A white cat bolted from her doorway and streaked past the Weapons down the corridor. This roused the Weapons to surprised murmurs.
“A tomb cat?” Brienne mused aloud.
There was general agreement among the Weapons. What in the name of the heavens, Karigan thought, was a tomb cat doing in her room? Then it occurred to her she’d seen it there before. This can’t be a good omen…
They swept past the common room. Garth stood in the doorway in surprise as they passed by, his teacup held forgotten in his hand.
“Karigan?” he said with incredulity in his voice.
But she could not stop as much as she wanted to, and so only gave him a feeble smile and a wave.
Some of the Weapons grabbed lamps from along the Rider wing, for beyond lay the abandoned section of the castle that remained in a perpetual state of night. The lamps created a temporary dusk, but night fell in behind them as they hastened on.
If Karigan hadn’t the Weapons to guide the way, she’d be completely lost. The abandoned corridors branched and intersected in so many places and seemed to stretch for miles that she began to think of it as an unlit labyrinth, with secrets hidden beyond every corner. But they did not pause to unravel secrets. Fastion and his Weapons had a destination in mind and headed toward it without faltering. Rodents with gleaming eyes scattered before them.
Left, then right. Right, then left. Down sets of stone stairs into deeper, darker levels of the castle. Karigan did not even try to remember the way, and simply incorporated it into her streaming consciousness. Keeping to her feet and keeping up was her priority.
They stopped.
Karigan plowed into Lennir, who gave her a stern look.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. Some honorary Weapon she made.
At some point they’d entered a wider corridor and when Karigan saw lamplight glance off the polished stone surface of a coffin rest, she understood why. The corridor had to be wide enough to permit a funeral procession to pass through, and before them was a set of double doors equally wide. They had reached the entrance to the tombs Fastion sought.
The white cat leaped onto the coffin rest, watching the movement of lamps and pouncing on reflected light, its tail swishing in concentration.
Fastion and Brienne consulted before the doors. The light revealed ancient script and carvings of the gods above them. Most prominent, of course, were Aeryc holding the crescent moon and Westrion with his wings spread, riding his black steed.
Fastion uttered some command and swords whispered from sheaths. Karigan put her hand to the unfamiliar hilt at her side but did not draw the sword, feeling too clumsy. Just the sound she’d make would disrupt the silence the real Weapons exuded.
Instead of a sword, Fastion drew out a key and turned it in the locks, then carefully tugged on the door rings. The doors did not shift. He tugged harder, but to no avail. Another Weapon helped, but even their combined efforts failed to open the doors.
Fastion pivoted on his good leg, the lamps casting grim lines across his forehead. “Our way is blocked. We must consider the Heroes Portal.”
The other Weapons did not speak out in dismay, but Karigan could tell from their heavy countenances they were displeased. It meant gathering horses, riding all the way down through the city, out of the city itself, and losing valuable time.
The white cat jumped down from the coffin rest and landed beside Karigan’s feet. It rubbed against her leg, purring loudly. Then, with a stretch, it padded off in the direction they had come.
“Or, we could,” Fastion mused, “follow the cat.”
Maybe this was a dream after all, Karigan thought. Who ever heard of Weapons following cats? But follow the cat they did.
They found it sitting on its haunches and licking its paw at an intersection of corridors, as if waiting for them. When they approached, it darted off down the corridor to the right. They followed, the cat ghosting in and out of the lamplight, treading a trail it was familiar with. Either that or they were all on a mouse hunt. Karigan almost giggled at the image of Fastion with feline whiskers.
She wiped her brow with her sleeve. The fever inspired ridiculous notions.
Eventually the corridor dead-ended at what looked more like a natural rock face than castle wall. Fastion scratched his head.
“I don’t remember this.”
“Nor I,” said Brienne, “but most of my time is spent in the tombs.”
The others agreed it was new to them.
Primitive drawings were etched into the rock face—stick figures carrying…sticks? Were they spears? Creatures like birds and mammals were also etched into the rock.
“I’ve seen pictures like these before, though,” Brienne said. “Elsewhere in the tombs.”
“Yes,” Fastion replied. “I remember them.”
“Who did these?” Karigan asked. “They look like a child drew them.”
“No child,” Brienne said. “At least, not that we know of. These were made by the oldest of the old who once settled these lands. They dwelled here long before the Sacor Clans, but what they called themselves no one, except perhaps the Eletians, knows. We call them Delvers. The tombs were not entirely built by the D’Yers—portions were formed from natural niches and caves in the bedrock. But before the tombs, during the time of the great ice, we think the Delvers lived in them. The caves must have provided shelter from the cold and predators.”
One of the drawings was of a large catamount-like creature with long curving fangs.
Their own little cat gazed at them thumping its tail impatiently on the dusty floor. When it saw it had their attention, it walked to where the stone face met the corridor wall and vanished.