Stones of light threadli.., p.16
Stones of Light (Threadlight Book 2), page 16
"There are three of us," Willow said.
"Three!" he laughed. "Three companions explore the caves far beneath the surface. I'm afraid I know the ending of such a story. Three is a cursed number, I’m certain of it. Better if there were only two of you. It is a safer number. Please, please. Do come in."
He shuffled away and a little creature darted out from beneath the table. It looked like...Chrys let go of threadlight and the little creature vanished. He let threadlight flow through his veins, and the little creature reappeared.
"Stones. Is that—"
"He's called Chitt," the old man said. "He's quite harmless."
Chrys stared at the creature, curious about its connection to the corespawn he'd fought in the wasteland pit. "You're sure it's not dangerous?"
"Quite certain. His is one of the few friendly breeds. Though—don’t tell him—not one of the most intelligent either."
As they followed, the little corespawn scuttled up the old man's leg and came to rest atop his shoulder. Chrys turned his gaze to survey the rest of the cavern. Light filled every corner of the sprawling space from dozens of photospores that grew in perfectly lined bunches along the outer edges. A dozen different tunnels led in every direction, and, on the far side, a massive pool of golden water emanated a faint glow of its own. A small waterfall fed the pool, leaving an ever-present glimmer as the water rippled at the surface.
There were no other corespawn creatures.
Out of the corner of his eye, Chrys could see Willow squeezing the obsidian blade in her hand. Everything about this felt wrong. The place. The company. The glowing fish that Chrys was certain was watching him. It almost felt like a dream, like he'd been drugged by the wastelanders and now slept while his mind delved into a deep psychosis. He looked down at his hand, and hoped that were true, but the pain he felt was real. Which made it all the stranger.
Down one of the corridors, a collection of instruments and gadgets was strewn about haphazardly across the floor and against the wall. Chrys noted the room, assuming that it was where he'd find any useful supplies for their exit.
"If I had known you were coming, I would have taken a bath," the man said. "My sister told me to jump in when she left, but...ha! I must sound mad! Of course, none of this would make sense to you. I'm so sorry! It's been so long."
"No apology needed," Willow said with a soft voice. "We are grateful for your hospitality. Though we are certainly curious what it is you are doing down here."
"Ah! Another collector of stories! And this is the grandest of them all." He paused, scratching at his overgrown beard as he pondered his response. "I suppose the summary is that we often do silly things for family."
Willow raised a brow. "Your family sent you here?"
"No, no, no. We discovered it, together," he said. "You know, I have often dreamed of sharing our story—the whole story. But my sister thinks it would be unwise."
"Your sister?" Chrys asked. "Is she here?"
The blind man turned to face Chrys and, though his eyes were closed, he seemed to take in Chrys' expression. "She should return any moment. However, I think it would be better if you were gone before she returns."
Interesting. The tone assumed that Lylax was dangerous, but Chrys had the sneaking suspicion that the old man was more than he appeared. Either way, if Lylax would return, they needed to get answers quickly, and get out even more so. "We know your sister and your brother, Relek. They slaughtered our friends."
The air in the cavern chilled as footsteps echoed down one of the tunnels. The old man froze in his seat, his hands resting on the table. With his eyes shut, it was as though he had become a statue. But the little corespawn on his shoulder reached its neck out toward the sound and made a chirping noise.
The old man spoke in a hushed tone. "Do they know you are here?"
Chrys, Willow, and Roshaw all rose to their feet.
"Come, quick," the old man said. "You must hide!"
Chapter 23
Luther held his wife quietly in a farmhouse outside of Alchea. Their life would never be the same, but sometimes you have to make changes to make room for what’s important.
“Try to get some sleep,” he whispered to Emory, pressing his lips against her forehead.
She nodded but said nothing. She hadn’t said much since they’d left, but he knew she would come around. It was the right decision, especially with the inevitable return of the corespawn. Even still, he should have warned her beforehand—he knew that—but he knew her deeply held beliefs would have clouded her judgment.
He rose from the bed and stepped to the door, pushing it open as quietly as he could. It made the slightest creak as he closed it behind him.
What he needed more than anything was a drink. It had been such a long day, and emotional, and horribly stressful. If not for threadlight to send a bit of liquid comfort throughout his body, he’s not sure he could have made it through.
Fortunately, when he rounded the corner to the main room, Laz stood with a mug of ale in each hand, waiting for him. “Is time for drink.”
“Please tell me that’s not all there is,” Luther said as he accepted the mug.
“Is whole barn full!” Laz said with a toothy grin. “Cousin is wild man.”
Luther chugged half of the mug in one go, cringing at the taste. It was foul—much worse than city ale—but he knew he wouldn’t sleep that night if he didn’t drink more. It had been that way ever since the priests had taken his son. If he didn’t drink, his mind would spin for hours while he lay awake, or he’d wake up to nightmares and fits of stress.
“You good?” Laz asked.
“I’ll be okay.” Luther sipped again on the ale. “It’ll take some time. Our whole life was in Alchea. Family. Friends. But what the hell was I supposed to do?”
“You did right thing.”
“I hope so,” Luther said. “I think so. Stones, but I wish Chrys were here. He always knew what to do.”
“Chrys would say, ‘To be boss, must know how to count. Now, you have right count!’” Laz laughed at his own terrible impression.
The right count. It was a strangely wise way to look at it, coming from Laz especially, but he was right. Luther had been feeling incomplete, like an arch without its cornerstone, and alcohol only filled the gap with mud.
“Thanks, Laz. For everything.”
“Is no problem,” the thick red-headed man said as he sipped his own mug.
“I’m not drunk yet,” Luther said. “So, I hope you believe me. But I’m really going to miss you, Laz. These past months have been hell, and you’ve been there beside me every damn day, sipping your nasty milk stout and helping me keep my demons at bay. You’re a damn good friend, and I owe you more than I could ever repay.”
He paused, waiting for Laz to make a joke, but, instead, the big man wrapped him in a bear hug, his massive hands squeezing against Luther’s back. Laz was the only man Luther knew whose heart perfectly matched their frame. He found himself feeling unexpectedly emotional as he embraced his friend for what could be the last time.
When they pulled away, Laz had tears swelling in his eyes. “Don’t tell Reina I cry. She would make more fun of me.”
“Your secret is safe,” Luther said.
Laz lifted a bag off the floor and tossed it over his shoulder. “Time for me to go back now. Take care of yourself, you hole.”
No matter how many times he used the insult, Laz had still yet to explain what it meant. But, somehow, that felt perfectly fitting for the man.
“I still think you should stay. It might not be safe for you back there.”
“Is fine,” Laz said, brushing it off. “Reina will lie for me.”
Luther nodded. “Okay, then this is it. Lazarus Barlow, it has been a pleasure being your teammate, your friend, and the one who can always outdrink you.”
“I share secret,” Laz said, smiling his doping grin. “I always can outdrink. I let you win. Ha! Goodbye, friend.”
With that, the big man pushed open the door and stepped out into the starry night. Luther turned back to the hallway and stepped toward the room. Laz’s cousin’s farmhouse had an extra room that they weren’t using, which was all they could ask for. With everything going on, Luther wanted his kids in his room with him at night. It felt safer, even though it was unlikely anyone would find them there. Still, old habits die hard, and paranoia was a healthy habit for a soldier.
When he entered the room, Luther stepped over to the bed and smiled. Two children lay quietly asleep beside Emory, unaware of the growing dangers in the world. He wished he could be like them.
He looked to the foot of the bed where a small white bassinet lay. Inside, slept a small child.
His third.
Luther reached down and rubbed the little boy’s cheek, filled with an overwhelming joy that he was once again theirs, sad only that the boy would forever be blind. Every other piece of his soul felt like a missing gear had been replaced, and finally his life would run again.
To hell with the Order of Alchaeus.
No one would take his son from him ever again.
Chapter 24
The old man in the caves beneath Kai'Melend led Chrys, Willow, and Roshaw to a curved, dead-end tunnel. His little corespawn, Chitt, skittered toward the far end and disappeared into the darkness where the light from the golden pool faded away.
Roshaw entered first, scrambling to follow the little creature. They passed crates filled with cloth, mounds of colorful gemstones, and a variety of carefully organized tools and items. In the far corner of the tunnel, a collection of nearly one hundred man-sized alabaster statues stood in a carefully aligned collection.
As they approached and their eyes adjusted, Chrys could see Chitt popping in and out from beyond the shadows. The statues, like stone sentinels, were carved with precision, each one depicting a different breed of terrifying beast. Some stood on two legs, others prowled on four. Spikes protruded from the shoulders of some, while others had horns or barbed tails. But each creature bore two clear quartz gems fastened to the place where the eyes would be.
They moved among them, brushing up against cold stone, hardly able to see their own movements. Willow grabbed Chrys' good hand, and a dark feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. There was something off about the statues. Something darker than the lack of light.
They settled between them and let go of the threadlight in their veins. The Sapphire radiance faded away, and their bodies succumbed to the shadows.
Muffled voices echoed from beyond the bend. Though he could not hear the words, the tone he would never forget.
Relek.
They stood in silence, living statues among the dead, hoping that the old man would keep their secret.
"Agh," Chrys groaned. He shook his hand and brought it upright near his chest. Without threadlight in his veins, he couldn't be certain, but he had a feeling the little corespawn had licked the dried blood on his missing fingers. Chrys looked down the tunnel, and flickering shadows grew along the wall.
Relek's voice resounded along the stone. "I heard about your stonemasonry. Lylax says your collection of corespawn is quite impressive."
"It's not exactly a collection," the old man replied. "More of a taxonomy really."
With a look that said, "I don't care", Relek continued his approach. His eyes were alive with color, a turbulent swirl of spectral light. He leaned in and touched the face of one of the statues, a large creature the size of a bear, with two massive fangs that cut out to its jawline. "I must admit, I don’t much like seeing these creatures without threadlight."
Relek's eyes moved over the collection of statues. Chrys, Willow, and Roshaw hid themselves behind the alabaster figures, breathing through their mouths only when they could no longer hold their breath. Relek moved to investigate further, but then the old man crouched and made a clicking noise with his tongue. Skittering feet, starting from within the collection of statues, scratched against the floor until the old man rose back to his feet, cradling an empty hand. "Like I said, brother. It was only Chitt. Don't be so paranoid. You are immortal after all."
"It's not the ones who escaped that I am afraid of. There are at least two Creators west of the mountains. A woman—powerful, but limited in her knowledge—and a child."
"You are frightened of a child?"
"Don't be a fool. It is simply that I refuse to be trapped again."
"I know a little about being trapped," the old man said, turning from the tunnel and stepping toward the larger cavern.
Relek followed. "But you could explore the endless caverns of the core. The wastelanders die if they do not drink the elixir regularly. What matters is that I will take whatever measure are necessary to never be trapped again. This time, there can be no mercy." His voice trailed off as they rounded the bend into the cavern.
Chrys, Willow, and Roshaw remained still for what seemed an eternity, not daring to assume that Relek had left.
Without threadlight in his veins, Chrys began to feel the effects of his fighting. His shoulder throbbed, and his hand pulsed with every beat of his heart. He closed his eyes, wincing at the pain. When he opened them, the quartz eyes of the corespawn statues all seemed to turn and look at him. The bruised flesh over his ribs tightened and his breathing increased.
When Willow squeezed his good hand, he startled, nearly knocking over a statue in front of him.
"Your hand is shaking," she whispered. "Are you okay?"
"No." His voice came out strained.
"You need to lie down. You've lost a lot of blood."
"I'll be fine."
Willow let go of his hand and he saw her make her way out of the collection of statues. The closer she drew to the bend, the more her silhouette grew in the rippling gold light. She stood at the edge of the tunnel, pressed up against the stone wall, and waited. Chrys found himself praying in the back of his mind, hoping that Relek would not find her. Failing to fight off his blurring vision, he grabbed hold of a large spike protruding from the back of a statue nearby, and its feet began to wobble against the stone floor.
Roshaw reached over and steadied the statue before it made more noise. "Grab my arm," he whispered.
Chrys took hold of Roshaw's upper arm with his good hand and tried to breathe, but the air amongst the statues was stale and cold, with hints of chalky dust that swirled in his lungs. He stifled a cough, but the pressure in his chest was worse. The little light remaining in the far recess of the tunnel warped into shifting shadows and blobs of taunting darkness that coalesced and split in nightmarish waves. Time passed, and Chrys felt his entire world dissolving into a chaotic dream, filled with pain and confusion. And just as he closed his eyes to flee from it all, his legs collapsed beneath him.
Willow felt a wave of relief as the wastelander god, Relek, cupped the back of his brother's head, bringing their foreheads together, then left. As his footsteps faded away down a far tunnel, the blind old man waited patiently at his table, running his hand along the back of his invisible pet. They continued for another minute, Willow spying and the old man waiting, until finally he rose from his seat.
"Psss," Willow said. "Are we safe?"
The old man nodded. "They will not return for quite some time now."
Just as Willow felt a sense of relief, the sound of shattering stone exploded through the cavern. She whipped her head around and raced through the small tunnel to find the dim outline of Roshaw holding Chrys. Beneath them, one of the corespawn figures was strewn across the floor in a hundred broken pieces.
"Chrys!" Willow rushed to her son. She hadn't come this far to let him die in a cave. As much as she wanted him alive for her own self, she knew more importantly that his wife and son needed him. No matter the cost, she would reunite them. Her grandson deserved to know how good a man his father was.
She helped Roshaw lift him out of the assembly of corespawn statues, feeling at Chrys' forehead and panicking at the burning temperature. The old man was close now, and she turned to address him. "Please, my son is dying. Do you have any herbs or medicines? A bed at the least where we can lay him until his fever breaks?"
"I—" The wrinkles of his forehead creased out from his blindfold and his lips puckered. "He will die, you say?"
"He’s lost a lot of blood," she said.
"He collapsed out here," Roshaw added. "Looked really dizzy before he did."
The old man frowned and nodded. "Life is more valuable than secrets," he said to himself. "Come, come. There is a way. Your son will live."
Willow pushed against her corethread, offsetting Chrys' weight, and carried him chest-to-chest with his arms wrapped around her neck. Despite his size, the position reminded her of the many years she’d spend carrying him this same way. Her little boy. She'd been so lonely during those years, refusing to grow too close to anyone lest they discover her secret. The intimacy she craved, she could not have, because the tattoo on her back would give too much away. And as much as she wanted her new life, she would not have it at the expense of revealing the Zeda people. So, instead, she'd only had Chrys. Her son. Her little flower. The firm root in the storm.
She'd needed him, and now he needed her.
They entered into the large cavern space, and the old man walked carefully toward the sprawling golden pool. Chiseled steps led up to the surface of the water where small ripples refracted the gold light emanating from within.
"If you want him to heal," the old man said, "place him in the pool."
Willow looked into the shimmering pool. Stalactites high overhead reflected from its surface and a strange energy seemed to draw her toward it, beckoning her to enter. For a moment, she lost herself in the beauty of the water, transfixed by each singular ripple as it extended from edge to edge. But she shook the feeling away and focused instead on Chrys.
