The descent into the lower fissures was an exercise in sound navigation.
Mira led the way, her left hand resting lightly on the rough dark rock wall, her faceted quartz right arm held forward like a lantern. Every forty paces, she paused, pressing her crystal-clear palm against the damp stone. Her chest chimed with a soft, glass-like shear chord that traveled down the stone veins of the bedrock, returning. Tiny echoes that shook in her ribs.
“Three hundred paces downward,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the dripping water. “The tunnel forks. The left passage is flooded with sulfur mud. The right passage opens into a wide chamber. There are... Dozens of people. Their stones are humming, Ren. But they sound muffled. Like bells wrapped in wet wool.”
Ren Vale followed close behind. His boots stepped carefully on the felt-lined treads Artificer Ren had glued to his soles. His left arm rested securely in the horn splint beneath his new heavy gambeson. With every movement, the overlapping rawhide and ram’s-horn scales slid over one another with a dry, rustling hiss, protecting his rigid collarbone and fragile ribs from accidental contact with the jagged rock walls.
Behind them, Artificer Ren carried the heavy elk-hide tool-roll slung across his back, his diamond loupes swiveled upward, his agate mallet gripped loosely in his callused right hand.
