Heart

November 11, this year
Upper Priest Lake, Idaho
2:45pm PST

Hearts. Still, only hearts under her running feet. Every few minutes she halts, stoops and lets her fingers trace the outline of the symbol embossed in the rock. Of course there is the chance she could be running in a circle, but her gut tells her that she has managed to keep a steady course northward without too many backtrack moments. The imprint of a bird’s head should appear soon—it must.

She’s heard her name called out. Several orders to return or to stop where she is. Eastman had yelled: “It’s more dangerous in there than you’re ready for, Professor. Stop!” When the muffled calls started, including Professor Cremo’s name, she felt her decisiveness was not completely foolish. He’s slipped away, too, she thinks.

Life-sized sculptures of Itonalya warriors, royalty, and other characters out of the city’s own mythologies frighten her to a halt at a corner. The first image she sees in the dim light is a magnificent stone effigy of a maiden holding a long spear—a flowing marble cape draped over her shoulders. Upon her shield is the Eye of Thi. Astrid stares at this masterpiece of ancient sculpture for what feels like a full minute without breathing before she decides the maiden is not Yafarra.

At another stop, a massive work of carved marble depicts the first Guardian of Earth, Mellithion with his sword raised to the heavens and the beautiful Endale in his embrace. The massive bulk of the god Chalshaf and his wounded, bleeding eye tower over them both. The drama of it elicits a tear. She stands at the scene dumbfounded—almost forgetting the danger surrounding her. Reluctantly, she looks to the floor again and follows the hearts.

She is within a story. She is a part of her dreams.

Passing beneath an archway she discovers what she had been waiting for. She stoops low to make sure. She pulls her cell phone from her pocket and touches the screen—risking its light to insure her guess is correct. The stone tile imprint now depicts a heron’s head. She feels the embossed shape. In the center is a raised bump. An eye. Glancing at the cell phone she sees that a message from her assistant Marcel has somehow made its way to her: I’m on my way! Save some discoveries for me. She feels a sudden but fleeting relief. She tucks the phone back into her pocket.

Just north of the archway is a half circle of entrance rows —five separate pathways. She pauses and searches for any sign that might provide a signpost toward the Avu.

When she hears voices not far behind her, she bolts straight ahead into the center aisle. The shelves seem to welcome her.

There are new light sources. Above, the vaulted ceiling is pale green. Stepping out into a round room, like a clearing in a forest, she looks up. She supposes the illumination is reflected sunlight from hidden surface openings in the upper architecture. It is not bright, but it is enough to navigate by.

A half hour? A full hour? A full day? She wonders how long she’s been alone threading the labyrinth. Thoughts scatter from the danger, to another standing sculpture, to the stacks of books, to the joy of being here—here and now.

After another series of direction choices, she stops at the end of a long, narrow path. Beneath the greenish glow is a hemisphere of stone rising from the tiled floor, perhaps eight feet high. It glows like the frosted quartz of Yafarra’s tomb. Astrid can see a host of sculpted figures, Itonalya sentinels, positioned in a semicircle around the dome. She crouches. She watches the room for movement. Looking down, she slides her foot to the side. There is a stone carved head. The eye must be near. She’s made it. But now what?

Several thoughts now crowd for attention. Should she simply call to Yafarra? Should she ask for permission to enter the chamber? What about clothes? Should she remove her coat and offer it to the naked Queen?

“Is that you?” a voice whispers from the shadows just a few feet from her.

“Graham?” Astrid whispers back. She scans for him.

He coughs. She sees his lanky shape dim against one of the sculptures. A welcome surge of relief eases the muscles in her shoulders. She takes a step into the chamber and then freezes when Graham cries, “Wait. Stop.”

A sculpture has one hand clamped upon his shoulder, the other aims a sword into his cervical spine from behind. The sculpture is not a sculpture; it is Yafarra.

“Ag shivcy,” Astrid says. She raises her hands.

“Astrid?” Queen Yafarra asks.

“Lit,” Astrid says.

Astrid is too far away and it is too dim for her to see the Queen’s expression. A moment passes. Down some impossible pathway behind, she can hear security team chatter. Eastman is near.

Astrid lets out a flurry of Elliqui. She tells Yafarra that Graham is a friend, that the enemy is coming, and if there is a way to escape, they must do so now.

Yafarra’s response carries a trace of fear. She asks how long she’s been entombed.

There are sounds of boots on stone.

The answer, “Over a thousand years,” evokes a pained inhale from Yafarra.

She releases Graham and lowers her weapon. Graham takes a step away and turns slowly. Yafarra stumbles toward the ancient sentinels. In the gloom, her bullet wound and the streaks of blood down her body are black. And there’s something else—some kind of white liquid or foam. Astrid and Graham watch her free hand gently touch the faces of the sculptures as she passes them. Even in the faint light, her tears glitter. She mutters a stream of phrases, most of which Astrid cannot translate. But two names she repeats over and over.

“Aethur,” she mourns. “Iteav. Aethur, Iteav.”

After she slides her hand along the brow of the last sculptured sentinel, there is a faint cracking sound. The quartz dome trembles, arcs back and opens, revealing a stairway into the deep.

“Veli,” Yafarra gestures for Graham and Astrid to descend. She lifts the wood tenesh from the floor beside the widening fissure.

She calls out—her eyes pointed over Astrid’s shoulder, “Itonalya! Veli! Veli!”

Marcus Rearden appears beside Astrid. Adrenaline pumps through her body. Her breath leaves her.

“I followed you,” he says passing her.

“Veli!” Yafarra hisses.

“They aren’t far behind,” he adds.

Astrid counts the beats of her heart, watching Rearden join Graham and Yafarra at the next yawning rabbit hole. She cannot yet determine the threat Rearden poses, and the shock of his being a stride behind her in the dark is like a nail dragged along her spine. But what choice now?

A moment later she is standing beside Graham. He takes her hand.

“After you, Rearden,” Astrid whispers.

Marcus descends.

“Gal,” Yafarra says.

The crystal dome closes over them. Astrid Finnley enters into the bird’s eye of the Tiris Avu library holding the hand of Graham Cremo.

Still, she thinks, following hearts.