Mystic by Jason Denzel

If she was going to commit to the possibility of becoming a Mystic, there would be no place for him.
    â€œI don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.
    The lantern bugs vanished, the clouds obscured the stars, and the rain began anew. Sim’s hand found hers, and she gripped it back, hard.

 

    FOUR
    THE LOST CHAMBER
    The morning came, but the storm continued. The pit became a soaking chamber of mud.
    Pomella and Sim spent hours trying to scramble and claw their way up the sheer wall with no success. They called for help, but nobody answered. Pomella’s food ran out, and Sim shared what little he had. They had plenty of water, at least. And if the soldiers survived the wolves, they weren’t likely to find Pomella and Sim here.
    Into the afternoon, dark thoughts swirled around a shivering and hungry Pomella. There was no way she could make it to Sentry in time now. The ranger waiting for her would probably assume she wasn’t coming and return to Kelt Apar alone.
    She stared at the opposite wall, thinking about last night and how Sim had tried to kiss her. Her stomach tumbled as she wondered what he thought of her and whether she’d made the right choice.
    Rainwater drained into a little hole in the opposite wall. She focused on it, and noticed it was the same one she’d investigated yesterday. Having little else to try, she went over and looked again. The little hole was no wider than her wrist. The faint, echoing sound of trickling water came from within.
    Echoing.
    Lying on her belly, Pomella crammed her arm in. Surprise blossomed on her face. She felt nothing but open space on the other side.
    â€œSim, give me your sword.”
    She heard him trudge through the mud and lean over to peer in.
    â€œIt’s a hole,” he said.
    Pomella rolled her eyes. “Just give it to me.”
    He obliged and handed the sword to her. Stretching her arm, Pomella stuck the sword into the hole to try to loosen or widen the opening. The blade struck something hard. Curious, she removed the sword and reached her arm in again. She couldn’t reach whatever she’d found.
    â€œBuzzards,” she said. She yanked her arm out and kicked the hole, trying to make it bigger. A muddy chunk came free, enlarging the opening. She squeezed down on her belly and crawled in.
    â€œI don’t know if that’s a wise idea,” said Sim.
    Pomella ignored him. Trying not to gag as mud filled her mouth, she crawled deeper until she was submerged to her hips. Her groping fingers found the hard object the sword had struck. She yanked, and it came loose.
    She emerged triumphant, holding up her prize like a Summeryarn fishing champion. She spit mud out of her mouth and wiped her filthy forehead with an even dirtier hand.
    Sim cracked a smile. “Now you look like something out of the Toweren .”
    She smiled back. It felt good, despite knowing that mud caked her face, hair, and everything to her hips. “Mud is good for the skin,” she chimed.
    Sim laughed, and helped her stand. Their fingers lingered together.
    They looked at the object she’d pulled out. It was a simple flat stone, about as wide as her shoulders. “Look at that,” Sim said, tracing the stone’s perfectly rectangular shape. “Somebody cut this.”
    â€œBut what is it?” Pomella asked.
    â€œIt sort of looks like a stepping-stone.”
    â€œBut what would a stepping-stone be doing down here?”
    Sim looked up. “Maybe there used to be more and they led up here?”
    â€œToo bad we can’t open the wall any wide—”
    She stopped. Shoving the stone into Sim’s arms, she faced the wall and shook her hands to loosen them.
    â€œI saw a passage in The Book of Songs about opening a door. I remember the song my grandmhathir wrote on that page. If I sing it, maybe I can…” She trailed off, realizing how silly she must sound.
    â€œI don’t know, Pomella. The