Time was a monolith in the underground cavern. The blue light from the Pool of Pneumacity was no sun. When Felderon awoke, he examined the fire for some clue to how long he'd slept. Two, perhaps three hours? He couldn't know, but it would have to be enough.

The embers of the blazing fire had turned to cold ashes and they had to move now, or freeze to death.

He stretched his throbbing back, then glanced at a single lump beneath the dark gray cloak by the fire. The old man had gone. And he’d thought he’d seen him creeping about in the faint light. What was the point? Surely they could follow the old creature.

Felderon gazed at Cylene. Even bedraggled, Cylene was kind on the eyes, but he couldn't deceive himself with illusions anymore. Nor projections. She was not a useful prop. And today she would muscle her own weight. He would carry his and even a miracle wouldn't get them to the sage alive.

“Cylene. Time to go—if you're coming.”

Cylene blinked and the crush of reality reflected back in her eyes, though he had to admit, beauty did soften it. How do women do it? A woman was weaker than a man, but she took her strength deficits and evaporated them into air for men to breathe, and then metabolize in service to the woman herself. Beautiful women were bewitching.

Cylene frowned. “What is wrong?”

Felderon gave a mirthless grunt. “Where shall I begin?”

“Nothing new?”

“The old man is gone. But I woke in time to see him sneaking away down the cavern. It isn't as though we had any reason to trust him, so I don't count his abandonment as a particular betrayal.”

“Didn't he say we were bound to get lost—said we’d die without him?”

“He did. But at least we have light. And as long as we do, we may be able to follow him. C'mon.”

Together, they skirted the shore of the lake, the cavern's secrets hidden in deep shadows. Soft, blue light from the lake, faintly illuminated the water's flow from the large open cavern into a river channel. The river coursed through a broad tunnel with a narrow earthen bank on either side for several miles. The light made the going safe, and fairly easy. But at last, the tunnel split, the river with its precious light flowed down the right fork, the mouth of the left tunnel gaped dark, unknowable.

Felderon paused at the fork. "I think we have to go with the water."

"The old man went left," Cylene said.

"How can you tell?"

"He left a track with his walking staff."

She knelt at the mouth of the left tunnel.

"You trust the old goat. Is that wise?"

"He could have avoided leaving the track at all." Her finger grazed the indentation in the soil. "You can see how carefully he marked it for us."

"Is that what you call it--careful? Why didn't he wait for us? Why didn't he tell us who he is? Why didn't he offer his staff for fuel along with ours?"

Cylene sighed. "It's more than a track."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a signature."

Felderon knelt down beside her, closely examining the print.

"Can't you see?" Cylene pointed to the indentation with not a single, but a triple hollow.

"No."

"He turned his staff upside down. The top was hand carved with three small rounds which fit this print. The bottom was not carved. He turned up his staff several yards back, signing to us that we should pay attention. This track is intentional."

Felderon stared, first at the print, then at Cylene. "What are you? Some breed of hound?"

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Cylene snorted.

Felderon pointed toward the left fork. “You want to follow the old goat down into that darkness?”

“We've followed him this far. And he's the only one who knows these tunnels.”

“I suppose he is.”

“I won't force you to follow,” Cylene said, “but I'm going left.”

Felderon flinched. Where did she get that nerve? "I feel strange--as though you know something I don't. What did I miss? When did you figure this out?”

“You don't know me,” Cylene glanced backward at him as she started down the left tunnel.

“That’s certain. And how well do you know the old goat?”

“I don't know him at all—but it seems he knows me.”

"Really? And how do you come to that conclusion?"

"Why don't you pay attention? He knows things about us. I daresay he knows exactly whose son you are. He definitely knows whose daughter I am--"

"Wait—I thought you were a cousin of the Renada royal family?"

"I'm not a cousin.”

Felderon froze. "Who are you?"

Cylene disappeared into the darkness, her footfall softly clacking against the rocks beneath her feet.

* * *

Felderon stared at the void where Cylene had stood. He cursed, and stalked into the darkness after her.

"Who are you?" Felderon called after her. "If I'm going to march after you to my death, I should at least know who it is I'm following."

Cylene's voice was soft, but it echoed off of the cave walls.

"Daughter of the Queen.”

"That's exactly--" Felderon paused, finally perceiving. "But not the King.”

"No. I am her bastard child.”

"Ah. But you are still of high birth.”

“Without birthright.”

“Ah. I feel your pain. How did you come to be in the palace?"

“My mother kept me quite secluded in our banishment, but when she died, one of the king’s hunters saw me gathering fuel to cook with and he brought me by force to the palace. King Olanda wanted to have me. I don't exactly know why. I believe it difficult to live down the shame of my exiled mother’s infidelity. The sight of me mocks his authority and he could not bear that anyone should ever see me.”

“How did you live in exile so many years with the once Queen of Renada?”

“For years she had to disguise herself and me, and work. She was always moving—sometimes very suddenly, before she had a chance to bring me along beside her.”

“Did she lose you?”

“Not exactly. We had a system of codes. She taught me to be alert—to watch for signs of where and how to follow her--how to meet her again. Sometimes her signals were very subtle."

"Like the indentation of a walking stick."

"Yes. That was only one of her signs.”

“You suspect the old man knew about your mother's signs."

"Why not? He did say I smelled of the plague--my mother’s death.”

"You don't smell like plague."

"I smell it everywhere. My nose will never be rid of the stink of it."

In fact, Cylene smelled of rose water, though Felderon would rather die than admit this. "You're the queen’s child. It is nothing to be ashamed of."

Cylene grunted. "I could say the same thing to you."

"Ah--but you are not the sixth son."

"And what, pray tell, is wrong with being the sixth son?"

"You are not familiar with the Seventh Son prophesies?"

"Is your father also the seventh?"

"Aye. He is the seventh son of the seventh son in an unbroken succession of sons. I am the sixth in an unbroken succession of sons. By rights, my younger brother--were I to have one--would be endowed with supernatural powers. By lore, a werewolf, or a snake charmer, but certainly powerful. Certainly celebrated."

"But there is no younger brother."

"Do you know what they say about sixth sons of seventh sons?"

"No."

"Exactly. Because the sixth cannot be spoken of—nay, MUST not be named; he is so loathsome. The seventh son with all his power and fortune, steals fortune and grace from the sixth, making ME the most despised, the most ridiculous, the most GROTESQUE creature of royal creation in the history of the Chalbeams line!"

"I think you overstate the case."

"I cannot believe you are arguing with me when we are both refugees of the Kingdom I--the sixth son of a seventh son--am singlehandedly bringing to the ground. The sage said so himself. Sixth sons crush kingdoms!"

"You created the opening, but your father is the one who is bringing Renada down, I believe."

"You're splitting hairs."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps nothing. My assessment is unerring! Remember, I have seen the mirror!"

"What did you see in the mirror?"

"Do you really wish to know?"

"I told you who I was."

Felderon stifled a groan. "I saw many images, most of them symbolic, I would guess."

"Describe some."

"As you have repeatedly noted, I am not a poet."

"I did not mean to insult you that way!" Cylene's voice echoed of the cave walls.

"It does not matter! There are hordes waiting in the wings to stand in for the job!" Felderon sighed. "Would that a joke was the sum of my crimes—fool is bad, but it is nothing to the hell this war sets into motion."

"And I have actually wished that the Renadan House would fall to dust.” Cylene's voice broke. "I wished this!”

"Then we will both have to live with our stupidity--or die by it."

"Death is preferable, I think."

"What is that?"

From deep within the interior of the cavern, an acrid odor wafted down tunnel.

"Smoke!"

In the distance, a tiny ember flickered.

Felderon funneled his hands around his mouth. "Who goes there?"