Deepest, Darkest Page 9

  “Knockers aren’t bad.” Old Jim cleared his throat. “They make sounds to warn miners before cave-ins. Even help them find their way if they get lost. That true? Is that what you are?”

  The figure tilted his head this way and that as he considered. “If you like,” he said. “I do what I please. Others do what they please. You can call me Tommy, if it pleases you.”

  “We need help,” said Annie. “I need to find my son and the rest of our friends.”

  “More of you?” said Tommy, his wispy eyebrows rising.

  “Seven, altogether,” said Annie. “The tunnel collapsed beneath us and we fell down different paths.”

  “So . . . not so all together,” Tommy said.

  “Will you help us find them?” Annie pressed.

  The figure eyed the battered trio. He fiddled with a slim cord around his neck. “Might,” he said simply. Then his eyes caught something on the floor beside Cole. “What’s this?” He reached out with his walking stick and poked a slim gray disc. Cole patted his pockets as Tommy flipped the pendant over with a second jab to reveal the carving on the other side.

  “That’s mine,” said Cole.

  Tommy’s beady eyes widened a fraction, then flicked to Cole and back to the pendant. His wide mouth tightened. “Is it?”

  “It must have fallen out of my pocket when we hit the ground.” Cole knelt and scooped up the disc. “It’s why we’re down here,” he said, rubbing the familiar etching with his thumb. “Do you know what it means?”

  Tommy gripped the gnarled root tightly in both hands. His eyes narrowed, his knees bent, and his muscles tensed.

  “Whoa, now,” said Old Jim.

  “Wait! He doesn’t mean any harm,” Annie said, pushing herself upright clumsily.

  Tommy lunged forward with a shriek and swung the knobby stick over his head like a cudgel. Cole leapt backward—but he needn’t have dodged. Tommy’s strike swung nowhere near him. It cracked off the stony ground behind him, narrowly missing a wiry creature who squealed in protest as it skittered away.

  “Go on, then!” Tommy shouted after it. “Get! Shoo!”

  The animal clambered halfway up the wall before turning to hiss angrily. It looked like something between an opossum and a monkey. Tommy raised the stick a second time, and the creature burrowed straight into the solid stones and disappeared with a blip like a drop of rain in a water barrel. Cole blinked. Where the thing had vanished, there remained not so much as a scratch in the surface of the sheer rock face.

  “What on earth was that?” Annie said.

  “Filthy kobold,” Tommy muttered. “Nasty things. Usually they know better than to—” He sniffed experimentally, then faced the humans again with his mouth in a frown and one brow raised. “What did you bring?”

  “What in Sam Hill are you talking about?” said Old Jim.

  “We are not in Sam Hill,” Tommy said, rounding on Old Jim. “We are in the Tenth Tier of the Elder Pass, and if there’s one stinky kobold swimming in the sediment around us, then there are bound to be dozens more not far off. Kobolds can smell through solid bedrock—so . . . what did you bring?”

  “I had sandwiches in my pack,” said Annie. “That’s probably it.”

  Tommy waved her off. “They’re kobolds, not raccoons.”

  “I have some jerky in my pocket,” said Cole.

  “Meat?” The knocker looked at Cole as if he had just suggested kobolds might eat rainbows. He turned to Old Jim. “You. What did you bring?”

  “Hm. Garlic?” said Old Jim, taking a bulb from his vest. “And some mustard seed and—let’s see—my niece picked some fresh bitterwort.” A handful of slightly crushed flowers slipped from his grip as he rooted through the pockets. Cole leaned down and picked them up.

  Tommy shook his head and tut-tut-tutted. “We’re talking about kobolds. Don’t you three know anything? Rich metals? Gold rings? Silver brooches?”

  “I got some silver,” said Old Jim. He dug a little pendant from one of the pouches. It was no larger than a nickel. “Medal of Saint Christopher.”

  “That.” Tommy nodded. “Leave it behind.”

  Old Jim’s brow crinkled. “A Saint Christopher medal protects travelers from harm,” he said.

  “Not down here it doesn’t,” said Tommy. “Down here, precious metals attract pests, and pests cause plenty of harm. Toss it.”

  Old Jim took a step toward him, watching the odd little figure through narrow eyes. “I’ve also heard that evil spirits can’t stand to be close to holy silver.” He turned the medal over between his thumb and forefinger. “They say it burns their skin like fire.” He held it out for Tommy to take it. “You’re awfully keen to be rid of it. Why don’t you toss it?”

  Tommy stared flatly at Old Jim for several seconds and then took the coin in his bare palm, where it neither sizzled nor glowed red-hot. Tommy rolled his eyes. “Satisfied? You really do need my help, don’t you?” He flicked the coin unceremoniously down a dark corridor like it was a spent cigarette butt. Its tinkle echoed through the tunnel and was quickly followed by the scratch scratch of talons on stone. Tommy’s nose wrinkled as he eyed the passageway. “Keep it, you little monsters!” he called into the gloom.

  “So?” said Cole. “Does that mean you’ll help us?”

  Tommy fiddled with the cord around his neck as he regarded the three of them. “Might,” he said again. “Could help you find your way out.” He tilted his head to one side, weighing the option. “Could help you find your friends.” His head wobbled to the other side. “Could help you find your father. Lots of ways to help.”

  A tingle rippled up Cole’s spine. “I never said we were looking for my father.”

  Tommy’s beady eyes glinted in the candlelight. He pulled the cord around his neck up until it revealed from within his dusty clothes a disc about as wide as his palm hanging from the end. The disc spun gently, catching the light, revealing fine etching on one side. Cole’s breath caught in his throat. He held a matching talisman in his hand.

  “Lucky guess,” said Tommy.

  Sixteen

  Fable’s arm felt warm as she concentrated on the hovering flame in front of her. It was not the heat of the fire—the wavering orb of light at her fingertips was no brighter than a match head—it was the prickling heat of sustaining the magic for so long. It rippled through her veins and pulsed with her heartbeat. The glow flickered and dimmed, nearly going out more than once, but Fable had practiced this spell a thousand times. If she let it flare up too hot, it would burn itself out. Let it get too cool and it would fizzle to nothing. The trick, like every other lesson her mother had drilled into her for her entire life, was control.

  Unlike in their lessons, this time her mother seemed to be having as much trouble controlling the spell as Fable did. A few paces ahead, the tunnel went dark again as her mother’s flame sputtered and died to a floating ember. For the dozenth time, Raina stopped walking and concentrated on the light, coaxing it slowly back to life.

  Fable took the opportunity to switch hands. She leaned against the cool stone wall and took a deep breath. They had been walking through narrow passages for what felt like hours, and they still had not seen any sign of the twins or Evie or the other grown-ups.

  Fable sighed and watched the firelight bounce along the side of the tunnel. It made the rocks look almost alive, the way their shadows jittered and shook with each pulse of the flame. One smooth stone seemed to be wobbling more than the rest, and Fable held the flame higher to get a better look. It rippled like water in a heavy breeze, and then suddenly Fable was staring at a face with big, dark eyes and bristly whiskers.

  She blinked.

  The face blinked back.

  “Uh. Hi,” whispered Fable.

  The face ducked back inside the rock and vanished.

  “Come on,” called Fable’s mother, her flame alight once more. “We need to keep moving.” She pressed forward, following the corridor as
it sloped gradually up and to the left.

  Fable ran a hand along the smooth stone in front of her. It was as solid as—well—a rock. There was no sign of any creature.

  “I’m coming!” she called.

  She continued to peer back over her shoulder as she rounded the corner. She could have sworn she heard the skittering of claws, like a squirrel clambering over a boulder. She squinted into the darkness for several seconds, but she could not see anything behind her.

  Finally she turned her attention forward again.

  The tunnel was dark.

  “Mama?” she called. She willed her flame a little brighter. “Mama?”

  The corridor split into two.

  “This way!” her mother’s voice echoed from the path on the left. Or was it the right?

  This way, this way, this way! The echoes bounced all around the dark tunnel, but Fable was pretty sure they had started on the left.

  “Coming!” Fable peered down the corridor. Yes—she could just make out her mother’s silhouette in the darkness ahead. Her fire must have gone out again already. Her mother’s magic was not working right at all down here.

  Fable hurried to catch up.

  “There was something skittery in the rocks back there,” she said as she neared. “It looked sorta like a possum with huge eyes, but then it . . .” Fable’s voice trailed off. Something was wrong. Her mother’s cloak was wrapped too tightly around her shoulders. It hugged her frame more like a fitted dress than a furry bearskin, making her look too slender and too tall. “Mama?”

  Her mother turned to face her.

  No. No she didn’t. Fable’s heart pounded and the flame at her fingertips flared as the realization slammed into her—this was not her mother.

  The woman’s complexion was so pale, it bled into the gray of the cave around her. She had jet-black hair pulled back tightly on her head, and her high-collared dress was like velvety ash. She regarded Fable with an icy stare. The earth moved around the woman’s feet, and a dozen dark, glossy eyes caught the firelight—more of the skittering rock creatures. Possum was a good comparison, except that their faces were flatter, more like primates, and their mouths were too big. Bristly fur melted into stones as the creatures scurried over one another, surrounding the woman’s feet. The face Fable had seen poking out of the rocks back in the tunnel had seemed almost cute—like an ugly ferret or a baby gremlin. Now that she could see them out in the open, she wasn’t sure cute was the right word for whatever these were. One of them hissed, baring too many teeth in its wide mouth, and then it clambered up the front of the woman’s skirt.

  The woman reached down without taking her eyes off Fable and scooped the feral creature up in one arm like a house cat. She stroked its coarse fur with her other hand while it continued to bare its teeth at Fable.

  “Hello, little girl,” said the woman. Something about the way she said the words little girl made the hair on Fable’s neck stand on end. “You seem to have taken a bad turn.”

  “Don’t hurt me,” said Fable.

  “Was that a command?” The woman turned to the creature on her arm as if the wiry rodent could confirm her suspicions. It squeaked. “Yes, I do believe the beastly thing just issued a command,” said the woman. “To me!” She turned back to Fable. “The thing about commands,” she said coldly, “is that when I am given them, I have this terrible urge to do the opposite.” She let her final word hang in the air, its echo hissing in Fable’s ears.

  “My mama’s the Queen of the Deep Dark,” said Fable, trying to sound confident. The light in front of her flickered, thrumming weakly with each beat of her pounding heart. “Everybody’s heard of her.”

  “Is she really?” The woman’s expression did not change, but she leaned in so close Fable could feel the stranger’s breath on her cheek. “Well, then. I shall endeavor to remind myself to curtsy when we meet.” She did not raise her voice in the slightest, but the echo of her words still whispered back and forth around them in the cavern. The woman stood up straight, not taking her eyes from Fable. “You have ventured into my domain—deeper and darker than any lands over which your royal mother might claim dominion. Would you continue to delve? Do you seek the deepest? The darkest?”

  Fable swallowed.

  “Be careful, child.” The woman’s voice was venom, and her gaze bored into Fable like a knife tip. “Or you might be unfortunate enough to find precisely what you seek.”

  A roar erupted behind Fable and shook the dust from the ceiling. The stranger’s eyes widened in surprise. In her bear form, Raina pounded forward.

  The stranger took a step back, away from the rapidly approaching wall of teeth and claws and fur, until she was pressed against the side of the tunnel. The bristly creatures at her feet screeched and chittered. Raina was nearly upon her when, with a sound like old pipes tapping, the air around the woman rippled and she sank into solid stone, pets and all.

  Raina raked her claws against the rocks where they had vanished, but the tunnel wall was unyielding. She snarled in frustration.

  “I would not treat these hallowed passageways so shamefully,” came an indignant voice from somewhere behind Fable and Raina.

  With some difficulty in the tight space, Raina turned around. The stranger’s pallid features slid up from the rocks on the opposite side of the tunnel like a diver emerging from the water.

  The bear chuffed and narrowed her eyes.

  “These tunnels have borne the tides of time for longer than any of you have walked the earth above them—but they will still collapse on top of those careless enough to test them.” The woman stepped free of the rocks and stood, placidly petting the wiry gray creature still perched on the arm of her dress.

  The bear’s head lifted until it was nearly touching the ceiling, and then, with a swooping motion, Raina was human again, lowering the hood of her furry cloak. Her eyes remained locked on the stranger.

  The pale woman’s lips turned up in the slightest hint of a smile. The creature on her arm made a raspy purring sound as she stroked its ears. “Ah,” she said. “I take it I am in the presence of royalty. What a treat.” Her voice remained flat. “I’ve always wondered: is it true what they say about royal blood being blue?”

  “You are in the presence of a mother,” Raina growled. “Threaten my daughter again, and it won’t be my blood you’ll need to worry about.”

  “I do not threaten, Your Majesty.” The woman’s voice dripped with mock decorum. “But I do give warnings. You would be ill-advised to ignore them.”

  “Who are you?” Raina demanded.

  “Oh, now she wants to know my name? I’m learning so much about queens,” said the woman, talking more to the creature on her arm than to either of them. “See, I would have thought introductions would come before attacks, silly me. Etiquette is such a funny thing.” She lifted her wrist up to her shoulder, and the bristly creature scampered off her arm and made itself comfortable curled up behind her neck. The woman raised her chin to meet Raina’s gaze. “I am the one they call Gruvrået.”

  Raina blinked.

  “Did she say Grew Fruit?” whispered Fable.

  The woman’s cheeks flushed and her jaw tightened. “It is unwise to mock a rået,” she growled through clenched teeth.

  “I’m not making fun,” said Fable. “I just don’t know what that word is. There’s loads of stuff I don’t know. It sounds like you said root. And that’s probably not what you said, but a root would be a pretty neat thing to be.”

  The woman’s brow remained tightly creased as she regarded Fable.

  “Roots are good,” Fable explained. “They’re sturdy, like anchors, and they hold together the whole ground, so we don’t get landslides or erosion. Plus they’re how all the living stuff keeps living. We don’t usually think about roots very much because we can’t see them under the ground—but basically everything in the whole world depends on them being there.”

  The woman shook he
r head, but the corner of her lip had curled up in a faint smile. “I have been called many things by many people. I am the Mistress of the Mines, the Lady of the Mountain. But you”—she nodded to Fable—“you may call me Madam Root.”

  “I have heard of you,” said Raina. “The fair folk told me stories when I was a little girl. There were once guardian spirits, rå, who lived long before the split between fairies and humankind. They were a noble race, wardens of the earth who refused to leave their posts on this side of the veil when the world was divided.”

  The gray woman—Madam Root—bowed her head. “Then we are not entirely forgotten. This is good. What else do the stories say?”

  “That the rå vanished, long ago,” said Raina. “That, when magic left the earthly world, all the beings of raw magic either died off or . . . changed. Some say they became one with the rivers and the rocks and the wind.” She took a deep breath. “If you truly are a rået—you should not exist.”

  Madam Root was silent. Her eyes stared, unfocused, into the darkness for several long seconds.

  “I’m sorry—” Raina began.

  “No. You are wrong.” Madam Root snapped back to the moment, fixing her gaze on Raina. “And you are trespassing.”

  Raina did not blink. “We are. But it is necessary.”

  “Necessary? Is the world above not big enough for you? Must you expand your glorious kingdom to the very center of the earth?”

  “I do not have a glorious kingdom, I have a forest,” Raina answered, and Fable recognized her mother’s witchy voice. It was the voice her mother used when she had to be the Queen of the Deep Dark for real, a voice that could silence quarreling pixies and subdue rebellious hobs—it was a voice sharpened to a razor edge. “I also have a duty,” Raina continued, “to protect those who live within my lands.” She took a step forward. “Including those who have been stolen from them.”

  “Is that so?” Madam Root raised an eyebrow.

  The two eyed each other appraisingly. It was like watching fencers circling before a duel. If they had been lionesses, their tails would have been twitching.