Macki slumped against the wall and slid to the stone floor. She had been walking for about two hours or more hours. It was hard to tell. After the stairs were found, she felt a quiet call urging her to follow. It was not a parting of clouds and a majestic beam of light calling her. In her mind, she saw the Weaver herself guiding her, urging her onward. But every novice dreamed of hearing such a call. And after years of service, Macki had come to realize that the call of her mistress was an everyday whisper from the streets littered with those in need.

In the dark passage, surrounded by not but stone and dirt, the priestess began to review her predicament. She was in an older part of the temple, an area less frequented by the clergy. Older temples such as the one in Pagis, which were built during the religious wars, had secret passages or other more sinister forms of protection. The thought of some century-old trap waiting to skewer her was more than a little disconcerting, but her muddled senses did not give much credence to the possibility.

She sat in the dirt, too tired to stay awake and too hungry and thirsty to sleep. Her thoughts were a swarm of flies that flittered about her head. She was just about to doze when she recognized what she was hearing. It was the pat-pat of dripping water. The sound cleared her thoughts better than any tea. "by the strands." She prayed and quickly climbed to her feet using the wall as support.

After another brief pause, she was moving again. After several minutes, she found the source of the sound. She found a small break in the wall that leads to a cavern that was as deep as she was tall. The cave was warm and smelled of damp earth, rich and full of life. It reminded her of a fresh-turned field and spring rains. On the back wall, a boulder sat gripped by the massive roots of a tree. As she got closer, she saw that the steadily dripping water from the cavern ceiling had formed a bowl in the top of the boulder.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

She rushed over on hands and knees and like a wild creature pressed her face to the bowl. The water was cool and went a long way to replenishing her will. She sat with her back to the stone collecting herself. Now that she was able, Macki began to study her surroundings.

What she had mistaken for a natural cavern turned out to be a cleverly hidden room. Around the inside wall of the jagged doorway, she found half a dozen unfamiliar runes of varying sizes. But, in the middle of the floor, she saw Grimnol's mark. Gimnol, eldest son of the weaver and patron to farmers, sailors, and any whose livelihood depended on water. She cursed herself for not having ink and parchment to record her findings. She would need to memorize the characters and their placement. There was no telling if the brothers would allow coming back. Some temples were protective that way.

The sound of footsteps pulled her thoughts from her study. She was being rescued. She climbed to her feet, brushed the dirt from her robes, scooped up her lamp. Again, she was overwhelmed by a feeling that urged her to wait. Was this a trick of an overtaxed mind, she wondered. Had she time to think, Macki may have rationalized the feeling. But the press on her mind came on fast and strong, and with no time to think she froze.

“Get ye movin.” The voice came from the darkness, followed by the sound of a lash and a scream of pain. Macki stood wide-eyed listening to what sounding like a crowd of people moving through the passages. Low guttural chanting, mingled with crying children mixed with the occasional sound of a barked order reverberated though the darkens was maddening.

When the first flicker of light fell across the passage, she realized that her own lamp would give her away. She quickly turned it off and crawled further into the room. As the dreadful parade passed, Macki felt as if someone had stepped on her chest. Every breath was an effort of will. The priestess scooted backward and tried to press her body between the exposed roots. Each footstep pounded in her ear with the promise of discovery and sinister deeds.

In the darkness, eyes squeed tight, and as still as a cornered rabbit, she waited. She waited until the footsteps and chanting voices were far away until their echoes were but a whisper in her thoughts. Only then did she allow herself to relax her grip about the tanged roots and breath without that squeezing pressure.