Chetwin's Space

Could that figure on the bed be the dead queen? No, for she was not Cryggmoren. Then who? And why was she so secret? He fell asleep still searching for an answer.

. . the main tunnel came to a sudden end—not against natural rock . . . but a wall of chiseled stones fit so tightly together there was not a crevice anywhere, not even for a spider. In the middle of that wall was a door sheathed in iron plate with three great hinges on the left side, and three massive bolts on the other rammed deep into its rock frame. Wycan eyed that gate intently. His way out at last?

He remembered now how . . . he’d resolved to leave the mountain and find his folk, or at least, find out what had happened to them. . . . In that moment he resolved to . . . set out on his true quest, which was to find the place where he belonged.

Wycan gazed down at the dagger, at a loss. That Ythac should give his own first knife to him! . . . It was not until much later that it came to him: You surprised us all, Ythac had said, when the contest was over. Yet that knife had been right there in his bag!

He (Wycan) put this reed to his lips and blew until his cheeks ached but all that came out was a rush of air.

"They (Edsyr and Bomac) want to catch you out in something they can take to Morok. . . . They want you locked away for good. Be careful: as I said, they’ll be watching you." For a moment, (Ystrid) stayed looking down on him, then, without warning, she bent, kissed his cheek, and hurried out.

Bomac pushed up, and thrusting Wycan down onto the mat stomped hard upon his ribs. There came four short, sharp cracks setting everyone a-gasp. Wycan cried out as pain shot through and dark closed in like a drawstring bag pulled tight.

When at last the guard unlocked the door and let him go, Wycan looked suitably penitent. But inwardly, he was a hawk about to fly!

Reaching the cavern entrance, Gyral leaned out, craning up and down the passage. “Wycan? Wycan!” No reply. Gyral frowned. “Now where did he go so fast?” he muttered. Children, Gyral was looking straight at Wycan, standing so close they could have shaken hands, but the man didn’t see him.

Why do folk make their homes in such places, when they could live in comfort and plenty in a comfortable village like ours? I can’t tell you, yet they do. I suppose that home is where you were born and what you’re used to, and where you’re not kept standing on the mat.