"I am sure it does."

"Ah, yes? Well, that is very good." Despite his words, he sounded faintly disappointed that his cathedral's rival had not suffered a similarly ign.o.ble fate. "But, may our Ransomer forgive us, we are poor hosts," he said suddenly, catching Miriamele's arm with a gently trembling claw. "Come in and shelter from the storm. You and your son-" he gestured to Binabik, who looked up in surprise; the old man had already forgotten what Miriamele had told him, "-will be safe here. They have taken our beautiful things, but they have not taken us from the watchful-ness of G.o.d's eye."

He led them up the long aisle toward the altar, a block of stone with a rag stretched over it, mumbling as he went about the wonderful things that had once stood here or there and the horrible things that had happened to them. Miriamele was not listening to him closely: she was preoccupied by the scatter of shadowy human shapes which leaned against the walls or lay in corners. One or two were draped lengthwise across the benches as though in sleep. All together, there seemed to be several dozen people in the huge chapel, all silent and apparently unmoving. Miriamele had a sudden, horrid thought. "Who are all these folk?" she asked. "Are they ... dead?"

The old man looked up, surprised, then smiled and shook his head. "No, no, they are pilgrims like yourself, travelers who sought a safe haven. G.o.d led them here, and so they shelter in His church."

As the old man recommenced his description of the splendors of Saint Sutrin's as it once had been, Miriamele felt a tug at her sleeve.

"Ask him whether there is anything beneath this place like that thing we are searching," the troll whispered.

When the man paused for a moment, Miriamele seized her chance. "Are there tunnels beneath the cathedral?"

"Tunnels?" The question set an odd light burning in the old man's rheumy eye. "What do you mean? There are the catacombs, where all the bishops of this place lie resting until the Day of Weighing-Out, but no one goes there. It is ... holy ground." He seemed disturbed, staring past the altar at nothing Miriamele could see. "That is not a place for any traveler. Why do you ask?"

Miriamele did not wish to upset him any further. "I was told once that there was a ... a holy place here." She bowed her head. "Someone dear to me is in danger. I had thought that maybe there was a special shrine...." What had seemed a lie had come to her quickly, but as she thought about it, she realized it was only truth: someone dear to her was in peril. She should light a candle for Simon before they left this place.

"Ah." The old man seemed mollified. "No, it is not that sort of place, not at all. Now come, it is almost time for the evening mansa." mansa."

Miriamele was surprised. So the rites were still celebrated here, even though the church seemed little more than a sh.e.l.l. She wondered what had happened to fat, bl.u.s.tering Bishop Domitis and all his priestly underlings.

The man led them to the first row of benches facing the altar, then gestured for them to sit down. The irony did not escape Miriamele: she had often sat there before at her father's side, and at her grandfather's before that. The old man walked to a place behind the stone and its ragged covering, then lifted his arms in the air. "Come, my friends," he said loudly. "You may return now."

Binabik looked at Miriamele. She shrugged, unsure of what the man wanted them to do.

But they were not the ones who had been addressed. A moment later, whirring and flapping, a host of black shapes descended from the shadowy wreckage of the dome. Miriamele gave out a little squeak of surprise as the ravens settled upon the altar. Within moments almost a score of them stood wing to wing on the altar cloth, oily feathers gleaming in the candlelight.

The old man began to speak the Mansa Nictalis, Mansa Nictalis, and as he did, the ravens preened and ruffled. and as he did, the ravens preened and ruffled.

"What is this thing?" Binabik asked. "It is not a part of your worship that I have heard of."

Miriamele shook her head. The old man was clearly mad. He was addressing the Nabbanai words to the ravens, who strutted back and forth along the altar giving voice to harsh, grating cries. But there was something else about the scene that was almost as strange as the eerie ceremony, some elusive thing....

Abruptly, as the old man lifted his arms and made the ritual sign of the Great Tree, she recognized him. This was Bishop Domitis himself at the altar-or his wasted remains, since he seemed shriveled to half his previous weight. Even his voice was different: deprived of the great bellows of flesh, it had become reedy and thin. But as he rolled into the sonorous cadences of the mansa, mansa, much of the old Domitis seemed to return; in her weary mind she could see him again as he once had been, swelled bullfrog-great with self-importance. much of the old Domitis seemed to return; in her weary mind she could see him again as he once had been, swelled bullfrog-great with self-importance.

"Binabik," she whispered. "I know him! He is the bishop of this place. But he looks so different!"

The troll was eyeing the capering ravens with a mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and uneasiness. "Can you then be persuading him to help us?"

Miriamele considered. "I don't think so. He seems very protective of his church, and he certainly didn't seem to want us wandering around down in the catacombs."

"Then I am thinking that is just the place we must go," Binabik said quietly. "We must be looking for the chance to come to us." He looked up at Domitis, who stood with head thrown back and eyes closed, his arms widespread as if in imitation of his avian congregation. "I have something that I must be doing now. Wait for me here. It will take me only a little time." He got up quietly from the bench, then turned and moved quickly back down the aisle toward the front of the cathedral.

"Binabik!" Miriamele called softly, but the troll only raised his hand before disappearing into the forechamber. Unsettled, she turned reluctantly to watch the rest of the odd performance.

Domitis seemed to have completely forgotten the presence of anyone but himself and the ravens. A pair of these had flown up from the altar to settle on his shoulders. They clung there as he swayed; as he windmilled his arms in the fervor of his speech, they flapped their great black wings to maintain balance on their perches.

Finally, as the bishop began the last stages of the mansa, mansa, the whole flock of birds rose up and began circling his head like a croaking thundercloud. Whatever humor the ritual had held was gone: Miriamele suddenly found the whole thing frightening. Was there no comer of the world left that had not succ.u.mbed to madness? Had the whole flock of birds rose up and began circling his head like a croaking thundercloud. Whatever humor the ritual had held was gone: Miriamele suddenly found the whole thing frightening. Was there no comer of the world left that had not succ.u.mbed to madness? Had everything everything been corrupted? been corrupted?

Domitis intoned the last Nabbanai phrases and fell silent. The ravens circled a few moments more, then went whirling up toward the ruptured dome like a whirlwind, vanishing into the shadows with only the echoes of their rasping cries left hanging in the air behind them. When even those had died and the cathedral had fallen quiet, Bishop Domitis, now almost gray with expended effort, bent down behind the altar.

When some time had pa.s.sed and he had not stood up again, Miriamele began to wonder whether the old man had fallen into some sort of fit, or had perhaps even dropped dead. She got to her feet and moved cautiously toward the altar, keeping an eye c.o.c.ked toward the ceiling as she went, half-fearing that at any moments the ravens might descend again, talons and beaks flailing....

Domitis was curled on a ragged blanket behind the altar, snoring softly. In repose, the loose skin of his face seemed even more formless, sagging into long folds so that he seemed to wear a mask of melted candlewax. Miriamele shuddered and hurried back to her chair, but after a few moments even that began to feel too exposed. The room was still full of silent figures, but it was not difficult to imagine that they were only feigning sleep, waiting to be sure her companion was not returning before they rose and came toward her....

Miriamele waited for what seemed a long time. The forechamber was colder even than the broken-domed chapel, but escape was within reach at a moment's notice. A little of the night wind slipped through the partially open door, which made her feel closer to freedom and hence a great deal safer, but she still jumped when the door hinges screeched.

"Ah," said Binabik, slipping inside, "it is still raining with great forcefulness." He shook water onto the stone floor.

"Bishop Domitis has gone to sleep behind the altar. Binabik, where did you go?"

"To take your horse back to where Homefinder and Qantaqa wait. Even if we are not finding what we seek here, we can easily travel through the town by walking. But if we find a tunnel-entering-place, I am fearing that we would come back at a later time to find your horse as part of some hungry person's soup."

Miriamele had not thought of that, but she did not doubt that he was right. "I'm glad you did it. Now what should we do?"

"Go hunting for our tunnel," said Binabik.

"When Bishop Domitis was talking about the catacombs, he kept looking over to the back of the cathedral, that wall behind the altar."

"Hmmm." The troll nodded. "You are wise for noticing and remembering. That is, I am thinking, the first place we should search."

"We have to be quiet-we don't want to wake him up."

"Like snow-mice we will be, our pads whispering on the white crust." Binabik squeezed her hand.

Her worries about the slumbering Domitis were unfounded. The old man was snoring thinly but emphatically, and did not even twitch as they padded by. The great wall behind the altar, which had once been covered in a tiled representation of Saint Sutrin's martyrdom, was now only crumbling mortar with a few remaining spots of ceramic color. At one end of the wall, tucked behind a rotting velvet drapery, stood a low door. Binabik gave it a tug and it opened easily, as though it had been used with some frequency. The troll peered inside, then turned. "Let us be taking some candles," he murmured. "That way we can be saving the torches in our packs for a later time."

Miriamele went back and plucked two of the candles from the sconces. She felt a little shame, since Domitis had been kind to them in his own strange way, but she reasoned that their greater goal outweighed the sin of theft, and would benefit the bishop as well-maybe one day he would even see his beloved cathedral rebuilt. She could not help wondering if the ravens would be welcome then. She hoped not.

Each holding a candle, Miriamele and Binabik went carefully down the narrow staircase. Centuries of human traffic had worn a groove like a dry river bed in the center of the stone steps. They stepped off the stairs into the low-ceilinged catacombs and stopped to look around. The walls on either side were honeycombed with niches, each containing a silent stone effigy of a figure in repose, most wearing the robes and other symbols of church office. But for these, the narrow halls seemed entirely empty.

Binabik pointed at one turning that seemed less traveled. "This way, I am thinking."

Miriamele peered down the shadowy tunnel. The pale plaster walls were unmarked; no would-be saints lay here, it seemed. She took a deep breath. "Let's go."

In the cathedral above, a pair of ravens dropped down from the ceiling and, after circling briefly, settled on the altar. They stood side by side, bright eyes glaring at the door to the catacombs. Nor were they the only observers. A figure detached itself from the shadows along the wall and crept silently across the cathedral. It moved past the altar, stepping just as carefully as had Miriamele and the troll, then paused for a while outside the vault door as though listening. When a short time had pa.s.sed, the dark shape slipped through the doorway and went pattering quietly down the stairs.

After that, nothing was heard in the dark cathedral but the bishop's even snoring and the faint rustle of wings.

16.

Roots of the White Tree

Simon stared at the amazing thing for a long time. He took a step closer, then danced back nervously. How could it be? It must be a dream-picture, like so many other illusions in these endless tunnels. at the amazing thing for a long time. He took a step closer, then danced back nervously. How could it be? It must be a dream-picture, like so many other illusions in these endless tunnels.

He rubbed his eyes and then opened them again: the plate still stood in the niche by the stair landing, chest-high. On it, arranged as prettily as at a royal banquet, was a small green apple, an onion, and a heel of bread. An unadorned bowl with a cover stood beside it.

Simon shrank back, looking wildly from side to side. Who would do such a thing? What would make someone leave a perfectly good supper in the middle of an empty stairwell in the depths of the earth? He raised his guttering torch to inspect the magical offering once more.

It was hard to believe-no, it was impossible. He had been wandering for hours since leaving the great pool, trying to stay on an upward course but not at all sure that the curving bridges, downsloping corridors, and oddly-constructed stairways were not taking him even further into the earth, no matter how many steps he climbed. All that time the flame of his torch had been growing fainter, until it was little more than a wisp of blue and yellow which might be blown out by any errant breeze. He had all but convinced himself that he would be lost forever, that he would starve and die in darkness-and then he had found this ... this miracle. miracle.

It was not just the food itself, although the sight of it filled his mouth with saliva and made his fingers twitch. No, it meant there must be people somewhere nearby, and likely light and fresh air as well. Even the walls, which were rough-cobbled human work, spoke of the surface, of escape. He was as good as saved!

Hold a moment. He caught himself with hand outstretched, almost touching the skin of the apple. What if He caught himself with hand outstretched, almost touching the skin of the apple. What if it's a it's a trap? trap? What if they know someone is down here, and they're trying to lure him out? What if they know someone is down here, and they're trying to lure him out?

But who would "they" be? No one could know he was down here but his friends and the b.e.s.t.i.a.l diggers and the shadowy ghosts of the Sithi in their dream-castle. No, someone had brought supper down here, then for some reason had walked away, forgetting it.

If it was even real.

Simon reached, ready for the food to vanish, to turn to dust ... but it did not. His hand closed on the apple. It was hard beneath his fingers. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, sniffed it briefly-what did poison smell like, anyway?-and then took a bite.

Thank you, merciful Usires. Thank you.

It was ... wonderful. The fruit was far from ripe, the juice tart, even sour, but it felt like he held the living green earth in his hand again, that the life of the sun and wind and rain was crisping between his teeth and tongue, running down his throat. For a moment he forgot all else, savoring the glory of it.

He lifted the cover from the bowl, sniffed to make sure it was water, then drank it down in thirsty gulps. When the bowl was empty, he grabbed the plate of food and darted back down the corridor, searching for a place to hide and eat in safety.

Simon fought with himself to make the apple last, even though each bite seemed like a year of his life given back to him. When he had finished it, and had licked every bit of juice from his fingers, he stared longingly at the bread and onion. With masterful self-control, he tucked them both into the pockets of his breeches. Even if he found his way back to the surface, even if he was near some place where people were, there was no guarantee he would be fed. If he came up within Erchester or one of the small villages along the Kynslagh, he might find a place to hide and even some allies; if he came up in the Hayholt, all hands might be turned against him. And if he was wrong about what the plate signified-well, he would be grateful to have the rest of the meal when the thrilling effect of an entire apple wore off.

He picked up the torch-it was even dimmer now, the flames a transparent azure-and stepped back out into the corridor, then paced forward until he reached the branching place. A chill pa.s.sed through him. Which way had he turned? He had been in such a hurry to put distance between himself and anyone who might return for the food that he had acted without his normal care. Had he turned left, as he should have? Somehow that did not seem correct.

Still, he could do nothing but trust to the way he had done it so far. He took the rightward branching. Within moments, he became convinced that he had chosen wrongly: this way led down. He retraced his steps and took another of the corridors, but this one also sloped away downward. A few moments' examination proved that all all the branches went down. He walked back toward where he had eaten the apple and found the stem he had dropped, but when he held the guttering torch close to the ground he saw that the only footprints on the dusty floor led back the way he had come. the branches went down. He walked back toward where he had eaten the apple and found the stem he had dropped, but when he held the guttering torch close to the ground he saw that the only footprints on the dusty floor led back the way he had come.

Curse this place! Curse this mad maze of a place!

Simon trudged back to the branching. Something had happened, it was clear-the tunnels had shifted again in some strange way. Resigned, he chose the downward path that seemed least steep and started on his way again.

The corridor twisted and turned, leading him back into the depths. Soon the walls again showed signs of Sithi work, hints of twining carvings beneath the centuries of grime. The pa.s.sageway widened, then widened again. He stepped out into a vast open area and knew it only from the far-ranging echoes of his bootheels: his torch was little more now than a smoldering glow.

This cavernous place seemed as high-ceilinged as that which had held the great pool. As Simon moved forward and his eyes adjusted to the greater dimensions, his heart lifted. It was like the chamber of the pool in another way as well: a great staircase ran upward into the darkness, following the curve of the walls. Something else gleamed faintly in the middle of the chamber. He moved closer, and the dying light of his torch revealed a great circle of stone that might have been the base of a fountain; at its center, set in black earth but stretching up to many times Simon's height, was a tree. Or at least it seemed seemed to be a tree-there was a suggestion of humped and knotted roots at the bottom and amazingly tangled branches above-but no matter how close he held the torch, he could see no detail of it, as though it were draped in clinging shadow. to be a tree-there was a suggestion of humped and knotted roots at the bottom and amazingly tangled branches above-but no matter how close he held the torch, he could see no detail of it, as though it were draped in clinging shadow.

As he leaned nearer, the shadow-tree rattled in an unfelt wind, a sound like a thousand dry hands rubbing against each other. Simon leaped back. He had been about to touch it, certain it was carved stone. Instead he turned and hurried past it to the base of the winding stairway.

As he circled around the perimeter of the chamber, picking his way up the steps by fading torchlight, he was still intensely aware of the tree standing at the room's center. He could hear the breathing sound of its leaves as they moved, but he could feel feel its existence even more strongly; it was as palpable in the darkness as someone lying beside him in a bed. It was not like anything he had felt before-less starkly powerful than the pool, perhaps, but somehow more subtle, an intelligence vast, old, and unhurried. The pool's magic was like a roaring bonfire-something that could b.u.m or illuminate, but would do neither unless someone was present to use its power. Simon could not imagine anyone or anything its existence even more strongly; it was as palpable in the darkness as someone lying beside him in a bed. It was not like anything he had felt before-less starkly powerful than the pool, perhaps, but somehow more subtle, an intelligence vast, old, and unhurried. The pool's magic was like a roaring bonfire-something that could b.u.m or illuminate, but would do neither unless someone was present to use its power. Simon could not imagine anyone or anything using using the tree. It stood and dreamed and waited for no one. It was not good or evil, it simply was. the tree. It stood and dreamed and waited for no one. It was not good or evil, it simply was.

Long after he had left the base of the stairway behind him, he could feel its living presence.

The light from his torch grew less and less. At last, after he had climbed some hundreds of steps, it finally died. Having antic.i.p.ated its pa.s.sing for so long did not make the moment any less dreadful: Simon slumped down and sat in complete darkness, too tired even to weep. He ate a mouthful of bread and some onion, then squeezed some of the last of the water from his drying shirt. When he had finished, he took a deep breath and began to crawl up the stairs on his hands and knees, feeling before him in the blackness.

It was hard to tell whether the voices that followed him were phantoms of the underground realm or the chattering of his own drifting thoughts.

Climb up. All will be ready soon.

On your knees again, mooncalf?

Step after stone step pa.s.sed beneath his hands. His fingers were numb, his knees and shins aching dully.

The Conqueror is coming! Soon all will be ready.

But one is missing!

It does not matter. The trees are burning. All is dead, gone. It does not matter.

Simon's mind wandered as he clambered up the winding track. It was not hard to imagine that he had been swallowed whole, that he was in the belly of some great beast. Perhaps it was the dragon-the dragon that was spoken of in the inscription on his ring. He stopped and felt his finger, rea.s.sured by the feel of the metal. What had Binabik said the inscription meant? Dragon Dragon and and Death? Death?

Killed by a dragon, maybe. I've been swallowed by one, and I'm dead. I'll climb around and around inside it forever, here in the dark. I wonder if anyone else has been swallowed? It's so so lonely.... lonely....

The dragon is dead, the voices told him. the voices told him. No, the dragon is death, No, the dragon is death, others a.s.sured him. others a.s.sured him.

He stopped and ate a little more of his food. His mouth was dry, but he did riot take more than a few drops of water before resuming his four-legged climb.

Simon stopped to catch his breath and rest his aching leg for perhaps the dozenth time since entering the stairwell. As he crouched, panting, light suddenly flickered around him. He thought wildly that his torch had blazed again, until he remembered that the dead brand was stuck beneath his belt. For a startlingly beautiful moment the whole stairwell seemed full of pale golden light, and he looked up the shaft into infinite distance, up past a shrinking spiral of stairs to a hole that led straight to heaven. Then, with a silent concussion, a ball of angry flame bloomed in the heights above him, turning the very air red, and for a moment the stairwell became hot as forge fire. Simon shouted in fear.

No! the voices screamed. the voices screamed. No! Speak not the word! You will summon Unbeing! No! Speak not the word! You will summon Unbeing!

There was a crack louder than any thunder, then a blue-white flash that dissolved everything in pure light. An instant later everything was black once more.

Simon lay on the stairs, panting. Was it truly dark again, or had the flare blinded him? How could he know?

What does it matter? asked a mocking voice. asked a mocking voice.

He pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids until faint sparkles of blue and red moved in the darkness, but it proved nothing.

I will not know unless I find something that I know I should be able to see.

He had a hideous thought. What if, blinded, he crawled past a way out, a lighted doorway, a portal open to the sky?

Can't think. I'll climb. Can't think.

He struggled upward. After a while he seemed to lose himself entirely, drifting away to other places, other times. He saw Erchester and the countryside beyond as they had looked from the bellchamber atop Green Angel Tower-the rolling hills and fenced farms, the tiny houses and people and animals laid out below him like wooden toys on a green blanket. He wanted to warn them all, tell them to run away, that a terrible winter was coming.

He saw Morgenes again. The lenses that the old man wore glinted in a beam of afternoon light, making his eyes flash as though some greater-than-ordinary fire burned within him. Morgenes was trying to tell him something, but Simon, young, stupid Simon, was watching a fly buzzing near the window. If only he had listened! If only he had known!