Child of Flame (Page 205)

As if in shame, she pulled her veil across her face. Hani looked as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, an odd expression on features as finely sculpted with pride as his were. “Hehoyanah says that by this sign may one know the God’s messenger. She begs that you forgive her for not recognizing the light of God’s presence in your face.” Dropping his voice lower, he sidled confidingly over to Alain, looking every bit the conceited prince about to commiserate with his noble companion over the inscrutability of women. “Do you know what she speaks of, friend? She’s a little crazy ever since she came back from her fosterage.”

All this time with Adica he had simply drifted, like a leaf on a river, content in the small harmonies of day-to-day life. The act of living by itself contained a great deal of joy. After all, he had glimpsed the other side of living, which is dying, and living looked a lot better.

“Do not mock her,” he said softly. Taking her hand, he lifted her up. Tears glittered in her eyes, shining as the light caught on them. The rest of her face was hidden by her veil. “Go with God. May you find peace.”

He and Hani crossed the threshold that divided the painted halls of red from those corridors that lay pale in the smoky light of burning pools of oil. After several turnings they caught up with Two Fingers, Adica, and Laoina at a crossroads where torches and gear lay stacked neatly on the ground: a pack of foodstuffs, four waterskins, a pair of sandals, a coat of striped cloth that Two Fingers put on, and a carven stick no longer than Adica’s arm.

“Come, come,” said Two Fingers impatiently. Hani knelt to receive the holy man’s blessing before bowing respectfully to Adica as well. He exchanged a farewell with Laoina, a brief ritual peculiar to the Walking Ones, and last turned to Alain.

“I hope I can call you ‘friend.’”

“That you may, friend.”

They clasped hands. Hani turned and hurried away.

“Do not fear.” Two Fingers unveiled his face as he started down a passageway.

They walked in silence into the darkness. The only light Alain could distinguish was that of the shiny surface of Two Fingers’ coat, the lighter stripes almost luminous. Yet it was not the cloth that glowed; it was another light, insubstantial and yet unwavering, as though the sun’s rays penetrated the stone to cast a diffuse net deep into the underworld. Patches of a luminescent growth stippled the walls of the tunnel, almost as if a creature formed out of pale fire had left a trail marking its passage.

He licked moisture off his lips. Was that heat radiating off the glowing patches that dappled the walls, or were they approaching something very very hot?

The tunnel took a hard rightward turn and dipped down, sharply up again, and now heat blasted them. Two Fingers drew out from a sleeve a gold feather that gleamed so brightly each least blemish on his hands—the white scar sealing off the stumps of his missing fingers, the topography of the skin wrinkled up over his knuckles, a callus on his forefinger, the faience ring on his right middle finger—was thrown into relief.

He set the quill lightly against his lips and blew. The melody that rose from that feather was not music, or even the hiss of a human’s breath across the vane, but an unearthly sound that, like the whisper of the sun’s rays across a hillside at dawn, could never be caught. An answering whisper came from the halls ahead. A deafening cry resounded around them. Sorrow and Rage whimpered and hid their heads against Alain’s legs.

The cry was not repeated. A great beast rustled up ahead, slowing, settling, quieting, until all was silent.

Two Fingers led them forward.

They emerged into a narrow cavern. Pillars thrust up from the floor like racks of javelins and hung down from the roof as numerous as the spears of the great host. Silver and fool’s gold glistened, seams of orange and green, and long patches of crystalline froth like the trail of petrified waterfalls. The cavern glittered by the light that shone from a phoenix, lost now to sleep, roosting on its nest.

Maybe it only seemed as big as a house because of the confined space. It had the head, beak, and body of a gigantic eagle. All its feathers gleamed gold except its emerald-green tail feathers, peeping out in a half-closed fan and marked with eyes: all of them closed in sleep. It roosted on a nest built of grasses and reeds, scraps of cloth, and whitened bones, some of which appeared human. A slithering bed of eyeless snakes writhed, hissing, under its body.

They had to walk past it to get through the chamber.

Alain tugged gently on the hounds’ ears, pressing his face right up against them. “Go with Adica,” he voiced, too low to be heard over the hissing snakes.