THE LIGHT CHANGES so gradually that I fail to notice Puru’s branch dimming and the tunnel brightening.
Three thousand steps. I lose my balance and tumble the final three, landing on my side. My fall is cushioned somehow. Still, I’ve made a lively arrival among the dead.
I sneeze. Gray feathers billow around me. When I stand, they’re ankle deep, like ghostly fallen leaves. I brush them off and am relieved that touching them hasn’t made any sprout from my skin. Puru’s branch lies next to my foot, no longer glowing. I pick it up, but the light doesn’t return. It’s just a branch. I drop it.
By my reckoning, I was in the tunnel for ten hours. Twenty-four full days more until my sacrifice. I begin to count off seconds. One-and-two-and . . .
The chilly air stinks of decay. Glistening lava bubbles drift overhead from left to right under a rock ceiling.
Twelve-and-thirteen-and . . .
The bubbles give out a muddy light. I turn in a circle but can see only a few yards into the gloom.
Twenty-six-twenty-seven . . .
When I complete my circle, the stairway is gone. I spin around, expecting to see it somewhere, maybe gliding away from me. But it’s vanished.
I was unable to climb anyway. I swallow across my parched throat.
Thirty-two-thirty-three . . .
I will search for Admat while ignoring thirst and hunger. If I find him, I will do as he wishes.
If I don’t find him, I will pluck a feather from a warki. First I must meet a warki.
Forty-five-forty-six . . .
“Argenbblahemme.” The voice is in the middle range, neither high nor low. A creature shuffles toward me. I suppose it is a warki. It holds a clay goblet.
The warki is no skeleton. It’s plump as an ostrich, with feathers but without wings.
“Kloddaffflunghwhi.”
“I seek a god called Admat, although he may have another name here.”
The warki’s feathers are short and gray, like those that blanket the ground. Stripped of them, it might look human. I can’t tell whether it’s male or female. Its feet may be webbed, taloned, or toed. They’re hidden in the carpet of feathers.
It edges closer, holding the goblet out to me.
Puru says I should pluck a feather. But the feather may whisk me away, and I want to look for Admat.
I see the warki’s eyes under its feathered eyebrows and between its tiny feathery lashes. Even the skin on its face is downy. It has utterly human brown eyes. Their expression is bewildered and pleading, although its mouth smiles.
The eyes awaken my pity. “How did you die? When?”
“Opoijmb.” It pushes the goblet under my nose.
The liquid is violet colored. It may have an aroma, but I can’t tell through the stinking air. The beverage looks poisonous, and Puru said I mustn’t drink. Still, I’m so thirsty that I’m tempted. I reach out and pull my arm back—and realize I’ve stopped counting seconds. Losing count is worse than the tunnel, worse than the sad air or the chill or the smell.
“Phndosxvtghy?”
Blinking away tears, I go around the warki and follow the floating lava bubbles. I hope they’ll lead me away from the volcano and farther into Wadir. The feathers on the ground shish-shish as I pass. The warki with the goblet shish-shishes behind me.
My stomach rumbles. I see more warkis ahead, dining at a long rickety table. A narrow brook of sparkling violet liquid separates me from them. I try to jump across, but I slip on the feathers and land with my face inches above the stream. If I put out my tongue, I can catch the spray and relieve my thirst. What harm could a few drops do?