From Darkness Won (9 page)

The wall disappeared again, as did the floor. His knees buckled and his right hand waved for purchase. His left hand and knees broke his fall, thudding against dirt. The musty smell had changed to the bitter scent of soil. He groped for the wall, stretched as far as he could until his fingers found a soft surface. Strange.

He popped back to his haunches and pulled off his gloves. He touched the wall again, scratched the ground beneath him with a fingernail. Packed dirt. Had he left the castle?

He took a deep breath, mind sifting through his options. The idea of following this tunnel blindly left him hesitant, yet so did backtracking when he obviously had the layout wrong in his head.

He could use his bloodvoicing power to leave his body and try to see what was above him, though that would be risky. Not only would there be no one around to wake him if he couldn’t get back to his body, who would know to come looking for him here?

He should go back to Shung.

Failure vexed him. Sir Caleb would be cross no matter when he returned. Best have some manner of success to show for it. Prove he was right? That he could fight alongside his own men?

Stubborn man.

He smiled at the small voice in the back of his mind. Something Sparrow had said to him once. In fact, she had called him stubborn in one way or another almost daily. He had always thought it odd, coming from a boy. Though her odd words and ways were not so strange for a woman.

A crick in his ankles brought him back to the present. He would try the Veil. Since one should always sit or recline to enter the Veil, he twisted his sword out of the way and sat down. He shifted to lean against the dirt wall of the tunnel and stretched out his legs. A long breath filled his nostrils with the scent of soil. Straight up, then straight back down. No distractions. He focused and drifted up.

Through a black void. Memories from his time in Darkness chipped at his thoughts. He ignored the temptation to despair and held fast to his concentration.

Up. Straight up.

Light blinded him. He recoiled and found himself outdoors, floating a foot above a grassy lawn. A wide shadow darkened the grass a few feet away. He floated into the shadow, and the brightness of the sun dimmed, allowing him to take stock of his surroundings.

His mind’s eye abided in the shadow of Ryson Tower, to the left of the stronghold and inside the inner bailey. Indeed, the tunnel had taken him out of Granton Castle. If he followed it, he would likely exit the stronghold altogether at some point.

He floated up to look over the curtain wall. Smoke billowed in the western fields and beyond. The invaders had set fire to the vineyards and several cottages. Both baileys were deserted but for some injured men and those caring for them. A couple dozen bowmen patrolled the curtain walls. Beyond, a fierce battle raged. Achan floated toward it.

Duchess Amal.

Achan let himself drift, momentarily shocked by circumstance. He had been expecting to hear from Shung or Sir Caleb, not Duchess Amal.

He opened his mind to her at once.
My lady?

Your Highness. You have us all affright. Are you safe?

I am. I
…
got turned around in the passageway.
A heaviness grew in Achan’s mind. Never before had any lie—let alone such a small one—come with such instant remorse.

Going off alone is unwise, Your Highness.

Achan closed his mind, ashamed to treat the duchess so rudely, but unwilling to give up his attempt to help his men. If he could drift closer to the battle, perhaps he could see their leader. Why had he not tried this before?

But when he looked for the distant battle, he only saw sky. He whirled around. Nothing but sky in every direction. He looked down. All of Carmine stretched out like a map below, Granton Castle a speck under his transparent boots.

How had he gotten so far up?

The shadows of clouds dotted the land below in puffy shadows. How small the battle seemed from such a height. How small everything seemed.

Arman, you are great indeed to have created all this. To love each of us so completely when there are so many of us and we are so very small.

Achan stared at the awesome sight for a long time before jolting back to reality. He tried to float down but found he had no control of himself. He concentrated hard. Willed himself back to his body.

Nothing happened.

A gust of cold blew over him, raising gooseflesh on his arms. Sir Gavin had warned him not to leave his body. Why had he been so cocksure as to ignore the Great Whitewolf?

Stubborn man. What if he couldn’t get back?

He called to Duchess Amal.
My lady, I am lost.

Why did you close your mind? Are you in danger?

No, my lady. I mean, I’m not certain. I entered the Veil. I hoped to see the enemy, but I drifted up and can’t get back.

Where is your body? Your physical body?

In an underground tunnel beneath the inner bailey, just outside the great hall.

One moment.

Achan’s gaze locked onto a flock of birds below him. How strange to see flying birds from above.

I have found your body, Your Highness. You say you drifted straight up?

Very far up. I cannot control my movement.

I am coming.

Carmine seemed even smaller below him now. He saw movement. Another bird? The mist of a cloud?

Then he saw her. Duchess Amal, soaring toward him like an eagle diving for a fish. Her arms at her sides, her body straight, her hair and dress smooth from her apparent speed. Her eyes fixed on his. She stopped before him and her hair and gown billowed out around her, floating on air.

She held out her hand.
Shall we, Your Highness?

Breathless, he took her hand in his.
Thank you.

She tucked his hand around her arm and pulled them down. Slowly. Down. Through a misty cloud.

Down. Toward Granton Castle. The stronghold grew beneath their feet.

Achan could see the battle to the west. They drifted back toward the inner bailey, to the left of the great hall. The ground came closer. Nearer. His feet were almost there.

They passed through the dirt. The odd sensation choked Achan. All light vanished. Down. Down.

Darkness.

How far? Did Duchess Amal know exactly where his body lay? What if they missed it and traveled all the way to the Lowerworld?

He concentrated on his body, hoping that might help the duchess somehow.
Arman, help me find it.

Achan’s soul found its home in the wheeze of a sharp breath. He opened his eyes to blackness. The musty dirt and cool air were familiar, safe, reassuring.

This is one of the secret entrances to the castle,
Duchess Amal said to his mind.
There are two ways out. Back the way you came. Or, if you continue on, you will come to a ladder that leads to a door in the ground. You are closer to the castle than to the trapdoor. Shall I inform Sir Caleb which direction you will go so he can come meet you?

Achan heaved in another long, musty breath.
I will continue to the trapdoor, my lady. I must
…
complete my task.

Fare you well, then.

Thank you, my lady.

Achan heaved himself up onto shaky legs, berating himself for such stupidity. The experience had drained his strength. At least he knew where he was headed now. He also knew there was no need to go there. The battle was far away, and Sir Caleb would likely be waiting, armed with a sour expression and hefty lecture.

Achan found his gloves on the floor and tucked them through his belt, checking again to make sure Ôwr was still there. He reached out until he found the dirt wall, then crept forward, keeping his right hand on the wall and his left hand stretched out to the blackness before him. Except for the occasional wooden post, the wall remained smooth dirt.

A needle pricked Achan’s temple.
Sir Caleb Agros.

Achan clenched every muscle. He should answer. He’d been foolish to sneak away. Even more foolish to leave his body. Sir Caleb’s pointing that out would not change anything. It would only make Achan feel more inane. Perhaps he deserved such humiliation.

Sir Caleb did not enjoy losing control of a situation. Knowing Achan was safe would relieve his fears for a moment but—

Achan’s hand struck something solid. He ran his fingers along wide, smooth wood. They traced a cobwebbed corner, slid down a few inches and met another horizontal bar that went back the other way. A square.

He patted the wood with both hands. Wooden rungs, thick with cobwebs, ran up the wall. His stomach danced. He had found the ladder.

He climbed slowly, pausing after each grip to raise one hand above his head and feel for the ceiling.

Sir Caleb Agros.

Achan would deal with Sir Caleb once he was outside and standing on solid ground.
I am well, Sir Caleb, I’ll speak with you in a moment.
He sent the thought without opening his mind to a reply. He’d never done that particular feat, not to his knowledge anyway.

He rather liked it.

After a dozen rungs, his fingers broke through a crusty layer of cobwebs and touched spindly roots. He traced every inch of the ceiling until his fingers hit an obstruction. Iron. A
ringlatch
of some sort. He pulled it toward him. It barely moved, then suddenly snapped back.

The ceiling shifted, raining dirt and dry bits of grass over his armor. A sliver of white light increased his already-pounding heartbeat. When his eyes had adjusted, he pushed the door open and climbed up another rung.

He peeked out onto grassy ground. Thick vines hung overhead, heavy with plump red grapes. He let the door fall back against the grass. The air was cool in his lungs, but thick with smoke.

Achan wiggled and squeezed to get his armor through the narrow opening, thankful no one was around to witness his
u
ngraceful movements. As he stood, his helm tangled in the vines overhead. His location was a vineyard, completely outside the stronghold. The outer curtain wall loomed a few yards ahead. He shut the trapdoor and could barely see the rectangular outline in the thick grass.

“This way!” a nasally voice said.

Achan straightened, ready to meet Sir Caleb, Shung, and whatever soldiers they’d brought along. But the voice had come from the opposite direction of the curtain wall.

A prickle scuttled up his spine. He crouched, hand on Ôwr’s hilt, and listened to the crunch of leaves, the rustling of vines, every sound muffled through his steel helm.

A man screamed. “She bit me!”

“Stop her! She’s getting away!”

Footsteps rained over the ground. Achan peered under the vines. A woman ran his way. He could see her from the waist down only, her red skirt a flutter of fabric as she ran. Mere feet from his location, she tripped and fell, skidding over the leafy grass and into the stand of a trellis. Her blonde curls tangled over her face.

Achan ran to her and grabbed her arms, but she screamed and crawled away. “Leave me alone!”