“Can you build a ladder?”
“I could, but wouldn’t do ya no good. As I said, that lid above our heads is real stone, razor-thin flecks of mica that in life weigh no more than wet oak leaves. But as shades, we can’t touch them and can’t pass through.”
“Someone moved them.”
“Aye, two people if ya gonna be precise. If ya join wills, ya can join power.”
“There are two of us now. So, couldn’t we—”
“Nope, because there are two rocks, one atop the other. If you’re up there, you can move them one at a time. Down ’ere, we’d have to move two at once, and that’s if we could do it at all. Hard to move stone without hands.” Andvari reached up and clapped the wall. “This ’ere is real. This muck we’re standing in is, too, but it is possible with great effort to affect things in minor ways.” He put his hand into the pool and swirled it around. Nothing happened. Then he took a deep breath and, biting his lip, cupped a hand and lowered it into the oily liquid. Lifting it, Tesh saw that a tiny bit was carried up before slipping through his fingers. Afterward, the dwarf slung his shoulders as if exhausted. “It’s not easy, but it can be done. That’s how they slid those rocks over us.”
“How’d you do that?”
“Willpower and a lot of concentration. Ever heard anyone say they achieved something through willing it to be so? Well, there’s a lot more to that than just a saying. The Fhrey have wizards who can tap into the power of Elan and make things happen, but spirits can do it, too. Most of us are weak little flickering flames when compared with the power of the whole living world, but our spirits are of Eton, and there’s no one who can say Eton is weak. So up there, two or three can work together to slide those rocks, or maybe it’s just the queen ’erself that does it.”
“Okay, sure.” Tesh looked down at the muck, remembering the tiny drop of liquid. “But there’s no way you could destroy a bridge of solid stone that way.”
“O’ course not.” The dwarf shook his head. “But as I just told ya, I know rocks and minerals. Some of those when struck can make a spark.”
“I’ve seen that before,” Tesh said.
“Right.” The dwarf raised a finger and pointed at him. “And others will actually burn, and when they do, they give off a gas. If trapped inside stone, that gas can become strong enough to blow rock apart.” Andvari frowned and sat back down, pulling his knees up once more and hugging them. “Took a very long time, but I scraped up the materials I needed and poured them into cracks in the bridge. There’s a pin of metal mounted on a plate of flint at the center. Hitting it with enough single-minded determination will cause a spark that will destroy that bloody bridge. The queen is well equipped to manage that.”
“So, she dropped you in here so no one else will ever know about her plan.”
“Aye, agin yer right. This pit is me grave, where I will dwell for eternity because she must win ’er fight. She must have ’er revenge.”
“Revenge is a powerful motivator,” Tesh agreed.
Andvari nodded. “Makes otherwise sensible people do foolish things.”
The sliding of stone overhead made both of them look up. The rocks were cleared away, and Sebek’s face peered over the edge, plastered with a sinister grin.
Brin still had the piece of leather strap in her hand. She’d used it three times so far and wondered if there would be a fourth. The ends were damp as if from sweat, which was impossible. She couldn’t be sweating. She didn’t have hands. As she thought about it, she realized she probably didn’t have a piece of leather, either. She was holding the idea of a strap of hide.
I’m so glad I didn’t think of that before.
The thought of jumping out over that gorge suspended only by a thin idea might have been too much of a leap. She turned the leather over in her fingers. It was all so real. Her hands, her fingers, the strap—smooth on one side, rough on the other. Her mind was making it all up, drawing from lost memories to build this new world. Like a potluck dinner, everyone brought a dish, and together they created a banquet for the senses.
“Don’t need that anymore,” Beatrice said pointing at the strap. “We’re here.”
The column of warriors had entered a large cavern. Orders were barked, and everyone appeared to know right where to go. All except the six, who stood like abandoned sheep.
The king and Fenelyus approached. “This won’t be easy.” Mideon said this more to his daughter than to them. “Ferrol’s forces didn’t even throw rocks at the jumps.”
“I know,” Beatrice replied.
“They know we’re coming, took the easy route of just waiting for us at the bridge. They’ll be dug in with everything and then some.”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “Even more than that.”
King Mideon frowned at his daughter, and Brin didn’t know how Beatrice could take such a look. The king was like a thunderhead or a raging sea.
How was it that Moya was able to stand up to him?
“This is no joke, child. We’ll be fighting on the edge up there. People are lost this way—lost forever. You go over that edge, and the Typhons will have ya. Are ya certain this is worth it?”
Beatrice looked past her father and beyond the horde of assembling soldiers, who adjusted armor and shields. She stared at the darkness of the cavern wall. Her eyes shifted as if seeing something none of them could. Then she nodded. “This will be the second most important thing any of us will ever do.”
“Second?”
“Consider it a dress rehearsal for the Golrok.”
The king set his fists on his hips, that frown of disappointment hovering over all of them. “You’re not filling me with a lot of hope here, child.”
“All we need to do is see them safely to the bridge.”
“That will be difficult enough.”
“What do we do?” Moya asked.
The king stretched out a hand and gestured all the way around. “Everyone here, you see them? All these people—each one is a hero, a champion, a legend—their whole purpose is to surround and protect the six of you. Look! Look over there!” He pointed to the man they had seen in the throne room. “That there is Atella the Great—unmatched in battle. He will guard our left flank. Havar, who stormed the walls of Erebus and nearly tore them down, will guard our right. Gath of Odeon, Bran of Pines, and Melen the Hammer will be your personal protectors. Fane Fenelyus, first wielder of the Art, will provide extra support when we need it. And I, as always, will lead the charge. The rest of them”—he nodded slightly as he surveyed the chamber—“will fight and once again die.”
“But what about us?” Gifford asked. “What should we do?”
“Stay in the middle, stick close to Gath, Melen, and Bran,” the king said.
“And when you get close to the bridge and see that the way is clear,” Beatrice said, “run for it. Race across the span. Sprint for the door on the far side.”
“Still don’t know what good it will do,” Mideon said.
“Just have to—”
“Trust you?” the king bellowed. Even in that place, smothered beneath the din of a thousand boisterous heroes prepping for battle, his voice boomed loud enough to draw looks. “I don’t do that well. It’s not my talent.” Mideon turned around, and his voice grew in volume. “Form up! Caldern, see if you can hold that front corner a little better this time. Engels, remember you can duck.”