Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 850(@200wpm)___ 680(@250wpm)___ 566(@300wpm)
“Hear! Hear!” she says, and holds up her hardtack in a toast.
TWENTY-SIX
ASPETH
4 Days Before the Conquest Moon
When I wake up from sleep, I’m sore but resolute. My neck aches from using my scrap-filled backpack as a pillow and I’m a little chilled from sleeping on bare rock. My clothes are damp and my stomach is empty, but I’m determined.
I’m not going to let Barnabus beat me. I’m going to join the guild. I’m going to figure out how to protect my father and his hold and everything will be fine.
Everything will be fine, I repeat to myself over and over as I rub my aching back.
Everything will be fine, I chant silently as Magpie groans and pukes on the floor nearby, clearly hungover.
Everything will be fine, I tell myself as I pick up my shield for the day and it feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds. If men like Rooster can do this, I can certainly do this. Strangely enough, thinking of Rooster helps. I picture that squat, odious little man besting me at anything guild-related and it lights a fire under my arse. I straighten and beam at the others, who look as if they’ve had a rough night. “Let’s get ready to head out, everyone. Time’s wasting.”
“What do we do about Magpie?” Lark asks, glancing over at her aunt.
“Same as we did yesterday,” I tell them briskly. “She can guard what’s left of our things. It won’t do us any good to drag her along.”
Kipp hands out more bits of hardtack—smaller bites than yesterday’s portion, but I’m still grateful to have them—and we rope ourselves together while Magpie pulls a shredded blanket over her head.
“Which way should we go?” Mereden asks, looking to Lark.
Lark shrugs. “As long as there’s no spiders, I don’t care. Anyone else have a preference?”
Gwenna looks to me. So does Kipp. It makes sense—I’m the expert, after all. I think for a moment. “One of the tunnels sloped downward for a bit. I think we’ll head there and see if there are any changes in the rock. The other sections of the cavern were littered with rubble from the city. If we can see a crosscut of the rock itself, maybe we’ll know how far down—or up—we have to go to hit the ruins.” I don’t know if what I’m saying is accurate, but it sounds pretty good to me.
Kipp gives his shell a firm, hard rap, as if agreeing. He hops to his feet and looks over at us, his hand on his sword belt.
I nod and follow after him.
It’s hard to track time in the tunnels. Lark’s using an oil lantern with a slow-burning wick, so it’s impossible for me to tell if hours pass as we travel deeper, or if it simply feels like it. We take our time today, looking over the rock walls carefully. If we go too deep, we could miss the levels of the ruins entirely, so we need to find the layer of rock and debris where the ruins are. It’s just that we keep finding nothing at all, no matter how many twists of tunnel we head down or how much we stare at the rocky walls of the cavern.
We take a break, and when Kipp pulls more hardtack out of his shell, I realize it must be lunchtime. I try not to think about the spider legs disappearing into his mouth and focus on being grateful for the food he kept stored away for us. So far the morning has been a bust.
“What about the dowsing rod?” Mereden asks, looking up at me as she licks her fingertip and uses it to pick up the crumbs on her cleavage, then eats them. “You think that would work?”
I shrug—I have no idea. “Don’t dowsing rods find water?”
“Aunt Magpie thinks that anyone with Prellian blood will be able to find artifacts,” Lark offers. “Magic calling to magic and all that.”
“I can safely say I do not have Old Prellian blood,” I point out. The ancestry of my father’s hold goes back three hundred years at the very same spot, and even before that, our ancestors were mountain folk. Old Prell was not anywhere near the mountains. Shame. I would love to have magical blood.
“We can take turns,” Lark says, pulling the stick out. “It can’t hurt, right?”
I want to point out that it sounds like a silly waste of time, but what if I’m wrong? They’ve been relying on my so-called expertise all morning and I’ve led them nowhere. “Can’t hurt,” I agree, and gesture at her. “You want to give it the first shot?”
She hands the staff with the lantern over to Mereden, and takes the dowsing rod in her hands. It’s a simple stick with a fork on one end—an uneven fork, I can’t help but notice—and she closes her eyes and concentrates. “Lead us to the riches of Old Prell.”