She looked first to Emeline and her child, worried for their safety. They remained as she’d left them seconds before, until Emeline raised her head and looked toward the doorway. Elyea followed her gaze.
A wisp of mist sat on the threshold, a faint red tint to the vapor. The sight of it brought a bolt of distress to Elyea, and she felt herself drawn back to the world by the out-of-place mist. It swirled along the ground for a second, as though staring back at the young mother and her child before the small animal-sized bank of fog snaked its way down the avenue like a thing alive.
Elyea immediately started after it, her own feet gliding above the floor as she passed silently across the room to the door without Emeline’s notice. The vapor continued down the street until it came to a closed door set with a rusted iron ring. It paused as though distracted by the light shining through the crack beneath the door.
Elyea hovered above the cobblestones, a debate of logic and emotion raging within her ghostly form. She knew who was behind the door, and what they plotted. The success of their plans was vital to the safety of the kingdom and she wanted to rush forward to stomp the mist into oblivion before its presence fouled them. At the same time, she knew the vapor was more than the mist brought on by twilight, that the person behind it wielded more power than she could handle and interfering would be the end of her and perhaps those behind the door. She hoped it would move on without divining what went on inside.
Elyea gasped and her hope disappeared as the mist slithered beneath the door.
Now she knows.
A noise behind her caught her attention-the small sound of the baby waking. Elyea glanced over her shoulder at Emeline loving her daughter, then she moved down the avenue away from the mist that wasn’t simply mist.
Returning to the fields of the dead would have to wait.
Chapter Seventeen
Sir Alton Sienhin shifted uncomfortably at the lack of weight on his shoulders. It was a rare occurrence for him to be without armor, but haste was needed in reaching Achtindel, so he’d dispensed with his normal attire in favor of faster travel.
“Probably for the best,” he mumbled to the empty tunnel. “I’d likely fall in this filthy water and drown with it on.”
“Did you say something, Sienhin?”
He looked up at Therrador standing a few feet away, torch in hand. The king wore a black cloak, black shirt and black breeches to accompany his general to the tunnel in the hopes of escorting him unnoticed. So far, it had worked.
“Nothing,” Sienhin said.
He looked down at the water oozing past a foot below where he stood. The torch light reflected on its black surface and he saw things floating past on a mild current. He struggled to keep himself from wondering what they were-some things one doesn’t need to know.
“Step down, then I’ll hand you the torch.”
The general nodded and drew a deep breath in through flared nostrils, a breath he quickly regretted. The smell was ghastly: dead and rotten and earthy, garbage and feces and worse. He let the foul air out of his lungs in a puff that stirred the hairs of his long mustache, clenched his fists in determination, and stepped carefully off the stone stair and into the foul runoff.
He didn’t know how deep the water went, so the general held Therrador’s hand for support while his foot sought the bottom. It struck solid but slippery stone with the water level at his knee. Sienhin grunted and lowered his other foot into the water and transferred his left hand from the king’s grip to the step.
“Okay?” Therrador leaned toward him holding the torch at arm’s length to allow the general to see his surroundings.
“It’s damned slippery.” Sienhin shuffled his feet, stirring up the black water around his knees. The soles of his boots broke through the slime and found purchase on the stone floor. “How far does the tunnel run?”
“Not too far. It runs straight to the outer wall.”
“Hmph.” Sienhin stared at a lump floating near his leg, bobbing toward him like a living thing drawn to his scent. He kicked at it, sending waves across the water’s greasy surface, then turned to the king without waiting to see if he’d successfully shooed it away.
Therrador crouched and held the torch out to his general; Sienhin reached up and took it. Their gazes met.
“I know you are unhappy with decisions I’ve made, Sir Alton. If I could change what happened, know that I would. But it isn’t possible, and I will do whatever I can to make amends.”
Sienhin looked at him for a moment, grinding his teeth so that his jaw muscles flexed beneath his ruddy cheeks. Flickering torchlight reflected in the king’s eyes and lent a swarthiness to his face it didn’t usually have; his black, braided beard trailed from his chin to disappear against the black of his cloak. Sir Alton Sienhin had known this man for decades and never found reason to distrust him until he’d partaken in the ultimate treachery. Could he trust him now?
What choice do I have?
The general nodded. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done to save the kingdom.”
A shadow of a smile flickered across Therrador’s face; seeing it caused a twist in Sienhin’s gut. What did it mean? Before he could divine its origin, it disappeared and the king was extending his hand toward him. The general looked at it for a second, then grasped it.
“Good luck, my friend. The Gods be with you.”
Sienhin nodded once, pulled his hand from the king’s, and started down the tunnel without a word.
***
The going was slow.
Sir Alton shuffled his feet along the bottom of the channel, dragging his boots through the slime as he went to keep from slipping and ending up in the putrid water. He held the torch in his left hand and his right rested on the hilt of his sword, both to be ready in case he needed it, as well as to angle it and keep the tip of the scabbard out of the water.
The tunnel was wide enough for six men to stand shoulder to shoulder between its stone walls; when he raised the torch over his head, the general saw the curving stone ceiling just above the flickering flames. It was too high for him to reach, but he wouldn’t want to. Black-looking mold and moss covered most of it, with gray stone showing through occasionally. The growth spilled part way down the walls, but ceased before it reached a level even with Sienhin’s head. Side channels-grated and too small for a man to crawl through-opened on to the main tunnel at regular intervals a foot above water level. Water trickled through some, but dark sludge that made his stomach churn dripped from most.
“Curse this place,” Sienhin muttered, the words echoing and bouncing from the walls to be squelched by the moss-moldy ceiling. Amongst the reverberating words, he thought he heard a splash not made by himself.
Sienhin stopped and held his breath, listening. He heard nothing but the sound of the torch’s flame crackling in his ear and a trickle of water from a grate ahead on the left. He waited another few seconds, then carried on, moving more slowly, wary. Ripples on the surface of the black water carried the torchlight away to disappear in the dark tunnel. He squinted, straining to see beyond the few yards of sight afforded by the torch. A chunk of debris vaguely the shape of a finger floated past his leg.
He moved steadily forward until he noticed the ripples he created clashing with wavelets rolling back toward him.
Sir Alton stopped, his gaze fixed on the water as the ripples created by his movement subsided. The water smoothed, then a series of small waves washed toward the general. He clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt.