“True,” replied Bria. “Word travels on eagle’s wings, does it not? It was just the day before yesterday that the lords returned from battle. Now look. Some of them have traveled all night to get here. I do not blame them, though. I would do the same.” She said these last words with such hopelessness, Esme turned to her and took her by the shoulders.
“Bria, we are friends, you and I. Are we not?”
“Yes, of course. Why-”
“Then I must tell you something-as a friend would.” Esme searched her companion’s face and looked her in the eyes. Bria was startled by the directness with which this dark-haired beauty addressed her.
“Speak freely,” said Bria.
“We are women now, Bria. Royal women. There is no more room for girlish indulgences. You have eyes; you have seen. We are to endure siege here not many days hence. We must put away all thoughts of ourselves and begin thinking of others first. It must be done. We must be strong for the men who fight, for the people who will look to us for hope and encouragement, and only lastly for ourselves. For the sake of the kingdom this must be. Our courage must be a flame which can kindle the hearts of those around us. That is a woman’s duty in time of war.”
Bria’s green eyes fell, ashamed. “Your words pierce me, fair friend. What you say is true. I have walked in proud misery these past weeks-ever since Quentin left. I have been selfish. I have shown myself to be afflicted by the fate that took our loved ones from us-though others had better claim to such recourse than I.” She raised her eyes once more to her friend’s.
“But no more, Esme, no more. You have spoken the truth as a friend ought. I will put away girlish airs and simpering. I will be strong that those around me will take strength, too, and not be at pains to cheer myself when there is more important work to do. I will be strong, Esme.”
Bria threw her arms around Esme’s neck, and the two young women embraced each other for a long moment. “Come, let us do what we can to see to the accommodations for the villagers seeking refuge within these walls,” suggested Bria.
They turned away from the barbican and began walking along the southern battlements. “I feel such a fool, Esme. Forgive me.”
“No, do not chide yourself. I did not speak so to reproach you, for you are far more tenderhearted than I.”
“If that were so, I should have been comforting you, Esme. You are far from home, and no news has come of the fighting there or of your family. You must be very worried.”
“I am, though it was part of my father’s plan to send me here and thus remove me from the threat of war. I honor him by holding to the course he set for me, though I am sure he scarcely guessed that mighty Askelon would fall under siege.”
Esme threw a guarded glance to Bria, then blushed and averted her eyes.
“What? Speak if you will. What is it?”
“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Esme slowly, “I have not thought of my own family as much as I have another.”
“Toli?”
“Yes, Toli.” She regarded Bria carefully. “Why? Is something wrong with that?”
“Oh, no! Far from it, Esme. It surprises me a little, that is all. Toli is always so quiet, so invisible. I scarcely notice when he is around. But then, he and Quentin are inseparable, and since I only have eyes for Quentin it should not surprise me that someone else sees in Toli something I do not.”
“Believe me, it was the furthest thing from my mind to lose my heart so easily. I was on an errand for my father, but in those days upon the trail and-Bria, you should have seen the way he protected me when we met the Ningaal. And afterward, when I saw him alive again, my heart went out to him. He likes me, too, I know.”
Their talk had brought them to the great curtain which divided the inner ward from the outer. They stood looking down into the outer ward at the mass of people moving about, constructing tents and temporary lodgings for themselves. Cattle, pig and chickens had been brought along to provide food should the siege prove a long one. The warder and his men were scurrying around directing the flow of humanity here and there, trying to keep the pathways open for soldiers who would be moving through.
“Can the castle possibly hold all these people?” asked Esme. “I have never seen anything like it, though it is said that in the Winter’s War 100,000 were besieged here all winter. But that was long, long ago.”
The lowing of cows and the squeals of pigs, intermingled with the general shouting and crying of peasants and villagers, created an overwhelming din. The princesses looked down upon the frightened populace and forgot their own cares, for in the pathetic confusion of the refugees they heard small children crying.
“Are you sure you want to go down there?” asked Esme. “I am sure. There may be but little we can do for them. But that little shall be done.”
With that, they entered the southern tower and began descending the spiraled ranks of stairs into the noisy chaos of the outer ward.
FORTY-FIVE
THE DARKNESS was unlike anything Quentin had ever experienced. Far darker than the blackest night, it was a palpable thing, primitive and insistent. Almost as if alive, it crouched around each turn and on every side, waiting to smother all intruders in its velvet embrace. The torches they carried seemed fragile and ridiculous things, mere toys against an unrelenting foe of stupid, savage cunning.
Still, the sputtering pitch torches served somehow to keep this awesome darkness at bay, though they always seemed to be on the verge of guttering out completely and plunging their bearers into a void as black as death. Each one carried a torch except Inchkeith, who labored doggedly along, weighed down with his delving tools, as he called them. Durwin went ahead, relying on his sparse knowledge of Ariga mining lore to serve as a guide. Quentin, arm in sling, but toting a large pack nonetheless, followed Durwin. Inchkeith hobbled along behind Quentin, and Toli brought up the rear, grinding his teeth with every step into the mountain’s black heart.
After walking for what seemed days on end into the darkness along a low-roofed, wide corridor of solid stone, Durwin halted the party saying, “No doubt you young men could go on walking this way until Heoth himself stopped you in your tracks. But I think it is time for a rest. A bite to eat would not be unwelcome, either.”
“Take no thought for me, hermit Do not stop on my account,” said Inchkeith, But Quentin noticed he loosened his pack all the same.
‘It is not for anyone but myself that I sit down, sir. My feet tell me it is time to rest a bit, and my stomach agrees.”
They ate, and Quentin realized how hungry he was after all. As he munched, he wondered whether it was day or night outside. But in his mind he pictured it as exactly the way he had seen it last. Durwin had been right-it was a useful thing to carry a little sunlight with one into this dark hole.
Toli ate little and said less. He had grown sullen and had withdrawn into himself, becoming, if it were possible, even more quiet than usual. Quentin pretended to take no notice of his friend’s behavior, for that would have only served to make it more painful to him. He knew precisely what was bothering Toli: the Jher did not like the smothering confines of the mine. It was a supreme act of bravery for Toli, born of a people who roam the earth at will, following the wild creatures, to have even entered the hateful place, which seemed to him worse than a grave.
And there was something of the same uneasiness which bothered Quentin, too. But in him it took the form of puzzlement. The Ariga, whose every work was a visible, tangible song, had constructed a most unappealing mine shaft. Not that Quentin had expected the brightly-colored, sweeping galleries of Dekra to be reproduced below, but he did anticipate something of their remarkable flair, which usually showed in even the most mundane articles of their everyday life, to be present here. All he could see was a black tunnel of stone which glistened in patches where water seeped down its sides.