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“We cut through under the mountain,” he said softly. “Hakkon told me the way.”
I shook my head, not wanting to enter that darkness. For the first time, staring into that throat, breathing the musty, mineral tang of the air gusting out, I understood the fear the Rift-kin held of the Fae and the land below the earth. Like the eye of the dead warg, it was a terrible, primal terror, icing the marrow in my bones.
But Miro straightened his back, nudging the unhappy horse into a walk. As we drew closer to the entrance, he sighed in relief: standing out as an oddity among the charms was an old metal lantern hanging from a peg, filled with fresh oil.
“Thank Wargyr, he came through on this, too. Like I said, you’re valuable. Simply having you in his possession will be a blow against Bane.” Miro fumbled in his pockets, pulling out a pack of matches. The first two he dropped as soon as they lit, his fingers shaking ever so slightly, and on the third failure he looked at me. I smirked.
“Cirri,” he said, his gaze serious and calm. “If something comes for us in the dark, I’m leaving you while I run.”
My smile faded as I imagined what things might be in those shadows, and Miro got the fourth match lit. He held it to the wick, and when the light was burning steady and clear, he plucked it from the peg.
He tightened the arm around my waist, speaking low against my ear. “Good thing you’re mute. We need to be silent all the way through. Quick and quiet wins the race under here.”
The horse shook its head too, sending its mane flying, dancing from side to side as Miro guided it under the timbers dripping with charms. I reached out, plucking a piece of cold iron from a loose nail as we passed.
True to its name, it was icy against my palm. The metal itself was no more than a long blob, twisted and warped, but it was a comfort as the daylight faded.
The horse’s hooves clopped on the smooth floor, echoing in the silence, and I felt Miro flinch behind me. The mine shaft extended forward with the tiniest hint of a downwards slope, into darker places.
To hell with it. If Bane thought I’d left him, if he wasn’t going to come for me… then I’d rather be dead by ghosts or Fae than let Miro use me.
The lantern’s soft light made the shadows dance. I could feel Miro holding his breath, his palm clammy with anxiety against my belly.
I rubbed the cold iron charm in my sweaty palm, and dropped it. Probably to be forgotten in the dust for a thousand years, or taken and squirreled away by some fell creature of the night, but there was always a chance.
A thin, dim sliver of a chance that I hung all my hopes on.
Find me, Bane.