The Spell of Rosette (33 page)

She couldn’t see at all. The darkness penetrated everything, and so did the cold. She felt a pressure on her shoulder, and looked down. A hand latched onto the base of her neck, surprisingly warm through her ice-encrusted coat. She was surprised at how good the contact felt.

‘I won’t let you stumble,’ Hotha said.

The Lupin kept her before him, guiding her from behind. The delicacy of his touch held her steady on the track. His fingers rested gently, warm and strong. It was not what she’d imagined—she knew they could tear flesh if they chose.

The Lupins had no trouble in the dark, their eyes like a cat’s. Rosette, on the other hand, was as though blind and totally dependent on her guide. The ground descended under her feet and the air grew still, a relief from the constant wind above. Before long she felt a warm draught touch her face.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Down.’

She was guided forward, descending along well-used rock steps. She memorised every twist and turn until they had made so many she gave up—there was no way for her to keep track. Her knees went weak and her head started to throb.

‘How much further?’

‘Do you need to rest?’

‘I’m fine.’ She squared her shoulders and carried on.

The undulating descent continued for what seemed like hours and her sight did not adjust to the dark. There was no light, nothing for her eyes to catch. The only thing Rosette was certain of was that they were now in the bowels of the mountain—Kreshkali’s realm, if the witch truly did reign here. It didn’t seem too hospitable. With each step she moved further into a sense of isolation. It was the darkest dark she’d ever experienced and it started to separate her from everything she could remember.

Yet, without sight, her other senses amplified. She could hear every rise and fall of her boots as they tapped their way down the endless steps. She heard the pad of the Lupins’ feet around her. Listening hard, she heard each of their respirations, feeling the soft breath of Hotha as it blew across her cheek.

Then she heard a thought. It was incoherent; gibberish phrases about the sun and the moon and the faraway memory of home and warmth. She couldn’t identify anything more, but she felt compelled to listen. Something in the fragmented voice enthralled her. It was like the voice of madness, curious until she realised it was coming from her own mind.

She lost all concept of distance, of time and space. Everything blurred into a rhythmic stepping, a bombardment of sound, and the unyielding touch of the hand on her shoulder—long fingers pressing into her collarbone, a thumbnail on her scapula, a strange mixture of comfort and coercion.

Then the air changed, like the whoosh of a giant door opening. The ground levelled out and far in the distance she saw something twinkle, like bright yellow stars. She blinked. Finally there was light. An increasing glow illuminated her surroundings and the tunnel expanded until the walls that had pressed on either side of her disappeared altogether.

The chamber was enormous.

There was no time to ponder, though, as the hand tightened on her shoulder, stopping at the brink of causing pain. A warning? Rosette heard a deep guttural answer within her mind.

Be still. She comes.

Brought to a halt, she saw the glow of torchlight and as it grew brighter she squinted, shielding her eyes. She heard the sound of tiny waves lapping over pebbles and with the increasing light, she glimpsed a wraith-like mist hovering over the further shore of a great underground lake. What an eerie, beautiful place. It was like nothing she had ever encountered.

Shivering, she realised Hotha had spoken directly to her mind. She answered him the same way.
Where?

By the lake.

Someone was approaching from the distance, riding a furred beast with another in tow. Hotha dropped his hand from her shoulder and stood beside her. The absence of his touch was like abandonment and she wavered, off-balance. There was an energy-charged zap and an enormous black wolf appeared at her side where Hotha had stood. She felt the panting of his breath on her fingers and she snapped her hand away, perspiration beading her forehead.

The air was warmer in the underground cathedral and Rosette’s lungs no longer burned with every breath. Her numb limbs began to tingle. Water dripped from the edges of her cuffs and gloves, the thin crust of ice melting from her coat. Her legs quivered with the effort to stand.

The light continued to brighten as the figure advanced. She heard the clip of iron-shod hooves and the occasional snort, but could not make out any distinct forms in the glare. How could horses—or beasts of any kind—survive down here? It would take
them all day to get to the surface, and then where would they find grazing? The slopes of Los Loma were covered in snow year round. How did they live?

‘You’d be surprised how many things do live down here, for a long, long time.’

Rosette snapped her mind-shield up. She now saw the creatures clearly. They were some kind of strange cattle. Their bodies and faces, ears and black noses were similar to the beasts that grazed in the paddocks near Treeon, except that their coats and horns were amazingly long, and they had gold rings in their noses. Rosette didn’t think cows could be ridden. Maybe they were really something else altogether.

‘They’re called grunnies,’ a woman answered her thought, the sound of her voice rich and alluring. ‘Not from this world.’

Rosette lifted her head to see the figure dismount. She was as tall as Rosette and she wore tight black leather trousers with knee-high, steel-capped boots, a metal studded belt and a high-collared leather vest—all under a rich velvet cloak as black as the caverns around them. Her hair was bleached blonde, spiked in some unrecognisable style, with a dark re-growth at the roots. Rosette’s mouth opened slightly. This woman was like no-one she had ever seen before. She emanated danger, both magical and physical, and something else. An attraction.

Hotha stepped up and they had a silent exchange. It looked heated, judging by their postures. The woman snapped her fingers and the other Lupins vanished, racing back out of the cavern. Hotha remained.

‘And who are you, come to see me in my realm?’ the woman asked.

Rosette did not respond immediately. Hotha didn’t speak and the grunnies stood still. Rosette counted her breaths, in and out, in and out. Two, three, four. Only
the soft sound of the waves on the shore, and the occasional sputter and sizzle of the torches, could be heard above her pounding heart.

The woman spoke again. ‘Let me try this differently. I’m Kreshkali.’ She closed the distance between them, holding out a hand. ‘Welcome to the underworld.’

‘Am I captive?’ Rosette asked.

Kreshkali smiled. ‘Not captive, young witch.’ She glared at Hotha. ‘Invited.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got the amulet you’re after. It’s empty, but I suspect you knew that anyway. Would you like it, for old times’ sake?’

What a good question it was. Did Rosette seek the amulet? Of course not, at least, not until today. That was the quest of her father and La Makee. She wanted nothing to do with any of it, not with the amulet, Passillo’s spell or this whole bizarre underground world—especially not with this strange woman, Kreshkali. She wanted to find Drayco and go home, home to Dumarka, to Nell, back to her training.

‘Yes, I would,’ Rosette said.

There was information to be gained here, and she was going to get it. She remembered the Sword Master’s words:
Be calm, unimpressed, no panic, no frivolity.
A modicum of confidence infused her. She would be just that and she’d get as much out of this meeting with the queen of the underworld as she could. All the more ammunition for her reunion with An’ Lawrence and La Makee. She wanted to strangle him, as soon as she got the chance, and she was starting to feel optimistic. This would be empowering. Without words, she felt Drayco, like soft paws making bread in her lap. Intuition was a wonderful thing. Now what would she say next?

‘You hungry?’ Kreshkali asked.

‘I am.’

‘Good. I’ll take you down where it’s more comfortable.’

Rosette stared at her.

‘Come on, girl. Follow me.’

‘
Down?
’ Kreshkali’s back was already turned, her boots sinking into the coarse gravel, crunching loudly with each long stride, and Rosette had to hurry to catch up. She found herself scrambling up onto one of the grunnies, feeling relieved to be seated and also a little nauseous at the peculiar rocking of the animal’s stride. The grunnie’s skin was loose and the saddle slipped from side to side, even with a snug girth. She couldn’t imagine them having a comfortable trot or gallop. Still, it was good to ride, no matter how bizarre the mount. When she turned around to see if Hotha followed, he was gone.

They tracked the edge of the lake, skirting it before descending a dimly lit ramp that spiralled in endless circles. The beasts were remarkably sure-footed. Rosette’s heartbeat steadied and her jaw relaxed until she looked over the edge of the railing. She could see a long way down, but not the bottom.

‘These grunnies don’t spook, do they?’ she asked, the saddle sliding as she turned to Kreshkali. She grabbed a fistful of the grunnie’s hair to steady herself.

‘You mean startle?’ Kreshkali shook her head. ‘Not like a horse.’

Rosette nodded, then her eyes widened. ‘Like what, then?’

‘They stampede.’

Rosette didn’t know how far down they’d gone. She only knew an ever-increasing thirst and exhaustion. Her throat was dry and her head spun. The stirrups were too long and her legs ached with the lack of support.
She wanted to stop and adjust them but felt a lassitude that prevented her from taking any action.

She realised that the only way out of this underground maze would be by the grace of Maggi, god of the crossroads—she would certainly never find her way back without his blessing; either that or a detailed map. She hoped she would have one or the other when she made her way out.

‘Nearly there,’ Kreshkali said, showing no sign of fatigue.

She had paused at yet another junction where four corridors met. Each archway looked identical except for the script set into the stone. Strange lettering ran from the bottom of the arch, up across the top and down the other side. Was this the map she wanted? Too bad if it was—she couldn’t read a word of it. Her lids drooped.

‘Good to hear,’ she answered.

The next corridor was wider, more refined and nothing like the rough rock of the upper caverns. The light had increased as well, although there was a haze to everything—a kind of misty fuzz. The glow illuminated the way and Rosette wondered how much further they had to go, because if she didn’t rest soon, she was pretty certain she would tumble from this great grunnie beast and drop dead.

‘My rooms are just up ahead.’

The echoes deepened as they passed beneath a vaulted archway, and Rosette was surprised to hear the sound of rushing water, now loud, now soft. It must be hot because the mist that surrounded them was steamy—warm on her face. She slipped off her wool-lined coat, unwound her sword-belt and tied it to the pack saddle. She pulled at her neck, widening her thick sweater to let some fresh air in.

My sword!
She realised that the Lupins had taken it and she hadn’t got it back. She cringed, imagining the
look on the Sword Master’s face.
Some trip this has turned out to be.

They halted before large double doors made of smooth black wood. Kreshkali hopped off her grunnie and signalled Rosette to do the same.

‘Here we are.’ She smiled. ‘That didn’t take long now, did it!’

‘Are you mad?’ Rosette answered, nearly crumpling to her knees when her feet touched the ground. ‘It felt like forever.’

‘You have much to learn about time, young witch.’

‘Love to learn, but first I need some sleep.’

Kreshkali opened the door with a long toothed key. She was nothing like the Lupins, Rosette decided. Her hands were beautiful, the slender fingers marked with intricate tattoos. Rosette studied them. They were almost identical to Nell’s and La Makee’s. Tingles prickled the back of her neck. Was she once a High Priestess of Treeon? She followed Kreshkali in, leaving the grunnies to wait in the corridor behind them.

The room was spacious and well lit, the sound of rushing water pervasive. There were dark wooden beams overhead set into a cone-shaped ceiling that ended miles above them in a tiny point of light no bigger than a star. Was that the real sky? No wonder it had taken them so long—regardless of what Kreshkali thought.

Three of the walls, from the wooden beams to the tiled floor, were covered in mosaic designs. Scenes of hunts, battles, shape-shifting and some provocative intimacies jumped out in extraordinarily vivid colours, a contrast to the endless sandstone and rust of every other wall and corridor she had passed. It must have taken years to render the fine details, maybe decades. None of the subjects were familiar, as though from a different age—a different world—though they were
unquestioningly sentient. They were doing everything a human on Gaela might, but the shapes were distorted, strange, transforming. She had to look away.

She followed the sound of churning water. Several lamps hung from the wooden beams, illuminating a large pool. A fall of water plummeted into its depths from a natural fissure in the far rock face, causing it to bubble and roil. Walking closer, she saw the pool was also lined with mosaic tiles, the rim a sparkling sapphire blue. The surface closest to her was smooth, almost undisturbed, and steam rose in wisps, reminding her of the granite bathing pools of Treeon.

The vast room was welcoming. It felt lived in, lined with carved chests and seating areas with furs and brightly coloured embroidered cushions. A low wooden table was laid out with bread, meat and a red fruit. There was a black-framed bronze mirror, easily seven feet high, resting up against one wall and partially obscuring a wardrobe with its doors open and clothing strewn haphazardly over it. A desk was cluttered with papers, books and what looked like a map. Her eyes widened when she saw a star chart.