Seeker

They left Briac Kincaid tied and blindfolded in what had once been the castle’s courtyard. The Young Dread’s master had packed Briac’s wounds with herbs again and given him valerian root to chew, which eased the pain a bit. He now lay half conscious beneath an overhanging bit of castle wall, moaning to himself in the morning light.

The Young Dread thought of Briac much as she thought of the Middle, and had difficulty feeling sorry for him. Even so, she was relieved when they passed down into the remains of the castle crypt, well below ground, and his cries were cut off from hearing by the earth above her.

The crypt, which still held the stone coffins of the ancient Scottish lords who had been her relatives, was half in ruins. Much of the castle floor above had crumbled, burying large portions of the space from sight. Their path, however, had been kept clear through the centuries, and this had been done by the Dreads. The Young herself had moved rocks aside a dozen times, yet she had never gone deeper than the crypt. Today she would.

The floor of the burial chamber slanted downward until it ended in what appeared to be a solid wall of rock. They followed this wall all the way to the right, and there the Middle Dread’s fingers felt along one of the natural folding seams in the uneven wall. After a moment, his hand slipped into a concealed channel—a handhold disguised within the pattern of the rock. The Old helped the Young place her own hands in the correct positions, and together the three Dreads, using all of their considerable strength, rotated a large slab of rock up and away from the wall.

Behind the slab were carved steps leading down into the earth. By the light of a burning torch, they descended far beneath the crypt, with the walls of rock pressing closer the deeper they went.

At last the steps opened on a larger space and the stairway ended. They passed through a long tunnel, its ceiling an arch of rough stones just above their heads. At the far end was another wall. Camouflaged between the stacked stones of the side wall and the smooth stone of the end wall was a jagged opening just large enough for a man to squeeze through.

Following her companions, the Young Dread slipped through the tiny gap to more stairs beyond. The walls of rock and soil were closer here, so close the men ahead of her were required to walk sideways. They continued down, soil brushing against their skin. The air was ancient and close, and their torch was filling it with smoke. But it was still possible to breathe.

At last, the stairs curved around in nearly a full circle. When the steps ended, the Dreads were let out into a space so large, it could only be called a cavern. It had the appearance of a natural formation, with a ceiling of rock hanging ten yards above their heads, its surface slick and wet in the firelight. Webs of tunnels branched off from the central chamber, but the torch showed only hints of how deep and far they might go.

As the Dreads moved into the cave and the Young’s eyes took in the enormous space for the first time, she became aware of a stretch of rock that had clearly been carved by human hands. There, the cavern’s natural uneven surface had been worked into a smooth wall. The other Dreads were heading toward it, and as they approached, the torchlight flickered over its even stone, revealing carvings along the surface. A group of images was chiseled so deeply into the rock that they would be visible for thousands of years. Perhaps they had been there for a thousand years already.

This place must belong to the Dreads, the Young thought. She wondered how much of the Dread knowledge was still hidden from her, and then, suddenly, she thought, How long has my master lived? He speaks of ancient things as if they were yesterday. Was this cave his doing?

She counted ten carvings upon the wall, most depicting an animal. They were arranged in a circle, the topmost figure above her head, and the bottommost near her feet. Beneath each was a rectangular hole where a large piece of stone had been removed. Under each hole, chiseled painstakingly into the wall, was a diamond-shaped slot.

The wall threw off unexpected sparks of light when illuminated by the torch. This was not dull stone she was examining but something more precious. The torch cast an orange light, but the wall, she realized, was probably a grayish white, and luminous, like …

Like an athame.

The carvings began to make sense. A horse, a fox, a ram, a boar, a stag, an eagle, a bear, and two creatures more fanciful: a dragon, and a wildcat with fangs. The final carving, the one at the very top of the circle, was not an animal but three ovals, interlocking. Like a flower perhaps, but more evenly shaped.

The Young Dread knew that symbol. It was carved on the pommel of the athame of the Dreads, which at this moment was safely tucked into a pocket of her master’s cloak.

“The symbol?” her master asked.

They had been silent for so long, his voice came as a shock to her. It echoed off the distant ends of the cavern.

“A fox,” she replied.

“You are certain?” This from the Middle.

“I am certain. The other, the one with the eagle, was broken during the attack. I had many chances to study it.” After you abandoned me to die on the estate, she thought but did not add aloud.

Her master drew out the athame of the Dreads and slid it into the diamond-shaped slot beneath the carved image of a fox. The athame fit precisely into the hole, gliding in smoothly up to its hilt.

The other athames she had seen were all larger than her master’s, and so would not fit into the slots beneath the figures. These ten slots, then, must have been made only for this particular athame, the athame of the Dreads.

The Old and the Middle began to chant. As they did, her master drew a small metal rod from one of his many pockets. It was an object the Young had never seen before. Not for the first time, she wondered what treasures she would find if she were to empty out all the hidden contents of her master’s cloak.

The Old Dread tapped the metal rod rhythmically against the stone wall, next to the protruding hilt of his athame. As the metal hit the stone, the wall itself began to vibrate.

This went on for several minutes, the Old Dread tapping the wall in time to their chant. Soon the whole cave shook, as though the earth itself had taken up the tremor. When the vibration had become unbearable, and the Young was sure that rocks were about to start falling, the chant ended. The cavern steadied and the hum of the wall gradually died out.

When will he teach me all of this? the Young Dread asked herself. I must know these things if I am to survive, if I am to be a true Dread.

Her master replaced the metal rod into a pocket, then drew the athame out of the stone.

“Now, child,” he told her, “we wait.”