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the dampness.
"It was nothing," he said offhandedly. "Stand here a moment. I must . . ." She
heard the dull sound of something heavy being pulled or pushed across the
floor tiles. "Now step carefully," he said. "A staircase lies ahead."
"Down or up?"
"Why, down."
Pierrette cautiously extended one foot, and did not place her weight upon it
until it was firmly planted on the first tread. With one hand again on Minho's
arm, she felt rough stone brush her shoulder, and she understood that the
stairway was narrow, or the king would have moved over to give her more room.
She counted each step as they descended, and when they reached the end of
them, memorized the number. The rough, irregular floor underfoot now felt like
plain stone, not tile, and grit rasped under her soles. Again, Minho spun her
around, then led her forward. In places the floor was slick, in others gritty,
like the drying stone of a tide-washed sea cave.
Again, Minho bade her stand alone. She heard a rasp and swish as of heavy
cloth being shaken out. She smelled the oily odor of a just-snuffed lamp wick.
But why would Minho put out a lamp? Entering a room, it was more usual to
light lamps, not extinguish them. She tracked his footfalls back and forth
several times, and at last felt his hands behind her head, loosening the
blindfold.
She blinked. One dim lamp flickered on a worn table. A single backless stool
stood close by. Something large and round-topped stood beside the table,
draped in dark cloth. Was that what Minho had covered with cloth, to hide it?
If so, she wanted to see it. All she could tell was that it resembled a
round-bottomed pot, upended and resting on its rim.
The single lamp's glow only illuminated the near wall. She then understood
Minho's actions: had more lamps been lit, she would have seen farther, and
might have observed . . . she did not know what, except that there were things
the king did not want her to see. What she did see were banks of shelves
packed with round objects the ends of hundreds of scrolls, most without wooden
shafts or handles, or tags to identify them. "This is it?" she asked,
dismayed. What was so special about this ugly, gloomy place? But there was
something . . . it was a diffuse, tingling sensation not exactly unfamiliar.
What was it? When had she felt it before?
It was the aura of magical power. She had felt something like it in
Moridunnon's lair, and on other occasions as well: in a Gallic fane where a
hot spring bubbled up from bedrock crevices into a pool, and . . . with the
goddess
Ma
. Was it Minho's power she felt? Then why wouldn't she have sensed it before?
No, it was the power not of a person, even of a great sorcerer, but of this
place itself. This place, and specifically . . . there.
The ancient rough-hewn stones were almost outside the lamp's range. A moment
or two earlier, before her eyes had adapted, they had been so. Now she sidled
toward them. She placed both palms on the
waist-high rim of what appeared to be an ancient well. Of course. This cavern
was not only a magical place. Like the grove outside Citharista, it was also a
sacred one or once it had been. Minho had not created this place. At most, he
had rediscovered it. No Minoan had hewn those ancient stones. No metal tools
had ground them like that, irregular, but fitting seamlessly. They were far
older than metalworking.
They enclosed a basin just large enough for a small person to bathe in, had
that been their purpose. But they were neither a Roman bath built over a
sacred spring, nor a natural pool. She could not see far into the well, but
she sensed that it went down, and down.
"Come away from there!" Minho had noticed her leaning over the well. "Be
careful. That hole is deep and dangerous."
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"Where does it go?" She did not move away, but continued to peer downward. A
waft of warm air brushed her face. Its acrid odor made the inside of her nose
tingle, and reminded her of a forge, of glowing charcoal and hot metal.
"Come." Minho grasped her arm, firmly enough to hurt. "It's nothing important.
Just a hole." She would learn nothing more from him, so she allowed herself to
be guided away from the well. She knew enough.
It was very deep, threading its way into the very roots of this island. And
the heat, the odor? Was that a relic, a remnant of the ancient volcano that
had in the world of Time destroyed everything of the
Minoan kingdom except what Minho's spell had saved? Did molten rock still
seethe at the core of his realm?
"This is a frightening place," she said. "I can feel its magic."
"The real magic of my isles is not in this place," Minho said. "It is all
here." He tapped his forehead.
Pierrette was sure he believed that or wanted to.
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