Brin shot across the remaining distance. The closer she got to the castle, the higher the walls revealed themselves to be. This place wasn’t bound by the limitations of the living world. That stark reality announced itself while the roar of the army behind her was blotted out by explosions from in front. Out of dark recesses all along the fortress, deafening bursts emanated. Sparks erupted one by one in perfect synchronization from left to right as balls of fire shot out of holes in a bone-rattling succession of explosions. The flaming projectiles streaked overhead, trailing lines of smoke. When the sequence finished, the bombardment started all over again. This stunning series of rapid explosions wasn’t the most astounding thing Brin had witnessed, for in her last few strides, she could have sworn that a part of the impossibly high wall got up and moved.
Brin entered the slender gray gate that emitted a sliver of warm yellow light into which the others had already disappeared. Gifford, Tressa, and Roan lay in the courtyard, collapsed from exhaustion or fear, probably both. Fenelyus was nowhere to be seen as men, women, Fhrey, Belgriclungreians, and Grenmorians rushed past. Most headed up steps to stone parapets to peer out narrow windows at the war raging outside. Brin didn’t care about the battle. She stood just inside the gate, taking deep, unnecessary breaths that nonetheless felt crucial, as if the in-and-out movement of her chest was keeping her anchored. Everything was a blur of sight and a drone of sound. The only thing Brin could think about was the sight of a javelin punching through Tesh’s body. Over and over she saw that with perfect clarity, right down to the teardrops of blood sprayed on his chin.
“Where’s Tesh?” Moya asked, rushing to her.
The Keeper didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
“Brin?” Moya took her hands, her tone slipping into dread as the gate closed.
Brin didn’t even try to speak. She shook her head, and the look on her face seemed to be enough for Moya. She felt a hand squeeze hers.
Finally, the words burst out in a gush, joined by a flood of tears. “He stepped in front of a javelin. That’s the second time he’s died for me.”
Moya grabbed her in a hug just as Brin felt the strength of her legs give way. Moya’s arms tightened, holding her up—keeping them both vertical. “He can’t die again; he’s already dead. Remember that. It’s not over for him . . . or Tekchin.”
“Tressa, are you all right?” Gifford asked. After he set her down, she hadn’t moved.
Overhead, the uninterrupted pounding continued, hammering in rapid succession and only slightly muffled. Gifford and Roan were at Tressa’s side. He had hold of one hand and she the other.
Tressa brought her head up and nodded. “Better now. Less weight. Felt like I was being crushed out there. Kept getting worse, like the air was filling up, getting heavier.” She let go of them and slid her palms across the ground around her. “Look at that, grass.”
“Stars, too,” Roan said, pointing up.
Everyone tilted their heads to see the sky that normally held little interest, but in that place, its existence was a marvel.
“Not real,” Tressa said, still exploring the grass with her fingers. “Feels good, though.”
A dwarf approached. Although clearly an adult, he was the smallest Belgriclungreian whom Gifford had ever seen. A dwarf’s dwarf, no bigger than a five-year-old, he had awkwardly short arms and stubby legs, but his head was oversized, so much so that it looked certain to topple him over. He’d emerged out of the maelstrom of activity that whirled around them.
He spotted Rain, who was dusting off his clothes. Gifford wasn’t sure what had become of the great worm that Fenelyus had called an ariface. He only knew that Rain had started digging and the beast had done likewise. The two had disappeared for a time. Then Rain had entered the gate just behind Brin, looking as if he’d been plowing a dusty field.
The dwarf’s dwarf addressed Rain directly, “What are your names so that I may properly introduce you to His Majesty?”
“Ah . . .” Rain looked to Moya.
“Go ahead,” she told him. “You’re the one with the clout here.”
Rain presented each of them, and in return, the little dwarf introduced himself. Gifford didn’t catch all of it—something long and complicated, making him wonder at the Belgriclungreian’s propensity for creating words that were a great deal longer than necessary.
“His Majesty King Mideon wishes to see you immediately.”
“Fine,” Rain said.
“Excellent,” the dwarf’s dwarf responded and beckoned for them to follow.
“You all right?” Moya asked Brin.
“No,” the Keeper replied, her voice straining to get the word out. “But I can walk. I wasn’t the one hit by the javelin—just feels that way.”
Moya nodded—not a casual or indifferent tilt, but a knowing bob. She had hold of Brin’s hand, and she appeared determined not to let go.
Only then did Gifford realize Tesh wasn’t among them.
As they left the courtyard, Brin looked back at the gate, perhaps hoping to see him there. Gifford did, too. He tried to imagine Tesh limping through the big doors, miraculously following them the way he had at the entryway to Nifrel. But the doors remained shut. No one was there.
The castle of King Mideon was a cavern, wondrous and massive, but a cave nonetheless. Scale dominated the experience. Passing through doors, chambers, and halls, Gifford couldn’t understand the need for ceilings so high that lantern light couldn’t reveal them, nor rooms so vast that massive doors on the far side appeared to be elaborate mouse holes. They walked on and on, seemingly without end, crossing polished floors, climbing steps, and passing through corridors lined with statues of ironically giant dwarfs. Before long, Gifford was hopelessly lost.
When they finally stopped, it was in a dimly lit anteroom. The dwarf’s dwarf indicated they should wait, then he slipped through another impossibly huge pair of stone doors. He failed to close them completely, and a long slant of light escaped, cutting a brilliant shaft across the dark of the anteroom.
“What did you do to that big snake?” Roan whispered to Rain as they waited.
“Nothing,” the dwarf replied. “We’re both diggers.”
“What’s that mean?” Tressa asked. “You two in some sort of club?” Her recovery seemed to be complete. The woman was back to her old feisty self.
Rain nodded. “Something like that. Really rare to meet another digger—a real one, not merely one who digs. Doesn’t matter who, or even what they are, there’s a familiarity, a brotherhood if you will. Hard to explain. I suppose it would be like meeting another bird if you could fly. I would think there’s a shared language of flight the way there is for those who dig.”
“I suppose it’s like the story about Rhen and the Lion,” Gifford said. “In his travels before building the dahl, Chieftain Rhen once granted a lion a hero’s funeral because he respected how bravely it fought. Isn’t that right, Brin?”
She didn’t answer. She and Moya remained together, still clutching hands.
“So, what? You’re like brothers with this thing now, Rain?” Tressa asked, but before he could answer, the big double doors opened.