As Childheart, alert for enemy presence, walked past the twelve rooms, six to one side of the hall and six to the other side, he saw that each doorway opened wide into a large chamber filled with light from a floor-to-ceiling multi-paned window occupying the bulk of the wall opposite the doorway, with empty bookcases framing the window and lining the remainder of the walls. Inside each room there was a king size poster bed, a vast wardrobe, a small desk and chair in front of the vast window, both an upholstered chair and a sofa, and several nightstands and end tables. All of the furniture would have been ready for guests, but for the thick dust that coated everything, including the bed linens and rugs on the floors—suggestive of what one might find in a crypt rather than a bedroom.
Childheart stepped, lightly tapping his hooves, past the last of the doorways and stopped; the rest of the hallway bent sharply into darkness just ahead and off to the left. He was beginning to turn to go back to where he’d left his two friends when he smelled smoke, as if from a fireplace, and changed his mind—especially since, commingled with the smoke, he scented something baking; all were in need of nourishment, but especially Thorn. And in addition, he suddenly realized, where there is food there is nearly always something to drink.
Childheart stepped without caution around the corner into the blackness that concealed what was almost certainly going to be an imminent encounter of an uncertain sort. Foremost in his mind was the smell of something desperately needed by Thorn. Besides, whoever—or whatever—it was had certainly by now been aware of his presence for some time—and likely also of the existence of his companions. Indeed, the only other sound besides that of his hooves on the stone floor was that of Starnee yanking boards off windows—so faintly in the distance that it seemed as if the two friends now occupied different worlds.
Childheart continued walking the hallway that continued to bend, to the left and down, and then slowly and continuously up again, and to the right. He had no sense of how far he had gone—or of how long he had been traveling. But it seemed to him to take an inordinate amount of time to cover ground contained solely within the confines of even the largest of castles. He stopped to listen; he no longer heard Starnee, or any sound other than his breathing, and saw nothing as of yet. Childheart wondered how long it had been since he left the front hall—and his friends—behind him. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? An hour perhaps?
He resumed walking; and the odor of smoke and the scent of something baking increased, first gradually, and then markedly so. At about the same time he noticed a faint light drifting into his field of vision ffrom just around a corner up ahead and to the right, its orange glow flickering off the passageway wall to the left. Childheart stopped and announced his approach.
“Hail! Seeking only a peaceful encounter!” He then waited a moment for a reply. Hearing none, he walked several more paces and stepped around the corner into a moon-ish light beaming dimly from an open doorway atop a wide staircase. Childheart ascended the dozen stairs and stopped just before the doorway. Then, with head lowered, and with gentle, but resolute steps, he crossed the threshold and halted once again.
In the dim light he saw what appeared to be a large library with a high beamed ceiling and smooth stone walls on three sides covered floor to ceiling with polished wooden bookcases, all of them, as before, entirely empty. Straight ahead, as well as off to the left, there was a large, leaded glass window on each of the two walls, revealing only blackness behind the panes, as if someone had piled dirt against them. But off to the right there was a fireplace the size of a foundry furnace, its low flames of little utility except to provide a soft, velvety gleam to the black granite floor and to silhouette the presence of a figure standing in front of the fire, his back to Childheart.
The figure pivoted on one foot to face Childheart, but accomplished the maneuver so efficiently that the unicorn was unable to get a glimpse of the person’s face in the firelight. “Childheart, it is so good to see you! Please!” the person said effusively, as whoever it was stepped lightly toward the unicorn. “Please come in and warm yourself. There is also food and drink for your comfort.”
“Kahner!” Childheart said, making no movement.
“Childheart, please, come and rest yourself,” Kahner said, extending his arms, “and let me both hear news from you and tell you what has happened to me. The news is both good and bad, but I trust that our stories together will render circumstances more favorable.”
As Childheart approached Kahner, not yet able to see his face or how he was dressed, he noted the voice of someone who seemed much older than the Kahner he assumed was just lost in the recent battle, alerting Childheart to the distinct possibility that he was approaching a phantasm formed by dark powers or perhaps an imposter. So little of the Bairnmoor under the control of Sutante Bliss was real or true any longer that very little could be trusted at face value. The person who seemed to be the one in whom Beatríz had invested a vast store of affection stopped, turned into the light, and gestured welcomingly toward the fire. Childheart was relieved to see that it was, indeed, Kahner. Kahner reached out a hand and touched Childheart on his forehead. Childheart nodded a warm greeting in return.
“Please,” Kahner said again, “lay yourself down by the fire and let me tell you what has happened—and then please tell me how it goes with you and the others.”
“But first, Kahner, I must attend to Thorn and Starnee, whom I left in the entry hall. Thorn is injured and both require nourishment.”
“Childheart, I will return with you and do what I can to assist them, but, please, let us talk first, if only for a few minutes.”
Hesitantly, Childheart folded his legs and lay down on the rug next to the hearth, while Kahner seated himself in one of the three leather chairs that were grouped between the fireplace and a large desk. Kahner poured two drafts of fermented cider—one in a cup for himself and the other in a shallow bowl for Childheart—and pointed Childheart to a tray of various things to eat, including fresh-baked bread and roasted vegetables. How it was that they had come very recently into being wasn’t at all obvious, and Childheart trusted that clarifying other more important matters would at the same time explain the origin of the food and drink.
“Childheart,” Kahner said quickly, “I was so glad to learn only hours ago from this vantage point that at least three others of our mission party are still alive. But,” he said with a sigh before continuing, “I’m afraid to say that I do not have good news about two others from the group.” Childheart’s ears flickered distress reflecting the torture of being forced to wonder which of the four absent children were, it seemed from Kahner’s tone, no longer alive. Involuntarily and plagued with guilt, the unicorn wrestled over which children he hoped most would still be alive. “Which two of them, Kahner?” asked Childheart, his voice thick with consternation.
“Beatríz and Elli,” said Kahner, sounding sadly reticent.
“Are they dead?”
“Yes.”
Childheart exhaled heavily through his mouth. “How do you know?”
“Because . . . because I was there.”
“How did they die? Who killed them?”
“I need to start from the beginning, Childheart, or it won’t make sense.”
“It will never make sense to me, Kahner, never, even if a provident Good is to blame—never. But first tell me how they were killed and who killed them.”
“They died when the earthquake struck—in the tomb.”
“In the tomb?”