The light died thirty paces past the dripping lip of the Upper Arch.
It didn’t fade with the gentle, amber shift of an autumn evening in the valley. It vanished suddenly behind a huge shoulder of dark gray pale limestone that jutted out from the eastern wall like a castle wall. Outside, the alpine wind was still howling across the Devil’s Rib, throwing bursts of frozen sleet against the limestone cliff edge. Inside, the air went dead, heavy, and cold as a tomb slab. He smelled of damp stone flour, stale sulfur, and ancient stone that had never known noon.
Tomas Reed halted his stride. He set the butt of his ash walking stave against the rock floor and stood motionless. That let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Meanwhile, his ears took the measure of the underground space.
Beside him, Captain Sile Rook lowered the brass storm-lantern from his belt. Sile opened the draft shutter with a quiet click, struck a spark from his flint wheel. Then it touched the glowing char-cloth to the twin linen wicks. The yellow flame flared up behind the mica panes, throwing a warm, trembling circle of light thirty feet across the damp flags.
