Page 98 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

They walked for what seemed like hours, sometimes turning a corner, but otherwise moving in a straight line. Their staves tapped out a rhythm.

Once Kit coughed, and Loth tensed. “Hush,” he said. “I would rather not wake whatever dwells down here.”

“A man must cough when need be. Andnothingdwells down here.”

“Tell me these walls don’t look as if a basilisk carved them.”

“Oh, stop being such a doomsinger. Think of this as another adventure.”

“I never wanted an adventure,” Loth said wearily. “Not even one. At this moment, I want to be at Briar House with a cup of mulled wine, preparing to walk my queen to the altar.”

“And I should like to be waking up beside Kate Withy, but alas, we cannot have everything.”

Loth smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, Kit.”

“I should think so,” Kit said, his eyes shining.

This place made Loth think of the Nameless One, and how he had torn through the earth until he found his way into the world above. His mother had often told him the story when he was a child, using different voices to frighten him and make him laugh.

He took another step. The ground underfoot gave a hollow rumble, like the belly of a giant.

Loth stopped dead, clutching the torch. Its flame guttered as another cold wind feathered through the tunnel.

“Is it a quake?” Kit murmured. When Loth did not reply, his voice grew tense. “Loth, is it a quake?”

“Hush. I don’t know.”

Another rumble came, louder this time, and the earth seemed to tilt. Loth lost his footing. No sooner had he caught himself than a terrific shuddering began—first soft, like a shiver of fear, then more and more violent, until his teeth rattled in their sockets.

“It’s a quake,” he shouted. “Run. Kit,run, man. Run!”

The iron box pounded against his back. They barreled through the darkness, desperately searching for any glint of daylight ahead. It was as if the very mantle of the earth was convulsing.

“Loth!” Kit, his voice shot through with terror. “The torch—my torch is out!”

Loth turned on his heel, winded, and thrust out his torch. His friend had fallen far behind.

“Kit!” He ran back. “On your feet, man, hurry. Follow my voice!”

A creak. Like weak ice underfoot. Small rocks, like gravel, peppering his back. He threw his hands over his head as the roof of the tunnel came pouring down.

For a long time, he expected to die. The Knight of Courage fled from him, and he whimpered like a child. The darkness blinded him. Rock smashed. Glass shattered and rang. He coughed on foul-tasting dust.

And then, just like that, it stopped.

“Kit,” Loth bellowed. “Kit!”

Panting, he reached for his torch—still lit, miraculously—and swung it toward the place he had heard Kit calling out to him. Rock and volcanic glass filled the tunnel.

“Kitston!”

He could not be dead. Hemustnot be dead. Loth shoved at the wall of debris with all his might, threw his shoulder against it time and again, struck at it with the ice staff and pounded his fists bloody. When at last it gave way, he reached into the rubble and hauled at the rocks with his bare hands, and the air down here was like half-set honey, sticky in his throat . . .

His fingers closed around a limp hand. He shoved more glass aside, his muscles straining with the effort.

And there, at last, was Kit. There were the eyes Loth knew, their laughter gone. The mouth, so quick to smile, that would never smile again. There was the tablet about his neck, twin to the one he had given Loth at their last Feast of Fellowship. The rest of him was out of sight. All Loth could see was the blood that seeped between the rocks.

A desperate sob heaved out of him. His cheeks were wet with sweat and tears, his knuckles bled, and his mouth tasted of iron.

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