Twenty steps took him, blinking, into a chamber no larger than the one he had come from but so utterly different that, like his companions, he could only gaze in wonder.
They had found a treasure cave heaped with gold and jewels and all manner of precious chests and bundles of finest linen and silk cloth. Strangest of all, the chamber’s guardians lay asleep, seven young men dressed in the garb of a young lord and his attendants. They slept on heaps of coins with the restful comfort of folk sleeping on the softest of featherbeds. The young lord, marked out from his attendants by the exceptional richness of his clothing, lay half curled on his side, with one cheek resting on a palm. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. His fair hair set off a complexion pink with health. A half smile trembled on his lips, as though he were having sweet dreams.
“Seven sleepers!” exclaimed Sigfrid in a hushed voice. “The church mothers wrote of them. Can it be that we’ve stumbled across their hiding place?”
“I can count!” retorted Baldwin indignantly.
“Didn’t we read about the Seven Sleepers in Euseb?s Church History?” Ermanrich asked.
“Lord preserve us,” swore Gerulf. “That’s Margrave Villam’s lad, his youngest son, the one called Berthold. I remember the day he disappeared. Lady bless us, but I swear that was two years or more ago.” Fearful, but determined, he crossed to the young lord and knelt beside him. But for all his shaking and coaxing, he could not wake him, nor could any of the sleeping attendants be woken despite their best efforts to break the spell of sleep.
“It’s sorcery,” said Gerulf finally. He gave up last of all, long after the others had fallen back to huddle nervously by the stairs, which led up through rock toward the chamber above.
The glowing bauble made the chamber seem painted with a thin gold gauze, but shadows still lay at disconcerting and troubling angles, swathes of darkness untouched by light. “I think we should get out of here,” said Ivar unsteadily.
“What about the Quman?” asked Baldwin. “I can’t run from them anymore.” He knelt and scooped up a handful of gold coins, letting them trickle through his fingers.
Shadows moved along the floor of the chamber like vines caught in wind, twining and seeking.
“Baldwin!” said Ivar sharply as a thread of shadow snaked out from the treasure and curled up Baldwin’s leg. “Move back from there!”
Baldwin yawned. “I’m so tired.”
Ivar darted forward, got hold of Baldwin’s wrist, and shook him, hard, until all the gold scattered onto the floor. “Don’t pick up anything!” The bauble rolled out of Baldwin’s hand and spun over the floor, coming to rest with a clink against a chest of jewels. Shadows writhed at its passage.
“Don’t take anything from here,” said Ivar harshly, turning to stare at the others. The light from the bauble began to wane. “It’s all enchanted. It’s all sorcery! I’ve seen sorcery at work.” The old hatred and jealousy rose up like a floodtide in his heart. He seemed to see Hugh leering at him from the shadows that massed beyond the treasure, and within the heart of those shadows he sensed a sullen enmity, whispering lies in his heart: Hanna is dead. Liath hates you. “Let’s go!” He tugged Baldwin mercilessly backward and pushed him toward the opening made by the stairs.
Gerulf got a spark from his flint, but it died on the blackened torch stub. A second spark spit and caught, and the torch flared to smoky life. They scrambled up the stairs with Gerulf right behind Baldwin and Ivar at the rear. Cold tendrils washed his back, but they let him go. The pure gold light behind him gleamed with greed and ancient anger.
He stumbled over the last step into the cool, empty chamber where the others waited for him.
“There’s another tunnel here,” said Baldwin, who had gone ahead.
There was nowhere else to go, but quickly they discovered they had fallen into a maze. This was no simple burial tumulus, with a single straight tunnel leading to the central womb where ancient queens and princes had been laid to rest in the long-ago days, but rather a labyrinth of corridors, some low, others so high that Ivar couldn’t touch the ceiling. All wound back on themselves and crossed in a bewildering pattern made more confusing when Sigfrid thought to leave a mark at each intersection so they’d know when they’d doubled back. They discovered quickly enough that they were walking in a complicated circle.
Finally, exasperated, Baldwin grabbed the torch out of Gerulf’s hand. “This way!” he said with the certainty of one whose beauty has always gotten him the best portion of meat and the most flavorful wine.
