As we drift, the gloom thickens, the enclosed tunnel that surrounds us narrowing, like a long throat swallowing us whole. Down we sink into the obscured depths. I fight the climbing panic in my chest, the instinct to claw my way back toward the light. I am breathing. I am alive. The water will not take me.
As we hit the bottom of the spring, pressure shoves against my feet. With Zephyrus’ guidance, we float upward toward a separate branching tunnel, bubbles streaming from our open mouths.
My head breaks the surface. Releasing Zephyrus’ hand, I tread water, peering at our surroundings. We’ve reached the heart of a prodigious cave, all dark rock against which the echoing splash bounces. My teeth chatter around the shell, and I promptly spit it out, swimming to the edge of the pool and dragging myself from its icy clasp. Water pours from my dress onto the smooth, stony ground. The drenched fabric adheres to every generous curve, so my body feels more exposed than if I were wearing nothing at all.
Zephyrus, meanwhile, hauls himself from the spring with ease, lean muscle displayed beneath the clinging cotton of his clothes. A glimpse is all I allow myself, no less and no more, before I push tomy feet and look elsewhere. I have seen a man’s form before, but never one so revealed.
I brush the thought away as if it were an errant cobweb and focus on the chamber. Tunnels branch from the main cavity. Its ceiling is supported by multiple arches glowing with faint pink light. “This is Under?” I assumed it would be more fearsome.
“Not quite.” Zephyrus squeezes droplets from the hem of his tunic. “The mountain is a neutral zone between Under and Carterhaugh. See that archway? Passing beneath it will lead you into Under.”
The path ahead vanishes into the murk. I release a slow, shaky breath. I have come this far. I cannot stop now.
“There are three things you must know if you wish to leave Under alive.”
My throat dips with a nervous swallow, but I nod in understanding. After all, I have heard the sordid tales.
“The first thing to remember,” he says, lifting a finger, “is that you must not eat or drink anything offered to you.” His expression, pressed into solemnity, holds a curious allure. “The wine tastes sweeter, the fruits brighter, the meat is impossibly rich with flavor. Once you begin to eat, you will lose your sense of self.”
Decades before, one of the novitiates failed to resurface following the tithe, or so the story goes. Mother Mabel returned to Under, only to find the woman dead, having gorged herself for so long her stomach split clean in half.
“The second,” he says, “is that you must not stray from the path.”
“The path?”
“The path,” Zephyrus emphasizes, and gestures to the ground.
Indeed, an uprise of grass sprouts from the bedrock a stone’s throw ahead, which passes beneath the carved archway. A chilled gust belches from the passage, reeking of decomposed plant matter. I choke on the taste.
“The path will keep you safe,” he says. “Do not stray.”
This is Under, an unfamiliar current, and Zephyrus is my anchor. I will follow his instructions without complaint. “And the third?”
“If you must remember one thing, let it be this: never speak your name aloud. Ever. Should any of the fair folk learn your name, they will have power over you, more power than you can ever imagine. Keep it safe. Trust no one.”
“What of your name?”
His mouth curves too sharply to be pleasant. “My name has already been claimed by another, so you may use it freely. It will make no difference.”
“What do you mean your name has been claimed?” As I fall into step beside him, we pass into the dense gloom of the tunnel. Quiet like a void, like a tomb.
Nothing. I see nothing.
“Once your name is known,” says Zephyrus, “the sound is captured and stored in a glass bottle. It may be sold, or bartered with, or given to another, or set free, though rarely are the fair folk amiable enough to do the latter. Whoever among their kind possesses your name may dictate your every movement, the where and when and how of your life.”
Is it the darkness that makes his reply slither and spit like a viper? I wrap my arms around my front as we shamble onward. Beneath the chilly air, a warmer, tamer breeze skims my ankles. “There’s nothing you can do?”
“When your name is called, it is impossible to ignore. Only death can break the bond.”
Then I must keep my wits about me.
One moment, we shuffle in utter blackness, a low pulse of sound building in my eardrums, and the next, the walls fall away, the ceiling climbs, the space before us bleeds red. It is not natural, this light.
We stand on the bank of a wide, underground lake. It expands so far into the distance that I cannot see the opposite shore. At my feet: grass. Safe to tread, though I do not know if I am willing.
In the center of the lake floats an extensive wooden platform the size of a barley field, on which a crowd of creatures has amassed, writhing to the blood-pounding rhythm of thundering drums. Large glass orbs boblike lanterns in the water, flushed pink, occasionally a richer scarlet. It’s obvious we have intruded on a celebration of sorts.
I peer upward, startling in surprise. There hangs the moon, only I do not recognize it. The globular shape reminds me of a yellowing growth attached to the ceiling, except it is not a ceiling, but the sky. A few stars throb dully in the darkened fabric.
