Chane was not certain, but it appeared the water in the tunnel had already risen slightly.
"Look here," he said, holding the crystal above the gate's plate.
Wynn crept closer, wide-eyed as she studied it.
"Have you seen this metal used like this before?" he asked. "Do you know how it is operated?"
"Chein'âs metal again?" Wynn shook her head. "I've only seen it used for portals and some weapons, such the Anmaglâhk's, Leesil's new blades, and Magiere's dagger."
Chane had seen these weapons for himself in the castle of the white undead.
"Oh, and the head of my elven quill," she added.
"A lock of some kind," he returned. "But we do not have time to guess its function without a place to insert a key … if we had one."
"Magic?" she asked. "You know conjury. Can you see or sense anything?"
"It does not work that way, by my experience. Magic cannot be sensed, even if I were a full mage. That is wishful folklore and nothing more. And in artificing, not all mages mark an object. In alchemically created items, component materials are sometimes imbued before or during preparation and assembly."
Wynn scoffed. "I've felt something whenever I've called up my mantic sight."
"That was not magic you felt. Rather the impending change in the natural order of existence, the change within yourself. Did you feel anything when you first held or used the staff with its crystal?"
"No," she admitted, then sighed through her little nose. "Well, we're no worse off for it."
Shade pushed in and shoved her muzzle between the bars, peering beyond it. Chane held out the crystal through the gate. As far as the light reached, he saw no sign of the tunnel's end. He worried about Wynn's already worn condition, especially in not knowing the tunnel's full length. He needed to get her beyond the water's reach before it rose further.
"I will break through," he said.
He handed off the crystal to Wynn as she leaned her staff against the tunnel wall. Then he stripped off one pack at a time, switching the pry bar and sword between his hands. As Wynn took the packs, he hoped she could keep all three above the water. He restrapped the sword to his back as she slung one of his packs over her shoulder. She stumbled briefly under the added weight but clutched the second pack in her arms as she kept the crystal extended for light.
"Both of you stay back," he said.
The two most feasible ways through were either to pry at the lock side until the bolt snapped or bent, or attempt to lever out the hinge pins. The latter would take considerably longer, as the pins' heads were hammered, sealing them in place.
Chane set the pry bar's beveled end into the space beside the lock plate. He put his back against the wall on the same side and pushed the bar outward with all his strength.
Iron creaked and groaned under the pry bar's steel.
Pain stopped mortals from injuring themselves. He had no such limitation, so long as he retained enough life energy. He had not exerted much since his last feeding, but that had been a while ago. Still, there were only two gates, and he could easily last long enough for that.
Chane watched the space widen between the lock panel and the outer frame, but the bolt within the crack never moved.
"Crystal …" He grunted. "Bring it closer."
Wynn's feet splashed as she shuffled in with her burdens. But the crystal's light shifted enough to pierce the narrow space.
Chane threw his full effort against the pry bar. Though the gate shifted slightly from the frame, the bolt still did not move. Rather the lock plate moved to expose a bit of it, and its metal had a sharp glint.
The bolt was thick steel, not iron.
"Odsúdýnjè!" Chane hissed in his native Belaskian. He released all effort and slumped against the wall.
"What's wrong?" Wynn asked. "Why did you stop?"
Chane slowly shook his head. "The bolt is steel … and not attached to the lock."
Wynn's brows gathered in puzzlement.
"The bolt comes out of the wall," Chane tried to explain, "and into the lock plate. I will never pry the gate out far enough for the lock to slip free of it. There is not enough give between frame and gate."
"What about the hinges?" Wynn asked.
Chane looked back down the tunnel at the softly undulating seawater. "No, that would take too long."
"Then bend the bars."
Even Shade could not worm her head between those. Chane scanned all the way around the gate's circumference.
"The steel pry bar should hold," he answered. "But the iron bars are thicker."
Frustrated, he clutched one upright bar in silence.
"Heat," Wynn suggested. "You can conjure fire around one bar, make it more pliable."
Chane shook his head. "I cannot make conjured flame defy the earth and hang in the air … no one can."
"Then what? There has to be something!"
There was, now that the idea had been broached. But it was not something he was comfortable trying, considering Wynn's past reactions to the origin of his brass ring. He tucked the pry bar under his arm and unlashed the flap of his pack in Wynn's arms.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
Chane pulled the etched steel hoop out of Welstiel's belongings.
"Where did that … come …" Wynn began, but trailed off, and she raised her eyes in accusation. "More of Welstiel's toys? Just how many of that madman's things did you take?"
"Everything he had," Chane returned flatly.
He had no time to deal with Wynn's distaste. He was not even sure that what he had in mind would work. The hoop's outer circumference was encircled with one etched black line no more than a hair's breadth. Similarly delicate and swirling marks and symbols covered the rest of it. Though it had the feel and weight of steel, a faint scent of charcoal rose from its etchings.
Chane stepped to the gate's center.
Crouching below the cross strut, he slipped the pry bar's end through, along one iron bar's side, and then reached through and hooked the loop over its end. The hoop slid down, resting against the gate's bar.
He had barely fathomed the hoop's operation. Whereas Welstiel had called up intense heat within the item, even handled it while hot, Chane could barely get it to glow. And once it was activated, he dared not touch it, always waiting long, until it cooled enough to pick up.
Chane waved Shade back as Wynn watched in silence. With a hoarsely whispered chant, he traced his index finger around the hoop and jerked his hand back.
Red pinprick sparks rose within the hoop's marks. They spread until all the etchings glowed like the coals beneath a fading fire.
"Is it doing anything yet?" Wynn asked.
Chane carefully touched the gate's bar in contact with the hoop. Barely any heat had penetrated. He needed more. But how?
He made a blind choice.
Dropping his free hand into the water, he drenched it. He then raised and extended his index finger as he began to chant again.
"No, it's too hot!" Wynn warned.
Chane quickly traced his finger another time around the hoop. A sizzle of water rose from the contact. He felt his fingertip begin to sear as he finished and thrust his hand down into the water.
The hoop's marks glowed with a sudden intensity. Red light became ruddy orange.
Pronounced heat radiated upon Chane's face. He heard Wynn suck in and hold a breath as he repeated the process, once, twice, three times more. The scent of seared flesh became distinct in the air. With his hand submerged the last time, Chane let hunger rise enough to eat away the small pain.
The hoop's markings turned pale orange-yellow, and the pry bar's steel began to grow hot.
He untied his cloak and wrapped a corner of it around the pry bar's nearer end. Even with protection, he felt heat grow beneath his grip. Vapor began to rise off the wet wool, but he focused only upon the gate's bar in contact with the hoop.