The Crown of Embers(109)

Think, Elisa.

I gaze at the cliff face, blinking through water. It’s black with wetness, save for a few mossy outcroppings. Stubborn ferns curl out of rocky grooves, straining for sunshine. Vines, choking in parasitic night bloomers, drip down the side and swish back and forth in the water-churned wind, brushing the surface of the lake.

The vines. I peer closer. A darkness lies behind them—something darker than wet rock. I push the vines aside.

It’s a cave, or maybe a tunnel, curving behind the waterfall into utter blackness. The tugging at my Godstone leaves no doubt that we must go inside.

I curse myself for not bringing my tinderbox, but then I realize that in this wetness, nothing would catch fire anyway. We’ll have to feel our way along in the dark and trust my stone to guide us. It’s a test, after all. It’s supposed to be difficult.

But no, we do have a source of light. I grab a handful of vines and yank hard until they pull free. I wrap them several times around my forearm. Storm understands instantly and does the same. Then we step into the cave.

The noise of the waterfall becomes echoing and hollow and so, so much louder. A few more steps take us behind a wall of white water. Soft daylight barely penetrates, giving the fall a crystal sheen, and I’m suddenly thinking of Hector, wishing he was here to see something so beautiful.

I clench my jaw and turn away from the waterfall, into the tunnel. The light grows dimmer as we walk. The tunnel is just high enough for me to stand upright, which means Storm has to stoop. Gradually, though, the night bloomers wrapped around my arms unfurl and begin to glow, faintly at first but with increasing determination, until we can see several paces in every direction.

The tunnel is obviously unnatural. The walls are too perfect, too polished, the floor too even. It slopes slightly upward, and rivulets of water trickle past us to empty into the lake.

Our path curves to the left. We round the corner, and the light from our vines catches on a bit of unevenness in the wall. My heart hammers with a sense of familiarity.

Lichen grows over the unevenness, fanning out in rings of yellow and brown. I reach up with my fingers and scrape it away to reveal script carved into the wall. The Lengua Classica. An ancient style of writing. The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.

“It’s the same,” I say to Storm, and my voice echoes. “The same as the tunnel leading to your cavern in the Wallows.”

“Yes,” he says. “That holy passage has long been associated with the zafira. I used to climb up to the tunnel and look at it. I would sit there for hours, hoping God would reveal something to me.”

I look at him sharply. He just admitted that he climbed up into the tunnel.

He returns my gaze, his eyes wide with wonder, and I notice, unaccountably, how the roots of his falsely dark hair shimmer gold in the soft light. “Yes, I know the tunnel leads up to the catacombs,” he says. “But no, I’m not the one who tried to kill you that day. Truly, I am Your Majesty’s loyal subject.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been pursuing the zafira for a long time. Even in your exile, you thought about it.”

“Yes.”

Something clicks into place. “Is this your redemption, Storm? Do you hope that by finding the zafira, you can be reconciled to your people? Hailed as a hero? Your death sentence commuted?”

He turns away. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “Maybe.”

“And would you betray me for the same purpose? If you handed over the only living Godstone, would you receive a hero’s welcome?”

He shoves me aside and continues down the tunnel. But I understand him a little now, and I’ve observed he avoids answering to keep from telling a lie.

Chilled—and maybe a little relieved to finally know for sure—I hurry after him.

Our path grows steep, steep, steeper. The smooth floor gives way to perfectly sculpted steps and sudden switchbacks. My thighs burn, my heart pounds, and my breath comes fast as we climb ever upward. It’s drier now, and creatures scuttle away at irregular intervals as we approach. I imagine crabs. Or cave scorpions. Or maybe rats with nails long enough to scrape the stone. Whatever they are, they disappear before the arc of our fading light can reach them.

It seems that hours pass, or days. I find myself stepping in time to my heartbeat, which is huge in my chest and throat. My lungs burn, and the tug on my Godstone has become a fire in my belly. Surely we are near the top of the spire by now. Surely we are at the top of the world.

We round another switchback to find the vaguest hint of light. As one, we hurry forward, desperate to lose these walls. The light strengthens. One more corner, and light explodes full in our faces. I blink and raise my forearm against it.