1

Beneath

THE VIEW WAS ENOUGH TO make Wynn nauseous.

Through the darkness, her eyes picked out the rugged surface of the rock sitting mere feet below her. Despite the distance being one that many a lark—or creature with thoughts—would consider manageable, its height made Wynn’s vision spin. She turned back, her small paws gripping the tall, ridged face of the rock more tightly now.

For a moment, Wynn stayed there, finding it quite unfortunate that she was a lark who could see in the dark—more notably a swirl-ear, a lark just larger than a raccoon, and no more menacing than a badger. They held their long, swirled tails up like flags as they walked, only lowering them to swish when upset.

Wynn’s slightly curled ears folded against her head; she felt a small bead of sweat roll down her pointed snout. She felt her tail swish against the rock face she clung to.

It was hard enough traveling miles through the tall plants of her home and navigating down the tight, twisty tunnels underground, but this.

Wynn couldn’t even stomach another peek at the ground below. Her heart thumped at the memory, and her fur began to bristle, from the brown of her back to the cream of her belly.

This was too much.

Wynn gave herself a shake.

I’m almost there, she thought, The city can’t be too far from here.

She willed her paws to move, but they didn’t budge.

“Come on,” she muttered to herself. “I’m so close to finding them. I just need to go a little further.”

After a bit more arguing with herself, Wynn found the strength to move. She continued to inch her way down, her curled tail sweeping against the rock face with each shuffle. By the time her paws reached the ground, the weight of the pack she wore against her light-blue cloak seemed to have doubled.

As she caught her breath, Wynn gazed around at the surrounding walls of dirt, rock, and soil. Before she could reach for her map tucked away in her pack, her long ears picked up the sound of distant chatter.

Intrigued, Wynn followed the noise, her eyes scanning the darkness of the underground path—till she found herself in a massive cavern.

She stopped and took in the sight.

Light trickled in from a giant crevice in the rock roof above, and beams rested upon a large, still pool of water. Surrounding the pool were rippled markings that indicated paths for carts and larks. These paths curled and twisted along the ground, leading to long, endless tunnels and large hollowed-out crevices for burrows, shops, food storage, and gathering.

As Wynn neared, the larks traveled to and from the paths, making their shadows shift and wobble against the small patches that emanated from carefully placed cobble-bark torches.

She had reached it. The City Beneath the Ground.

Dimrest, Wynn thought, a small, tired smile spread across her face.

As Wynn picked her way through the milling crowd, they wove around her like a stream around a large rock. She scanned them for a friendly face but often found an annoyed or blank pin-like snout gazing back. Mosshrews, larks that resembled shrews, made up a majority of the Dimrest. The larks were known for their skilled tunneling, scouting, and moss-like hair that ran from their heads to their tails.

“Pardon me,” Wynn said to a passerby, “I’m looking for these fellows…”

The mosshrew merely glanced up before waddling by, its beady eyes full of disinterest.

Wynn padded up to another mosshrew, this one pulling a small cart of clay pots of different sizes.

“Excuse me,” she asked, “are you familiar with the Ears—”

“Scram!” the lark huffed. Wynn backed away and stumbled over a small, roped post into a few crates of orange melons and dried green herbs.

“Hey!” piped up another mosshrew wearing an apron. “Careful!”

It scrambled over and helped Wynn up. Before Wynn could reply, she was already shooing her off.

“Sorry,” Wynn apologized.

The mosshrew just tutted to herself, shaking her head as she inspected her damaged produce. Wynn turned back to the crowd and resumed her search.

She sighed. Well, these aren’t the warmest larks.

As she began to approach an elderly-looking mosshrew, she heard a voice.

“Looking for Ears of Dim?” it squeaked behind her.

Wynn turned to see a young mosshrew, his whiskers tangled at the ends of his snout. Moss-like fur bushed along his eyebrows.

“Pardon?” Wynn asked.

“Ears of Dim,” he repeated. “You’re looking for the Ears of Dim, correct?”

Wynn nodded, surprised. “How did you—?”

“This way.”

She was cut off as the mosshrew was already vanishing into the crowd.

Wynn sheepishly followed, scanning the crowd for the young lark. She caught a glimpse of him as he waited for her to gain ground.

“Unless your paws have turned to mud, I suggest you pick up the pace,” the mosshrew said. “The Ears don’t like to be kept waiting.” With that, he was off again.

Wynn followed him, hardly keeping up as the lark darted through the maze of rocks, nooks, and tunnels. Eventually, Wynn stopped to catch her breath as he vanished behind a rock.

“If you could—just wait a second!” she called. But he did not reappear.

Wynn looked around, noticing for the first time that she was on the outskirts of the bustling city. Here, only tall, jagged rocks kept her company. The chatter of larks and rattling of carts that once filled the air had quieted into a distant murmuring.

Or perhaps I’m wasting my time following a lark who’s a light short of a candlestick, she thought morosely.

As she trudged along, a feeling of annoyance grew with each step. No greeting. No introduction. Not even a name. Just who does this fellow think he is having me scrambling around—lest this be some cruel joke on me?

But those thoughts vanished as Wynn squeezed past two rocks into a small clearing.

Before her stood a wall of flowering moss that cascaded down. It covered a small opening in the wall. She gazed at it, puzzled. It grew the only foliage she’d seen since she’d first ventured down to Dimrest. As she approached, she noticed lark tracks in a small depression leading toward the wall.

This has to be where he’d gone, Wynn thought. Hopefully.

Gently, Wynn pulled back the curtain of green and peered into the tunnel. It twisted downward into darkness.

Wynn stepped forward.

AS WYNN WALKED DOWN THE narrow passage, her ears caught the sound of far-off voices.

She neared a small chamber and paused near the entrance, listening.

“Hopefully, that settles things with those greedy barons in Knotrest,” a voice grumbled. “Last thing we need is our scouts getting tangled in their mess.”

“Indeed, was nonsense to begin with,” agreed another. “Such a squabble over ripened squash, nay the length of a whisker.”

There was a ton of laughter at that.

“Well, no use circling the topic,” interjected a gruff voice. “I will see to it we get on with our next order of business.”

“Yes, the missing nectar bottles of Firth Street?” someone suggested. “Complaint pitched by one Cecilia H. and Marius B. Whiskeright.”

There was an audible groan from some in attendance.

“Always with those two,” one bemoaned. “I thought it was settled that their neighbor mistook—”

“No, no, the traveler,” a voice corrected. “Our scout says the swirl-ear spotted earlier is seeking our council.”

“Swirl-ear…” the gruff voice muttered. “Now what would one of those recluses want from us?”

“It’s unknown,” said the previous speaker, “but to actually leave the cover of Tallstalks and come this far, it must be of some importance.”

Wynn’s fur stood up at the comments. They knew I was coming! Her mind flashed back to what the young mosshrew had told her. Expecting…they’re expecting me. Her heart pounded.

She had found the Ears of Dim.

Wynn listened on to make certain.

“Bah!” the gruff voice said. She heard the mosshrew pause and sip something. “We’ve had larks travel further to meet us. I’m not impressed.”

A voice yawned. “I see no reason to wait further. If it takes the lark this long to find us, it must be taking its time. Maybe viewing the wonders of the city.”

“The swirl-ear was right behind me,” squeaked a familiar voice—the young mosshrew. She’ll probably be here any second now.”

“Perhaps our thoughts are of no importance to this swirl-ear,” chimed in another speaker.

“Come now, the poor thing is properly weary from their journey,” a calm voice empathized.

“Many visitors are weary—but on time,” said the gruff voice. “If there is nothing more of substance to discuss, then let’s call this meeting to a close.”

Wynn felt a rush of panic at that. The last thing she needed was her journey to be moot due to her nervousness. Before she could stop herself, she hollered loudly from the entrance.

“I’m here! I’m the swirl-ear you’re speaking of.”

The voices that had muttered amongst themselves grew silent.

Wynn waited till a calm, clear voice answered her.

“Enter.”

Wynn’s paws met the cold, stony floor as she entered the hollowed-out chamber. She idled near the entrance and took in the room.

Rows and rows of no less than forty mosshrew sat upon seats carved against the curved walls as though for a spectator sport. Bright torches illuminated their activities. Some mosshrew drowsily sipped nectar from flower buds and leaves, while others gnawed on twigs coated in sap. A few peeked up from books or glanced up from writing on paper parchments, only to return their gazes to their activities. In a far corner sat a large wall of books and scrolls that reached the ceiling. On the opposite side, near another passageway, was a wall lined with barrels overflowing with flowers, glass bottles of nectar, and other fresh vegetation.

In the center of the room sat a small, silver stage shaped like a disc. The ornate image of leaves and branches was intricately etched into the sides. To Wynn, it was as if a giant had dropped a coin from his pocket.

“Welcome, young swirl-ear!” a loud voice spoke, and with that, the room quieted. “First time in the City of the Beneath?”

Wynn turned to the voice and spotted a mosshrew with gray fur. Unlike the others, her fur wasn’t in patches or tufts, it gleamed almost silver. Near her stood the younger mosshrew from before. The gray-haired mosshrew sat in the middle of the first row wearing a small smile. “I can read that awed expression on any lark’s face. There’s no such city like it in all of the Agrestal.”

Wynn nodded.

“Well, I’m glad our scout did lead you here,” the mosshrew said.

“Scout?” Wynn asked.

“Me,” the young mosshrew piped up, “though I should be going—right Eavera?”

The gray mosshrew nodded.

As the young one walked past Wynn, he whispered, “The floor is yours.” He pointed to the small disc at the center of the room before exiting through the tunnel.

Eavera met Wynn’s gaze.

“Well, come close,” she said. “I promise you we won’t bite. We are larks, just like you.”

As Wynn walked closer to the podium-like disc, she noticed three burly mosshrew in the shadows of the chamber, all holding halberds—long staffs with an iron axe-like tip. They were decorated with thin-plated armor resembling woven roots. They stood silently, their eyes trained on her and only her. Others in the room continued their chatter.

“Why do you seek our knowledge?” Eavera asked. “Doesn’t your village have a leader or council to guide you?”

Despite the mosshrew’s frailer appearance, she had an intense gaze and sternness to her tone.

“Well yes, we do.” Wynn fought to steady her voice, as she could feel their eyes burning into her fur. “But I have a problem they can’t help me with, and I was told by a friend that you may be able to help me.”

Wynn paused to gather her words, emotions beginning to well up inside her as she thought.

“Well, out with it,” said a familiar, gruff voice impatiently. Wynn saw it came from a mosshrew with whiskers so long they brushed the ground. Like many of them, he had graying fur and an intenseness to his gaze.

“I’m looking for a thief,” Wynn finally said, “a lark capable of casting horrible spells from the shadows, who has the ability to fly. I do not know his name. I’ve heard the elders of the village call him The Caster of the Malignant Shadow.”

Murmurs grew among the crowd as Wynn continued.

“The caster stole something important from my village under the cover of night, and despite my village’s attempts to stop him, he got away,” she went on. “I have come here to seek your guidance on finding this caster. Without the item, my village is quite…defenseless.”

Wynn felt a pang; it hurt her to speak of her home in such a way, but it was true. The City of Dimrest had armored guards with sharp weapons, dizzying pathways, tall rocks to scale, and a large number of fierce mosshrew with fiercer gazes.

Her small village had none of this. And without their only defense against bandits, beasts, and any other danger, it was only a matter of time before whatever luck they had left ran out.

Evera was intrigued. Her eyes gleamed.

“What did the caster take?” she asked.

Wynn shifted her gaze to a nearby wall. “I cannot say,” she said. “It is…not something I can share. I am sworn to secrecy.”

“Oh?” said the gruff mosshrew. “And yet you seek our advice while hiding this?”

“I am sorry,” Wynn said. She turned to face them, nervous but firm, and repeated, “I’m sworn to secrecy. If I told you, I would be breaking a vow as guardian. Something I cannot do.”

Wynn bowed her head. “I know I’m not a lark of Dimrest, and I know this is a lot to ask. But I humbly beseech the guidance of the Ears of Dim to find this caster and to make well with my village.”

Wynn looked up to see Eavera studying her, her expression was unreadable. Meanwhile, the room had erupted in chatter. Wynn picked up the words “foolish,” “fool-hardy” and “venture-smitten.”

Ouch, Wynn thought. “Venture-smitten” was a harsh word saved for folks who daydreamed a lot but did very little. Wynn wanted to huff. As if the climb down here was little!

But she struggled to push away a nagging thought.

One that had plagued her ever since the start of her journey.

One that would prove them right.

Finally, Eavera raised her paw, and the room quieted. She closed her eyes and spoke.

“We’ve been watching that caster—ever since he first crossed into this side of the Agrestal lands. He’s a crafty one who has even managed to shake our scouts a few times. It is regretful that we failed to spot him and warn your noble village. But know this, young swirl-ear…” Eavera opened her eyes, and they burned with an odd fierceness. “He is dangerous, so much so that we have forbidden any Dimrest scout to go near him. It is evident his motives are sinister, as well as the methods that fuel them.”

She met Wynn’s gaze. “But, I have read your eyes, and I know you will not heed any warning to quit your journey and return to your kin. You will seek him with or without our words.”

Wynn silently nodded.

Eavera scanned the room. “Although we have differing opinions on your quest, we will provide the knowledge needed to find him.”

The room fell silent enough for Wynn to count her heartbeats.

“This is the decree of I, the Great Orator of the Ears of Dim,” Eavera said. “If any should disagree, say nay.”

There was a small cough, a slurp from the sipping of nectar, and the scribbling of quill on paper.

But no mosshrew objected.

Eavera turned to Wynn, her words loud and clear.

“Listen close, young lark, as your life may depend on it.”