The stairs had not been carved for kings, and it hadn’t been built for trade.
It was an ancient, upright escape chimney cut through three hundred feet of solid sandstone by the Schismatic miners three hundred years ago, winding upward in a steep, claustrophobic spiral of jagged steps. For three hours before dawn, Ren Vale led the long column of survivors through the darkness. His boots climbed step by step while the Warden of the Deep and Lord Ren guarded the lower landing and Master Corin helped the younger apprentices carry the water barrels.
The ascent through the upright chimney proved the stubborn endurance of common folk who had refused to die in a royal basement.
Master Corin walked near the center of the column, his strong, callused hands supporting an elderly bookbinder whose knees were trembling from tiredness. Behind them, Brother Ren moved with easy, calm grace. He carried an eight-year-old apprentice girl on his back. The barefoot Saint felt neither the sharp sandstone rungs beneath his soles nor the biting chill of the lower shafts. His scarred face was radiant with quiet joy. His lips whispered gentle verses of thanksgiving that gave heart to every mother in the line.
