Chapter Thirteen

  The Donjon in the Woods

  That night, as Nephis and Kugo slept soundly, exhausted by the terrors and violence of the day before, Moss wondered at the small, silver statue they had found. He turned it over and over again. A vulture, inscribed with the ever-small patterns of elves, its wings spread wide over whatever once lay below it. The moonlight shone on it, and it cast great shadows upon itself, and its light reflected into his sapphire eyes. The world around it was black as ink, but the vulture shimmered. And Moss wondered who had made it and why.

  By mid-morning, Nephis and Kugo awoke from their stupor. Feather-haired and bleary-eyed, they winced in the morning light. Nephis would have fallen back asleep, but Kugo swiped the pillow from her. Donk went her head. She did not have the energy to berate him, and so only glared.

  “How’s your leg feeling?” Kugo asked, “Can you feel it any?”

  Nephis stretched out her leg and tried to wiggle her toes. They twitched, but no more. “Well, I can feel it some now,” she answered, “It is as if I slept on it.” She tried then to stand on it, and to her surprise, she could. Though when she tried to walk, she tumbled back onto the floor. Kugo helped her up and held her as they went into the farmer’s house proper.

  His daughter, Miriam, paced around the fire, her hands by her chest, wringing one another. She wore a long and pretty dress that covered her well, though by her hands and feet, you could still see the many cuts and bruises that had been inflicted on her, now light scars as Moss had healed each of their wounds. Whenever the sleeves of the dress would ride up her arm to reveal more of the scars, she quickly pulled them back down.

  Upon seeing the three of them, she nearly jumped, “I’ll get papa!” she said with a yip and scurried off and out the door.

  “I wonder what that was about,” Kugo said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Nephis answered, though kept her thoughts to herself.

  Eventually, Miriam returned with her father, who limped quickly into the room. “Come! Come sit and eat!” he welcomed them. And they all sat around the small, wooden table, knees knocking against one another. Sitting in the center of them was a wooden tray covered by a cloth.

  Her father pulled the cover away, and upon the table was an overfull basket of bread alongside oil and a small wheel of good cheese. The room was filled with its warm and familiar scent. “Don’t be shy,” the farmer said, “Come and have some.” And he pushed the tray to Kugo, who politely tore a bit of bread and weaved it beneath his mask. The farmer whispered something to his daughter, who scampered off to the other side of the room and put the finishing touches on a stew that bubbled by the fire. Once she removed the lid, everyone could smell the rich broth and gentle, bubbling chickpeas, egg yolk, wine, and pork. At once, all of them realized how deeply hungry they were, feeling the depth of their stomachs and the watering of their mouths.

  “Tell me, Master Kugo,” the farmer asked in a stiff voice as he leaned in close, “Where are you from?”

  Kugo pulled a little back, “I am from a town called Ordo, from far north of here, it is along the Sibin mountains,” he answered.

  “Never heard of it,” the farmer said, “Though I suppose you’ve never heard of our little town either. Bwahaha!”

  Nephis piped up, “I cannot say I had.”

  The farmer glared at her, his weathered eyes crinkling and wide mouth stretching into a frown, he silently dismissed her. Nephis was stunned and morosely cut a slice of cheese for her bread.

  “I – I cannot say I had heard of it either,” Kugo replied.

  “Of course you hadn’t!” the farmer answered with a grin, as if Nephis had never spoken at all.

  “Now, what is it you do?” the farmer asked, once again becoming very sharp, his green eyes staring intently into the wooden mask.

  “I am a retainer, a bodyguard, to Lady Nephis, er, Miss Nephis here,” Kugo said.

  “Lady?” the farmer asked.

  “It is a very small title, nothing to worry yourself over,” Kugo swept the issue under the rug.

  “But a body guard, eh?” the farmer turned it over, “It shouldn’t be any wonder, you carry around that sword, and all that armor you had with you. After all, you saved my lovely daughter! You must be terribly good at your job. No? Earn a lot from Missus Nephis over here?”

  “Actually, it’s Miss, I am not yet wed,” she corrected him.

  “Well, don’t hurry yourself now,” he said flatly. But before anyone could respond, he continued, “But a man of your talents must earn a good living?”

  Kugo was silent for a while. “No, I can’t say I do.”

  The farmer tapped his fingers along the table, seeming as if some of the wind had been taken from him. But then a spark pipped in his eyes, “Oh, what a shame!” he groaned, “Well, I would bet that there are plenty of good and noble lords and ladies who would fall over themselves for a man of your skill! No offense, of course, to Miss Nephis here. And even not, you seem plenty strong. We would not mind a man such as yourself in our little town.”

  “That is very generous, sir, but I don’t think I can settle for the time being. I must keep on the move,” Kugo said in a steely voice.

  At this, the father seemed saddened, his shoulders slumped, and his brows grew heavy. His eyes flicked to his daughter, who, looking at him, nodded vigorously. He gave a heavy sigh. “Do you keep alright?” he asked Kugo, “I mean, do you stay fed and warm on your travels?”

  “As much as I can,” Kugo said.

  “Are you long hungry?” he asked.

  Kugo opened his mouth, but Nephis was quicker. “I keep my retainers well fed,” she said with a chin held high.

  It was hardly true, but Kugo let it pass, not wanting to embarrass her any further.

  “That is good to hear,” the farmer mused, stroking his great chin. “Now, son, forgive me for my asking, but it’s hard to tell with all your mask and cloak. But about how old are you?”

  “Why?” Kugo asked in his deep voice.

  “Oh, I’m just curious, is all,” the father danced around the reason.

  Kugo sighed. “I’m sixteen years, or thereabout,” he said. “I was adopted, so I cannot surely say.”

  “Sixteen!” the father exclaimed, “It’s a sin to lie, son!” he said with a laugh.

  “I’m well aware,” Kugo answered dryly.

  “R-really?” the father asked, his voice stumbling. But when Kugo didn’t correct him, he was amazed. “I figured you must’ve been a fully grown man, what with your voice and great self.”

  Kugo struggled for an answer. “It is not uncommon for my people.”

  “I suppose not,” the farmer mused, “There’s all sorts out there.”

  “Yes,” Kugo said bluntly.

  Nephis looked over to Miriam, whose eyes had grown wide and happy.

  “How’s that food looking, Miriam?” her father called.

  “Oh, it’s about ready!” she said.

  He turned back to Kugo, “You know, my dear Miriam made all of this, even the cheese!”

  “A talented girl.”

  “That she is!” her father laughed, “Best there is this side of the Petal River.”

  The three of them sank at the thought of the river. But soon, Miriam hurried over with a great, iron pot and set it on the table. She insisted on serving them and poured a heaping bowl for Kugo. She brought it round to him and leaned in so closely that he could smell the soft and flowery perfume she now wore. She served each of them in turn, though none were as good as Kugo’s bowl, nearly piled with the well-browned pork and chickpeas, and Nephis’ in particular seemed thin. She held her tongue.

  Her father said grace, and the meal began. Though Miriam hardly touched her food, and spent the whole time squirming in her chair. Nephis looked her over and pursed her lips. But when Kugo once again brought the spoon beneath his cowl, the farmer frowned.

  “Why don’t you take that thing off. Don’t you know it’s rude enough to wear a coat while you eat, let alone all that,” he snipped.

  “Papa!” Miriam hissed and kicked his leg.

  “My apologies,” Kugo said, “I am disfigured from my birth, so I keep myself covered.”

  “Oh!” the farmer exclaimed nervously. “No, no, I am sorry, Master Kugo. But I do not mind if it would be more comfortable for you to eat?”

  Miriam knocked him in the leg again.

  “Thank you, but no,” Kugo replied.

  Dinner continued with some small talk, which was mostly the farmer pestering Kugo for little bits of his life, which Kugo did his best to dance around. Once everyone was filled, the farmer stretched back in his chair.

  Once everyone was filled, the farmer stretched back in his chair. “Now wasn’t that something!” he exclaimed, “My dear Miriam, best cook I know!” And indeed the food was good, rich and warm with sage and clove, it was doubtless a work of much love and expense for the family. “Now then, for your payment,”

  The farmer gingerly pulled a small sack of coins and handed it over to Kugo. “I went around the whole town putting this together; it’s the least I can do after you rescued my daughter.”

  Kugo did not open the bag, but only tucked it into his belt. “Thank you.”

  “But that’s not all,” the farmer then cleared his throat and sat up as straight as he could manage. He had lost his prodding, curious expressions, and now appeared a little nervous. “Master Kugo, you’ve shown yourself to be a good and mighty young man, and my dear Miriam has taken a liking to you. If you want to take her as your wife, I give you my blessing.”

  A silence so heavy fell over the room that the only sound anyone could hear was the poor girl’s heart pumping in her chest. Miriam had turned a bright red, and with her hair and green dress, she looked much like an apple upon a tree.

  “W-well?” Miriam squeaked in a tiny voice, her glittering green eyes peering up at him.

  “I . . .,” Kugo fumbled for the right words to say, “I am flattered.”

  And the faces of the farmer and his daughter rose.

  “But I cannot,” he answered, “I am a man of the cloth. I have taken vows never to wed.”

  Soon after, they decided to leave. The father had long since stormed from the room in a fury. But Miriam still sat sobbing at the table. Nephis tried to comfort her, but when she did, the girl cried out. “I am damned, to the pits! To woo a brother!” And only wept harder. The three of them stepped out of the room and home as quietly as they could.

  As they returned to the main street, so they might buy supplies for their journey, Moss spoke up. “Why was she crying?” he asked, “And what is the pit?”

  “Poor thing,” Nephis cooed, “I’m afraid Kugo was too blunt with her.”

  “How was I supposed to know?” Kugo defended himself, “Who tries to marry off their daughter in a day?”

  “Were you not paying any attention, Kugo?” Nephis asked with a smirk.

  “To what?”

  “Her glossy hair!” she exclaimed, “She had cleaned up her hair very nicely. And that dress was pretty for their station, and in good condition. Her lips were redder, too. Now I doubt they went and did that on their own. Surely you didn’t miss her perfume? Girls don’t just smell like that, you know. Surely you saw all that, right?”

  Kugo had noticed the perfume, but the rest escaped him. “No,” he said tersely.

  Nephis clicked her tongue. “Boys! What are they good for?”

  Moss mulled all these things over, but could hardly make heads or tales of them. Something Kugo had done, but he was the same as ever, and he had never made Moss cry, after all.

  As they scoured the town to find a place to buy their wares, Moss took to showing each passerby the silver vulture, with the white stone still attached. He would loom over them, questioning each about where it had come from. Most cowered at the great thing. They were content to watch him from a distance, strange things existed in other parts of the world, and it would be a shame to not see it – but to be so close was frightening. Kugo and Nephis were surprised by his sudden zeal, but did not interrupt him. It was good for him, you know. Eventually, however, he got his answer.

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  “Do you know where this came from?” Moss asked in a deep voice, his face washed with shadow. “We found it in the goblin’s nest.”

  “Ah,” the woodsman answered him as if there were nothing strange about him. Woodsman, after all, are accustomed to unusual and unnatural things. “The only place you’ll find stone like that around here is an old white tower on the other end of the Rose Wood. The goblins must’ve taken a shine to it.”

  “Where is it?” Moss stepped closer, bringing his great face down to the man’s level.

  The man shakily explained the quickest way to get there, to follow that same dirt road from the day before and then to deviate from it where the earth began to slope.

  “Let’s go,” Moss turned to Nephis and Kugo. “I want to see it.”

  “I suppose it’s on the way,” Nephis said, “What do you say, Kugo?”

  Kugo really had little desire to trek through the woods again, but it’s not as if they were expected anywhere, and it seemed they had lost the royal guard for the time being. So, seeing how excitable Moss had become over it, he sighed, “Well, if it’s only a day trip.”

  Moss seemed ready to leap for joy, and nearly dragged the both of them down the main street, his great flat feet shaking the ground with every step.

  They followed the woodsman’s directions, and as he said it would, it came to a point where the hill began to slope quite severely, and the road curved off in another direction. And quickly, all the trees were scraggly, though nearly as old as the rest; they did not have the stately grandeur or the grandfatherly charm of those before them, with portly trunks and graceful limbs. No, these were infirm. They were old and weak, seeming withered and mean, with thorny vines and balding canopies. Nephis had to ride on Moss’ back as they carefully found a way down, holding on to long branches as if they were lifelines and finding safe spots along old stones to untangle themselves. The hill was jagged, with many roots peeking out of the earth like snakes at the edge of their brood. The ground here was dry and slipped from their feet as if it were sand. But eventually they could see the tower.

  In the center of a deep, grassy vale, where the fallen earth piled up, was a great white tower. Though this one was much larger than any of them had ever seen. The ones that dotted the countryside were often slender and tight, much more akin to a watchtower or a rise. But if those were birch trees, this one was an old oak or cedar. It was fat and stuck deep in the earth. Like most others, it was terribly damaged, with much of its roof and western wall crumbled onto the grass in great, rain-worn chunks. And from this gash, they could see that it had several rooms within it.

  Kugo huffed and tapped his foot. “Are you happy?” he asked. “There it is.”

  Moss looked to either of them. “I want to go in,” he said and held up the silver idol.

  “Well, go in then,” Kugo said.

  “Are you not coming?” Nephis asked.

  “No, I don’t like them,” he said, “Never have. They give me the chills.”

  “What, are you scared?” Nephis teased him.

  “I don’t care what you say, I am not going in there,” Kugo ended the conversation.

  To Nephis, the tower seemed benign. It was little more than a grand, old, crumbling wonder that now found itself wrapped in vines and worn by neglect. Granted, she had never been inside of one, and Kugo had spent a whole night in one, but even still, it seemed a bit silly to her. This was a man who had crawled his way through a goblin nest and leapt at that terrible, catlike monster, but refused to step into an empty tower. Well, if he wanted to act like a dullard, he could.

  “Onward, Moss,” Nephis commanded from atop her wooden steed.

  “Okay,” he said back and scurried up the hill and into its cut maw, for the door and lower levels were long buried.

  The inside was plain; anything that had once been here had long been looted by animal or goblin. The one thing that could not be stolen from it were its carvings, which were much like the ones the sorcerer-hunter had drawn in his journal. Nephis pulled it out of her bag to compare. Though weathered by time, these seemed the very same sort, with the stone cut with thin, frequent grooves, making the stone seem weightless. And along the ceiling, like trim, the stone jutted out and was decorated with inlays of clouds and birds. Though each was worn, Nephis could tell that proper care had been put into them, as the birds even had delicate feathers. Whoever the craftsman was, his pride still shone through all these years later. And from Moss’ back, she ran her hand along the art work, feeling every bump and groove, and Moss, seeing her, joined her in this. And for a while, she marveled that they may have been the only people to touch them in a thousand years.

  On the far end of the room was a door that had been smashed in by the goblins. Its dark wood scattered the floor, though of what sort, Nephis was unsure. It was tightly woven and hard as stone. What efforts the imps had gone to, to break in, was a mystery. The room beyond it was the same as the entrance, only dimmer. The light of the sun soon faded from them, and Nephis resorted to the lantern.

  The empty chamber was flooded with the dim light of a small, flickering flame. But even one so small filled the room when there was nothing but darkness. This room and the next few were the same, empty and long looted. But at last they came to a stairwell, which coiled around the outmost edge of the white throat. The air grew staler as they descended, and its depths smelled of must and still water, though the bitter scent of burning oil filled Nephis’ senses like a thick woolen blanket upon the face. But as they crossed into the underground, the walls and carvings became better and better preserved, their images sharper and almost fresh. The once graceful birds now seemed nearly alive, their movements unique and their delicate forms caught forever in one moment. There were other images too, of men and women dancing or drinking, even some caught in each other’s embraces. And scattered across the hallways and floor was the pattern of a diamond, even on all sides and spiraling into itself, like the gesture of a seed or the rings of a tree set upon a star. The ceiling was coated in black soot, likely from the goblin’s previous expeditions; like a stain or a dark cloud, it obscured whatever once lay beneath it. The chambers within were long looted, or perhaps they never contained anything at all; it was hard to say.

  They continued downwards, spiraling deeper and deeper within, each floor the same white and empty rooms, until the stairs came to an end. It was now pitch black, and Nephis felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. A foul stench filled the air, something sour and penetrating. The scent of death. In the light of her lantern was a long hall, which branched off into smaller rooms on either end. But cutting into this chamber were alcoves, neat and regular, every ten feet. They caught the light, and black shadow pooled in them. When she turned her lamp to see them, she gasped in fright, nearly dropping it. For a face stared back at her, pale and smooth, black and white eyes glinting in the light. It was only a bust. The face of a woman, fair and beautiful, carved in the sheer stone, sat lonely in the cubby. It was terribly lifelike, made with particular and exacting detail. In place of stone eyes were ebony shells, so that the whites of her eyes were instead black and wicked. Then, she noticed her ears. They were long and bladed, like proper daggers or lambear. “An elf!” she exclaimed.

  Both she and Moss crowded around it. She was beautiful, though there was a perverseness to her gaze, as if she was only just holding something back. Her lips were curled up a little too far, and her eyes a little too scrunched. As if the bust were holding back a cackling laugh. And the light of the lamp cast deep shadows upon her face, so that it seemed that the black ichor in her heart was welling up out of her. Even still, Moss looked in wonder at it. He tried to pick it up and take it with him, but he strained against the statue; it was as much a part of the floor as his arm was to him.

  In each of these cubbies was another bust, each of some person. Some were elves and some were human, some were women and some were men. But none seemed old or unsightly. This perhaps was not unusual; everyone wanted to be remembered at their best, after all. Each of them was terribly lifelike, their beetled eyes following Moss and Nephis in the darkness, a half dozen eyes always just in the shadows, watching with glee as they went further down the hall.

  But at the end of this hall was an archway so tight that Moss was nearly stuck. And above the arch was a gash in the wall, where something had once been inlaid. Moss held the silver vulture up to it, and it fit perfectly. The goblins had made it at least this far, not that it had been difficult, only unfruitful to any raiders. This had been their only treasure from the tower, and the reason for that lay in the room beyond.

  Nephis’ lantern swung, and upon the far wall was a spray of blood. The broken bodies of goblins lay on the scratched floor, their heads and every wide part smashed to pieces, as if they had been trampled on or broken with hammers. Nephis pulled back, and the grinning faces of the busts seemed to snicker at her. Hidden behind the blood was a mural, the first bit of color they had seen in this entire place. It was of a floating city. Great and beautiful white towers, white as lilies, slender as maidens, sat among the clouds. And Nephis all at once felt as if she had seen something she was not meant to, some secret hidden away for all time. Then Moss crept deeper into the room.

  “Moss!” she hissed, “Get out of here!” For she was still on his back.

  “I just want to look,” he mumbled and walked further in.

  Nephis winced and waited for whatever had caught the last robbers to catch him and her. And then . . .

  Nothing. Nothing at all happened. Moss stood, perfectly safe and peered each way.

  Moss walked around, and fear ran up Nephis’ arms and legs like lightning.

  She turned the lantern to the other end to find more blood. In fact, there was blood on each wall.

  “We need to leave,” she demanded.

  “Nothing’s happened,” Moss said.

  “But something might happen,” she answered.

  “You sound like Kugo,” Moss replied in an almost mocking tone, though his still tenor made it difficult to tell.

  “Well! He was right!” she said.

  “So were you,” Moss replied.

  “This is different,” Moss said, “There could be something here.”

  “There’s nothing here!” she said, for indeed, it seemed like an empty room, aside from the crushed corpses.

  “Look,” he said, and pointed to the far wall. “There’s a door.”

  Though it was hard to tell in the dim light, he was right. The faint outline of a doorway sat upon the mural, thread-thin imperfections caught in shadow.

  Nephis steered Moss to another part of the wall and pressed her ear against it. Tap tap tap she went with her hand. Nephis frowned, “I can’t really tell. Take me to the next.” And gingerly, she tapped on either of the bloody walls. Nephis sighed, her body crumpling over Moss’ shoulder. “If Kugo were here, he could figure out how to do this. Alright, to the last.” And Moss took her to the far wall, where they had entered from. Tud tud tud “Oh that sounded different!” Nephis exclaimed. She tried it again. Tud tud tud. “This one sounds solid! I think all three of the others are hollow,” she said.

  “Three other rooms?” Moss asked.

  “I should think so,” she answered. “But, all that blood . . .” She looked at each wall, each still splattered with gore.

  “Nothing has happened,” Moss assured her and walked them both back to the mural. He leaned in close to study the door. Then, in a moment, he pressed his hand against it, trying to open it.

  WHUM, there was a great crash behind them, and Nephis felt the air pressed against her legs.

  Both of them stood straight as a needle and looked behind to see a wall had fallen over the exit. There was no way out. Then from beyond them was a clicking and a groaning, as if some terrible beast had awoken, and the walls began to close in. Nephis wanted to chastise Moss, to yell at him for getting them killed, but the walls rushed towards them like starving dogs, screaming as they scratched along the floor. Two bloody stains filled Nephis’ vision. She winced and shut her eyes.

  Nephis felt a terrible jolt through her and peeked to see Moss straining against both walls. An arm was pressed against one, and his knee against the other. He shook as the terrible creatures tried to crush him. But he persisted. The terrible sound of groaning wood echoed in the now tiny chamber, and Nephis was not sure from where. And the floor now seemed to pulse beneath them, like a terrible beating heart.

  “Moss!” she exclaimed, “Don’t let go!”

  “Okay,” he said. Nephis swore that his oaken muscles were bowing.

  She slid off his shoulder and onto a flat goblin body, tumbling to the ground. She could not yet stand properly. Nephis tried the hidden door again, throwing her whole weight against it, but it would not budge. She scampered along the floor, trying to pull each white brick from its place, desperate to find a lever or a button that would turn the trap off. But there was none. Nephis scoured every wall and inch, only to find smooth stone. They were truly and totally boxed in. And then Moss slipped, and the walls came a little nearer. Pressing upon them like the rising tide.

  Nephis slumped against his legs, “Moss, what are we going to do?” she bemoaned.

  “I don’t know,” he said offhandedly as he struggled against the crushing walls.

  Nephis held her face as she tore her mind for a single way out, but the box was solid, with a gap no greater than the breadth of a silver coin along the grouting. And she yearned for the dark again, for each inch that Moss slipped, the little lantern seemed to grow a little brighter. A great white light and the crack of crushing bones were all that awaited them. But worse than the light or walls was the whirring and the groaning and the grinding of the machine that pressed them in.

  Nephis prepared herself to pray for her own soul when the sounds of the machine filled her mind and heart. The terrible noise was all at once clear as a bell to her. Something pressed against the walls. Something great and old. She could not escape the chamber, but there was something she could do.

  Nephis crawled to the center of the crushing wall and fanned her fingers before the gap along the floor. With a shaking, chested voice, she chanted a spell.

  And from Heaven came the first flame. And from the flame came ovens and man. And from this man became like God, making and unmaking.

  A wave of steely fire flooded from her fingertips, slipping beneath the gaps of the wall. Nephis, with eyes attuned to the dark, was near blind from its light. She chanted the spell again and again, until the little chamber was hot as a furnace. It was as if they were in an old, steel pot – boiling from without. But she did not stop. Sweat beaded along her forehead like a crown, streaming down her face and stinging her eyes, pouring down her neck and arms. She was damp with it. But on and on she chanted.

  It was a terrible spell, never meant for such a purpose. And though dragon’s blood ran through her, the constant chanting and letting of her blood into the magic began to take its toll. She grew pale, white as a ghost, and it took all she had not to slur her words. The room had grown smaller, Moss had slipped once or twice, and now would not speak for fear of losing his center.

  Nephis desperately wanted to stop, to breathe for a moment. But the whole while she chanted, she was staring at a future, the blood smeared wall might soon be her if she faltered. And so on and on they went. Nephis’ chanting grew louder, the words burrowed in her mind, as the room grew smaller. Moss strained against the wall, as silent and sturdy as the old knotted root, but the ax lingered. The machine ground, it growled as it pressed upon them, a terrible and hungry beast. All three of them were grappled together, not one willing to relent.

  The walls squeezed closer, and Moss fell to one knee. Nephis’ vision began to fail her, but she did not stop. The world grew stained by the haze of tears and sweat, and she felt light in the head. She had stopped casting the spell a long time ago and now sat in the kernel of it; she had become a lamp of oil, fuel, that this fire might live. She mindlessly breathed in and out the words. The walls groaned and howled, snapping at Moss and her, desperate to squash them flat between its jaws. Then.

  There was a great crack! The sound of stone shattering, and the leftmost wall slumped and moved as Moss pressed upon it. The other wall still pressed them forward, until it sat where the center should have been, and only then did it retreat, satisfied with a job well done. Seeing they were safe, Nephis rested her lips and lay in the pool of her own sweat, feeling the world spin around her. The room was now terribly warm, but at least the blood-stained stone was cool.

  Nephis waited on the floor for Moss to ask if she was okay or to pick her up off the ground. But he did not even seem to notice her. Instead, he had grappled the great stone wall that lay before them and pressed forward as an ox to its field. He strained against it, but eventually he turned it along so that the full chamber and beyond was open to them. “Moss?” she called out as he ambled through the gap. “Hey, Moss, don’t leave me behind!”

  Nephis pulled herself up and leaned on the wall as she followed him. The chamber beyond was as before, but now the wall that had fallen had been brought up, and the wall that tried to crush them lay in the center. Its mechanisms are partially open to them. The wall had been the end of a great, white stone beam that was pushed by some device within. Moss continued mindlessly into a dark chamber that lay behind the fallen wall. Though he still swayed as he walked, he seemed to move forward with some and no purpose at once, as if he were pulled along by an unseen thread. She swept up her lantern and crept into the dark room. It was like being in a great clock, it was as deep as it was wide, chains and pulleys swarmed the air, and she could feel the faint ticking of the machine beneath her feet and hear its distant clicking. Peering down the pit, she could see great weights that hung and an arm swung continually, like a pendulum, back and forth. But the light would go no further.

  This strange hollow bay they had found themselves in had few walk ways but many falls. They stood on a sort of causeway before the night, and clung to the outer walls of the chamber. Within the trap’s core was little decoration or grandeur, aside from the scale of it. The steady pulse of its arms and cogs continued, and Nephis wondered what else this stone heart might have brought to life.

  She followed Moss as quickly as she could, hurrying as he disappeared around a black corner and into a thin hall. Nephis was in no mood for more small spaces, but Moss was not acting like himself. And she wondered if perhaps the strain of holding the walls back had broken him. Yet he did not seem broken, only different. He pressed through the small tunnel, passing by little halls that branched away, always keeping true to the path. That is, until he stopped. Nephis could not see past him, for he filled the entire chamber, and was about to call out to him again, when he reached out his hand and pushed open a door.

  They walked into a small but ornate chamber. White stone and silver ornaments shone in the light of her lantern. Along one wall was a door, barred from within. This was the secret door from the chamber before; Nephis was certain of it. But Moss did not seem to notice or care, and walked right away towards an altar that lay at the far end.

  Veiled in brilliant sapphire and crimson cloth, an ornate stone altar marked the end of the chamber. Sitting upon it were fine, pale candles waiting half burnt. But in the center was the object of adoration. A glass and gold box, tall like a tower, and topped by a dark star. It was precious and particular, framed by the most frail designs of embracing arms and feathers traced, like vines, up the treasure. But within the glass was a little golden pedestal, where was housed a shard of glass, or perhaps crystal. Moss went straight to it and took it up in his great arms, as if he held a precious crown or sovereign child. And he stood at attention. A perfect guardian.