful thudding of her heart filled her ears, making her feel as if she were drowning. She began to gasp for breath. Too deep. It’s too deep.
In her memory she heard her father’s voice, stern but not angry.
Stop flailing.
Rhapsody closed her eyes, concentrating with the last of her will on her Naming note. Ela, the sixth note of the scale. It was among the first things she had learned when studying to be a Singer, the mental tuning fork that helped her discern the truth of a given vibration. It would help her remember clearly, even in her terror. She took a deep breath and began to softly hum the note.
The water of the pond had been cold and green scum floated on the surface. She could not see the bottom.
Father?
I’m here, child. Move your arms slowly. That’s better.
It’s so cold, Father. I can’t stay above it. It’s too deep. Help me.
Be at ease. I’ll hold you up.
Rhapsody took another breath, and felt the tightness in her lungs slacken a little. The memory of her father’s smiling face, his beard and eyebrows dripping, rivulets of water rolling down his cheeks, rose up before her mind’s eye as it had from the surface of the pond so long ago.
The water won’t hurt you, it’s the panic that will. Stay calm.
She nodded, as she ha
d that day, and could feel the droplets of anxious sweat shake off her hair, much like the pond water had.
It’s so deep, Father.
A spray of water as he spat it out. Depth doesn’t matter, as long as your head is above it. Can you breathe?
Ye-e-ss.
Then never mind how deep it is. Concentrate on breathing; you’ll be fine. And don’t panic. Panic will kill you, even when nothing else wants to.
The next breath was even easier. Memories are the first stories you learn, Heiles, her mentor, had said. They are your own lore. There is more power in them than you will ever find in all your studies, because you wrote them. Draw on them first. Twice now she had reached back into the Past, and it had given her exactly what she needed.
Depth doesn’t matter. Concentrate on breathing; you’ll be fine. And don’t panic. Slowly Rhapsody opened her eyes.
“Miss?”
The voice from below caught her by surprise, and the fear roared back. Rhapsody started, then lost her footing. She made a wild grab for the bark again and stumbled, sliding without purchase along the pale, slippery flesh of the root.
Rootlets and branches snapped beneath her arms as she slid, bruising her body and slapping against her face. The bark of the root’s skin bit deep into her neck and hands as she fell along it, plunging down until she was suddenly, violently stopped by Grunthor’s enormous mass. His body absorbed the shock of the impact without moving. Rhapsody looked up, her neck throbbing sickeningly, to see the great gray-green face wreathed in a cheerful smile.
“Well, ’allo, Duchess! Oi was ’opin you’d drop in! Care for a spot o’ tea?”
The tension she had been lugging with her for a fortnight shattered, and, in spite of herself, Rhapsody laughed. The giant joined in.
“Grunthor.” The dry voice from below choked off the merriment. The giant looked down into the darkness. “We’ll be changing course here, following a different path.”
“Wait ’ere, darlin’, eh?” Rhapsody nodded. Grunthor helped her find purchase on the root skin again, after which he took out a small flask and gave her a drink. Then he climbed down to confer with Achmed. A moment later he was back.