Darkwell - Douglas Niles [85]
Near the end of the beam, he found something that caused his heart to quicken again. At first, his touch told him it was merely a pebble, firmly wedged beneath the wood. But his delicate fingers felt the pebble carefully and detected numerous facets on a very smooth surface.
"Stones don't have facets," he murmured. "But gems do!"
As a pebble, the stone was rather small, but if it indeed was a gem, it was one of quite respectable size. Eagerly he got out his dagger and pried at the bottom of the beam. In moments, he was rewarded as the object popped free and rolled onto the open floor.
"That's it!" he gasped, picking it up. Even in the darkness his keen eyes could make out the crystalline outline, fatter than his finger. The hard surface felt cool to his touch, and he suspected that he held a gem of surpassing wealth, though he could not discern its nature. From its great size, he judged that it would be an amethyst or bloodstone, since it was too large to be a ruby, emerald, or diamond. Still, the thieves had missed something valuable after all!
Then the beam he had moved shifted again with a dull thump. He heard a scraping sound from the ceiling and scampered out of the way just as a great rock broke free and tumbled onto the chamber floor. Another rumbled free, and Pawldo quickly dove through the door. A thunderous crash emerged from the room as the entire ceiling collapsed, sending a cloud of dust into his face and shaking the foundation of the stronghold.
The walls around him rumbled, and then the whole place started to collapse.
* * * * *
"What if he doesn't come back?"
"What?" Randolph looked up, irritated, from his mug. Pontswain's question, after an hour of total silence, jarred him unpleasantly.
"The king. What if he doesn't come back from his quest?" Pontswain leaned forward, his eyes alight.
The two men sat alone in the Great Hall of Corwell. A low fire smoldered in the hearth, and the hour was late. Each of them held a large tankard, now nearly emptied of ale.
"What kind of a question is that?" Randolph did not try to hide his annoyance.
"A good question… quite practical. I should think, to you and me, it would be a question of great pertinence." Pontswain smiled, his lips creased in an oily grin.
The lord's eyes flickered, just for a moment, to the heavy oak mantle. The silvery glow of the Crown of the Isles caught his pupils, illuminating them unnaturally.
"I will consider what to do when the king fails to return only if he fails to return. Are you suggesting that a week's absence is sufficient cause for usurping the throne?"
"Of course not," Pontswain soothed. "I was just wondering, that's all."
"Good night, sir," snapped Randolph. "And I'll thank you to wonder about something else." The captain stalked out of the hall, but he could not shake a vague sense of disquiet.
"What if he doesn't return, indeed?"
* * * * *
Yazilliclick shivered in the growing storm and settled to the ground in the shelter of a gaunt and skeletal tree. Where had everybody gone? Why didn't they come back and find him? The sprite had tried to fly after the others, but the wind had blown so forcefully that he had little control over his course. So now he sat and watched the snow settle on his wings and cover his legs.
The sprite shook more from the effects of loneliness and fear than from cold. Though dressed only in the leafy green tunic and leggings that were his permanent and sole garment, he – like most creatures of Faerie – did not suffer extremely from the ravages of weather.
But flight was another thing. Yazilliclick was a strong and steady flier, but he weighed very little. Flying against the wind was always a challenge, and he had no chance at all of making progress into the teeth of this northern gale. Plus he still carried the wineskin that Tavish had given him before they started out, when he had asked to help. That dragged him down still more, and now his friends had all forgotten him!
Certainly