At the end of the corridor a curved doorway opens into a large cavern. As I suspected, an underground river flows by. A small hole in the ceiling allows light in, revealing sharp stalactites that hang down everywhere, glittering with the river’s reflection. The room is aglow in yellows and oranges and reds, and it feels like standing in the middle of fire. This space was definitely not made by human hands; instead, the tunnel, the abbey, was built up around it. There’s a loading dock installed for small boats, though none are there anymore.
Then I see something that makes my heart catch. I gasp.
The Aphrasians have been missing for eighteen years and yet there’s a fresh apple core tossed aside near the doorway.
That’s when I hear men’s voices approaching from the corridor behind me.
CHAPTER TWO
Shadow
“WHO’S THERE?” A GRUFF VOICE calls out from within the tunnel. It echoes: Who’s there? Who’s there? Who’s there?
Frantically, I search for somewhere to hide. They heard me! But the tunnel appears to be the sole way out and I can’t go back the way I came. There’s only the river below. The voices whisper to one another from inside the tunnel as I slide off the edge of the dock and into the water, trying not to make a splash. I hear clanging as the men run toward the stream, their boots shuffling on the ground as they turn around looking for whoever was there.
“Got away,” one says. His voice is deep, gravelly. It’s the same man who called out before.
“Could be you’re hearin’ things again,” says the other. Higher-pitched, scratchy. Younger than the first, I think.
“Is that so? Then who moved the stone?” the first replies. “More like they jumped in the river.”
The second scoffs. “Then they’re dead for sure.”
His words are prescient as the flow of the river drags me along, turns a corner, and slopes down, the current picking up speed. I try to retain control but the water swallows me. I struggle to push myself above the surface and gasp for air. They were right, I won’t make it. The undertow is too strong.
I kick as hard as I can, barely keeping my head out of the river, which is splashing against my face and into my nose and mouth. I can’t keep the water out and also let air in. Don’t panic, I tell myself. Never panic.
I spot a heavy branch sticking out of the water. I reach for it and fail, falling back into the current. I should never have come here. I’m going to drown. I’m going to die.
Also: My aunts are going to kill me.
No, no! I absolutely refuse to give up! My arms and legs shove me on as if being controlled by an outside force. I manage to propel my body toward another floating branch and grab on to it.
Water washes over my head again. I keep my eyes closed and hang on to the branch with all my might. When my head emerges, I try to suck in air but immediately begin coughing. Wheezing. There’s water in my lungs. My nose and throat are burning. The men at the abbey can probably hear me splashing now but I hardly care. I just want to make it out of here alive.
There’s a light ahead. The mouth of the cave. I hear banging noises from behind me, where the men were at the shoreline. It sounds like some kind of battle, as if the men I’d heard back there were suddenly attacked. My breathing is returning to normal, though I still feel the sting in my nose and chest. If I hadn’t come across the branch . . . or if my leg had caught on one under the surface . . .
I emerge with the river. I look around and see I’m on the other side of the abbey now. Right near the hill I saw in the distance earlier—the site of the great battle. I feel the oppressive weight of death all around me, even within the earth itself.
The branch runs up against some rocks near the shoreline, beneath an ancient weeping willow. My arms are weak. Shaking. I have to get out of the water. I can take refuge in the tree. Its full, low-hanging branches are spread out around its wide trunk, like curtains. A good place to hang on, stay concealed.
Please just this one thing, I beg myself. Get out of the water. Gritting my teeth, I lift my upper body until I’m lying across the top of a stone. A horse whinnies from beyond the hill; a man shouts. Another man grunts again and again, as if he’s punching someone. I rest a moment to catch my breath and listen to the brawl beyond the hill. The men are still struggling against some interloper, but it means they’re not coming any nearer to me, so I swing my right leg up onto the rock and hoist myself out. The heavy boots I’m wearing definitely weren’t helping me in the water.
The sounds of struggle subside abruptly, as if someone’s won. Dripping wet, I crawl over to the willow and hide beneath its curtain of leaves. It’s quiet now. They may have left—or killed one another. Either way, not my concern.
The sun is already setting; one of my aunts would definitely have started looking for me by now.
There hasn’t been any other sound from beyond the hill for some time now. I don’t like it here. Unlike the ruins, this place bears the stain of death. Violence. Its energy is an invisible fog. I place my palm against the willow’s sturdy trunk to brace myself so I can stand.
A powerful shock surges straight through me.
Suddenly, I can see a soldier wearing the Renovian colors, bleeding out into the earth. Another soldier with a missing arm, leg snapped upward into a terrifying pose, is groaning. I want to go home, he cries. I want to go.
One man is almost fully submerged in the river, only his legs sticking out. And countless others are strewn about in the same condition, or worse. Everywhere. The dead. This is the Battle of Baer, playing out before my eyes. I can smell the stench in the air and hear the death groans, but it isn’t real. I’m not there; this is just an illusion, a place memory. One so powerful that those with the sight can see it if they try. Even if they don’t try. Aunt Moriah said sometimes such visions find the seeker, rather than the other way around.
I have been seeing visions since I was ten years old.
Then I look up. And there he is. King Esban.
I recognize him from his chiseled profile on Renovian coins. A striking figure, like the fabled shipbuilders of the north countries: tall, broad shouldered, bearded, golden hair flowing from under a dented silver helmet. Noble and brave, just as the stories say, but with kind eyes. They never mention that.
I feel the urge to go to him but I can’t move. I know what’s about to happen, and I want to call to him, to warn him. But when I try to yell, nothing comes out.
A man charges toward him, sword raised above his head. He’s wearing a gray Aphrasian robe and their unmistakable black mask. The king is steady. Metal meets metal with a clang. They struggle, the rebel monk pushing the king back; the king shoves him off with equal force. The monk aims his right leg directly at the king’s stomach, but Esban steps away so the kick lands off its mark, barely grazing his hip. He stretches his arm back and swings the sword at the rebel with all his might. The monk dodges the strike. The king is furiously red, chest heaving, teeth bared. He lunges at the monk again.