Unbalanced, the pile shifted. His footholds vanished, sending him sliding and scrabbling downward on his belly, nails clinging ineffectually to stone. Bruised and banged, he fetched up hard, jarring one hip against a solid, immobile boulder.
“Dani!”
“I’m all right!” He checked the clay vial and found it safe, then peered upward. The hole had widened considerably. He could feel the air on his face now. Dani inhaled deeply. “Uncle! I smell grass!”
The light cast by Thulu’s torch flickered wildly. “Dani, lad, I’m coming up.”
It was painstaking. Once Thulu completed the treacherous journey, laden with packs and torches and moving with infinitesimal care, they set to work in tandem. They worked as swiftly as they dared, widening the hole one rock at a time, working in the direction of the air current. Torchlight aided, but it posed a hazard, too. Every time the rock-pile settled and their balance slipped, there was the added risk of setting themselves ablaze.
“All this work, and I don’t suppose we’ve any idea how big the shaft is,” Uncle Thulu observed. “It will be a hard blow if we don’t fit.”
Covered in rock dust, Dani grinned at him. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not so fat anymore!”
After further hours of labor, there was no jest left in either of them. Feeling with careful fingertips, they found the bottom of the ventilation shaft, clearing around and beneath it. There was no sign of daylight, which hopefully meant nothing worse than that night had fallen while they worked. The shaft was wide enough, barely; a scant three feet across. Whether it narrowed and how high it went was another matter.
“You found it,” Thulu said somberly. “You look.”
“All right.” Returning the flask to its customary place at his throat, Dani eased himself onto his back and ducked his head under the opening. At first, his eyes grown used to torchlight, he saw only blackness and his heart sank. But gradually, his vision cleared, and he laughed aloud. The shaft was deep, but it cut an unswerving path through the solid rock. And far, far above him …
“What do you see?”
“Stars!” A patch of starlight, faint and distant. He ducked back out, eyes shining. “We can do this, Uncle. It’s a long climb, but we can do it.”
Uncle Thulu gave him a worried smile. “We’ll try.”
Squatting atop the rock-pile, they sorted through their gear, paring down supplies to the barest of essentials. A parcel of food and a waterskin apiece lashed around their waists, belt daggers, and the warm Staccian cloaks the Lady of Gerflod had given them. Dani kept his slingshot, and Thulu his flint striker. Everything else, they would leave.
“I’m smaller and lighter,” Dani said. “I’ll go first.”
Thulu nodded, fidgeting with his pack. “You know, lad, a drop of the Water—”
“No.” Dani shook his head, touching the flask. “We can’t, Uncle. I don’t dare. I don’t even know if there’s enough left for … for what I’m supposed to do. Will you at least try? If I can do it, you can.”
Uncle Thulu sighed. “Go on, then.”
There was only one way to do it. Squirming under the opening, Dani stood up inside the ventilation shaft. If he craned his head, he could see the stars. It seemed a longer way up than it had at first glance. Setting his back firmly against one wall of the shaft, he braced his legs on the opposite wall and began to inch his way upward.
It was torturous going. He had underestimated; underestimated the distance, the difficulty, the sheer exhaustion of his muscles. Within minutes, his legs were cramping and his breath was coming hard. It made him thirsty, and he could not help but think about the Water of Life and the scent of it, the scent of all life and green growing things. Three drops, and Uncle Thulu had healed almost as completely as though he had never been injured, had gained the energy to run and run and run without tiring, carrying Dani on his back. It wouldn’t take that much to make this climb infinitely easier.
One drop. How much harm would it do to take one drop of the Water? To restore vigor to his weary body, to uncramp his painful muscles, to quench his parched tissues, to erase the plaguing ache near his collarbone.
The temptation was almost overwhelming. Gritting his teeth, Dani remembered how much had spilled in Neherinach, where the Fjeltroll had caught them. Rivulets of water, gleaming silver in the sunlight, trickling over the Fjel’s horny palm. If it hadn’t … perhaps. But it had, and there was too little left to waste; not unless it was a matter of life or death. It wasn’t, not yet.
He forced himself to keep inching upward, to remember instead the look of stark disbelief in the eyes of the last Fjel to die, the one who had spoken to him. The Water of Life was not to be taken lightly; never, ever. Old Ngurra had told him that many times. In the womb of the world, Life and Death were twins. To invoke one was to summon the other’s shadow.
Inch by inch, Dani of the Yarru resisted temptation and climbed.
He had not known his eyes were clenched shut until he felt the tickle of grass upon his face and a cold wind stirring his hair and realized he had reached the top of the shaft. An involuntary cry escaped him as he opened his eyes.
“Dani!” Uncle Thulu’s voice sounded ghostly far below. “Are you all right?”
“Aye!” He shouted down between his braced legs. “Uncle, it’s beautiful!”
In a final surge of strength, he wriggled upward a few more inches and got his arms free of the shaft, levering his body out and onto solid earth. For a moment, Dani simply lay on his back, willing his muscles to uncramp. The sky overhead seemed enormous, a vast black vault spangled with a million stars, and Arahila’s moon floating in it like a pale and lovely ship. In the distance there were mountains, tall and jagged, but all around there was nothing but grass; a sea of grass, sweet-smelling, silvery in the moonlight, swaying in waves.
“All right, lad!” Thulu’s words echoed faintly from the shaft “My turn.”
Dani rolled onto his belly and peered down. “One inch at a time, Uncle.” Reaching to one side, he tore out a handful of grass. “Just keep moving.”
It was impossible, of course. He had known that before he’d made it halfway up the shaft. Uncle Thulu, he suspected, had known it all along. He was thin enough to fit in the shaft, but too big to make the climb. His longer limbs would be too cramped. His muscles, supporting his greater weight, would begin to quiver. He would be forced to give up and tell Dani to continue on his own. Dani should have given him a drop of the Water of Life. Now, it was too late.
Sitting upright, Dani began plaiting grass.
It was not as sturdy as thukka-vine, but it was strong and pliant. Head bowed, he worked feverishly. Over and under, fingers flying. It was one of the earliest skills the Yarru learned. From time to time he paused, wrenching up more handfuls of the tough, sweet-smelling plains grass, weaving new stalks into his pattern. Arahila’s moon continued to sail serenely across the sky, and a length of plaited rope emerged steadily beneath his hands.
“Dani.” Uncle Thulu’s voice, low and exhausted, emerged from the shaft. “Dani, lad.”
“I know.” He peered over the edge and saw his uncle’s figure lodged in place. Thulu had not quite made it halfway. “Stay where you are.” Kneeling, he paid out the rope, hand over hand. It dangled, a few inches too short. “Can you hold on a little while longer?”
“Dani, listen to me …” Angling his head, Thulu saw the rope and fell silent. Moonlight caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes. “Ah, lad!”