Cold brass clinked against the iron buckles of Barnaby’s tool pouch as he stepped away from the basalt dais.
“The key is secure,” the old man said, wiping rock dust from his leather apron. “Now what? Do we crack that iron hatch and go hunting for Varga’s throat?”
“We do not,” Kaelen said, stifling a yawn behind his sleeve. “I have eight hours remaining before Track One strikes two hundred and eighty-eight. Walking uphill on an empty tally is against my medical principles.”
Barnaby let out a rough bark of laughter. “Medical principles? You mean your afternoon nap.”
“The two are closely related,” Kaelen replied. He turned and ambled back through the narrow fissure toward the warm mineral spring, his felt slippers shuffling across the smooth shale.
Let Varga pace his iron floors, Kaelen thought. Running five hundred feet up a secret flue right now sounds like actual cardio. An eight-hour soak followed by ten thousand pounds of passive tendon strength makes far more sense.
In the cavern by the warm spring, the air was soft and humid. Steam rose from the green water in gentle curls, drifting toward the natural fissures in the high limestone ceiling.
Kaelen pointed a lazy finger at the cedar soaking tub resting beside the stone pool.
