materials. But I had no idea. You … you built that?”
Old Soro snorted, shaving curls off a beam of wood with a broad, sharp knife.
“You helped me climb the tower of Tammos Raak at Mawrnash. Now you’re all the way out here. Why? Why follow me so far?”
Soro put the plank down, and a sigh puffed through his wild, bristling beard. But his face—it seemed a wooden mask of intricate engravings through which he stared with otherworldly eyes—gave no clue to his thoughts. He slid a hand beneath the bristled treebark vest and withdrew a small loaf of hard-crusted bread as if pulling out his own heart. He broke it into three pieces and offered one.
Cal-raven took it and began to gnaw at it. It was tough but full of seeds and flecks of dried lamb. The piece was difficult to swallow, but he hadn’t eaten more than a couple of flavorless roots in the last few days.
He choked and muttered, “So you left the woman at Mawrnash. Just as I did.” Shame burned his face. He had promised to go back and rescue her, and now he could not even remember her name. “You left her there in order to follow me?”
The old man offered him a flask. Cal-raven sniffed the spout, then swallowed the sour wine.
“Was I so lost and desperate that you thought I was in more trouble than she? You should have stuck with her.” He paused. “Gretyl. You should have stuck with Gretyl.”
Soro silently regarded the kite resting on the grass.
“Poor Gretyl,” Cal-raven sighed. “Yet another promise I failed to keep.”
Soro glowered at him, then shook his head.
“What are you doing here, Soro? You’re not from Abascar. I’ve no idea if you’re a merchant or a farmer, a Bel Amican or a Jentan mage. Did you ride from …” He heard the splash of footsteps across rain-soaked soil. “Someone’s coming.”
Soro glanced at Cal-raven, amused.
A skeletal man wearing a rough beard, ragged trousers, and an array of scars and bruises staggered into view. He cast down a pile of branches, green boughs like those that Soro had whittled into straight, precise planes.
“You think he came here for you?” The newcomer’s voice was tarnished and thin as a rusty razor. He sat down and folded his arms across his jutting ribs. He was a bald man, and his wide round eyes regarded Cal-raven fiercely. “This marvelous fellow found me, helped me get my strength back, and carried me up out of the ruins, and along the way we noticed you. He was ready to move on. He asked me if you looked like you needed help.”
Cal-raven’s eyes narrowed. “You asked Old Soro to take me out of there?”
The man lowered his eyes. “The least I could do, my prince. My
king
. I failed your father. I thought the pillars of the Underkeep were strong.”
“Pillarman.” Cal-raven ran his hand across his chin. “Nat-ryan. I didn’t recognize you without your tools.” Nat-ryan, the “pillarman,” the mad architect of the Underkeep. His task had been to routinely examine the columns that kept the Underkeep secure—a dangerous affair involving scaffolding, wires, and ropeladders. “You’ve been hiding down there all this time?”
“I thought … I thought the pillars would hold.” Nat-ryan sucked his lower lip between his teeth and bit down as if he’d chew it right off.
“How did you fight off the Deathweed?”
“I kept a fire burning. Deathweed—is that what they call it? It doesn’t like fire.” He was staring into memories Cal-raven did not want to understand. “But it waited for me. It wanted me to sleep. And it should have taken me. For how I failed.”
“Failed? You did what you could to build something that would last. It wasn’t your fault, Nat-ryan. The fire. The Deathweed. Let it go.”
Soro laughed again, shaking his head.
Cal-raven glared at him. “I should heed my own advice. Is that what you think?”
Soro took a long strand of reedstring and began binding two of the wooden beams crosswise and then wove the reedstring through a
Old Soro snorted, shaving curls off a beam of wood with a broad, sharp knife.
“You helped me climb the tower of Tammos Raak at Mawrnash. Now you’re all the way out here. Why? Why follow me so far?”
Soro put the plank down, and a sigh puffed through his wild, bristling beard. But his face—it seemed a wooden mask of intricate engravings through which he stared with otherworldly eyes—gave no clue to his thoughts. He slid a hand beneath the bristled treebark vest and withdrew a small loaf of hard-crusted bread as if pulling out his own heart. He broke it into three pieces and offered one.
Cal-raven took it and began to gnaw at it. It was tough but full of seeds and flecks of dried lamb. The piece was difficult to swallow, but he hadn’t eaten more than a couple of flavorless roots in the last few days.
He choked and muttered, “So you left the woman at Mawrnash. Just as I did.” Shame burned his face. He had promised to go back and rescue her, and now he could not even remember her name. “You left her there in order to follow me?”
The old man offered him a flask. Cal-raven sniffed the spout, then swallowed the sour wine.
“Was I so lost and desperate that you thought I was in more trouble than she? You should have stuck with her.” He paused. “Gretyl. You should have stuck with Gretyl.”
Soro silently regarded the kite resting on the grass.
“Poor Gretyl,” Cal-raven sighed. “Yet another promise I failed to keep.”
Soro glowered at him, then shook his head.
“What are you doing here, Soro? You’re not from Abascar. I’ve no idea if you’re a merchant or a farmer, a Bel Amican or a Jentan mage. Did you ride from …” He heard the splash of footsteps across rain-soaked soil. “Someone’s coming.”
Soro glanced at Cal-raven, amused.
A skeletal man wearing a rough beard, ragged trousers, and an array of scars and bruises staggered into view. He cast down a pile of branches, green boughs like those that Soro had whittled into straight, precise planes.
“You think he came here for you?” The newcomer’s voice was tarnished and thin as a rusty razor. He sat down and folded his arms across his jutting ribs. He was a bald man, and his wide round eyes regarded Cal-raven fiercely. “This marvelous fellow found me, helped me get my strength back, and carried me up out of the ruins, and along the way we noticed you. He was ready to move on. He asked me if you looked like you needed help.”
Cal-raven’s eyes narrowed. “You asked Old Soro to take me out of there?”
The man lowered his eyes. “The least I could do, my prince. My
king
. I failed your father. I thought the pillars of the Underkeep were strong.”
“Pillarman.” Cal-raven ran his hand across his chin. “Nat-ryan. I didn’t recognize you without your tools.” Nat-ryan, the “pillarman,” the mad architect of the Underkeep. His task had been to routinely examine the columns that kept the Underkeep secure—a dangerous affair involving scaffolding, wires, and ropeladders. “You’ve been hiding down there all this time?”
“I thought … I thought the pillars would hold.” Nat-ryan sucked his lower lip between his teeth and bit down as if he’d chew it right off.
“How did you fight off the Deathweed?”
“I kept a fire burning. Deathweed—is that what they call it? It doesn’t like fire.” He was staring into memories Cal-raven did not want to understand. “But it waited for me. It wanted me to sleep. And it should have taken me. For how I failed.”
“Failed? You did what you could to build something that would last. It wasn’t your fault, Nat-ryan. The fire. The Deathweed. Let it go.”
Soro laughed again, shaking his head.
Cal-raven glared at him. “I should heed my own advice. Is that what you think?”
Soro took a long strand of reedstring and began binding two of the wooden beams crosswise and then wove the reedstring through a
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