Kilim scrambled up the slope. “Bikilar! Run! Back that way!”

The double-headed snake tore at the heap of Dwo.

Tommalt and Talwyn pulled her by the arm into the serpentine tunnels. Kilim limped and hopped on his bad leg. His pale brown cheeks lost their ruddy tint, black circles formed under his pale blue eyes. He choked and spat wads of white froth.

Eithne scolded herself. “I was useless back there! Dwo is dead!”

The way twisted and turned.

Tommalt tried to console her. “It ain’t your fault, mum. There was nothing you could do. It all happened so damn fast!”

From under a shield-like obstruction, a huge, warty, dead yellow arm swiped at them. “Oy! Zalag! Ki-ne tésh-me!”

Eithne fell back against the rocky wall to avoid the black-taloned fist. A large, purple eye blinked around the overhang.

Talwyn screamed. Tommalt stabbed.

Kilim pulled Eithne down another dark tunnel.

Shock overwhelmed her. Dwo might be alive if it not for me!

The lantern light flickered over the walls. Eithne shook her head. Sickness rose in her gorge. No! I never wanted any of this to happen!!

Kilim paused at a three-tunnel intersection, then pulled her right. They went around a bend and into a narrow way. They turned sideways. The breast of her steel-ringed cuirass scraped the rock wall. Tommalt cursed and shoved himself through.

Distant, frustrated shouts echoed from the walls.

“What would Eowain think of me?” She felt tears on her cheeks, rubbed at them with the back of a hand. Just another little girl, playing at men’s work, that’s what.

Talwyn her face pale, tugged at Eithne’s sleeve, eyes round. “You fought, me arlodhes! As well as me breders, as well as any den.”

But Eithne had a vision of her mother, hands on hips, scowling at her from the door of their home. Fighting’s no business for a girl!

Kilim’s skin had gone pallid and clammy. He staggered on his injured leg, paused, then with a weary whisper, he pointed down a branch in their way. “Thorin gilaim.”

Shouts of ogrish rage resounded through the tunnels.

“But Dwo—?”

Kilim shook his head. “It is war, lady. Dorak morak Gimain. War unto Death.” He put his fist to his heart. “He died well. Dorak will welcome him.” Then he pointed again down the branching tunnel. “Thorin gilaim.”

Eithne put a hand on his shoulder, felt his loss in her own heart, like a great gaping wound. “He was very brave.” But the words felt empty, meaningless.

He scowled at her. Growls and shouts of rage still echoed through the tunnels. “Bofugilzak. Come on.” Kilim hefted the crossbow and limped on.

Another huge, glittering cavern of glowing blue lichen opened before them. The vaulted ceiling was obscured in mist far over their heads. An unfathomable pool of wyrd-lit green water lapped at the floor of the chamber. On its shore, a fire of bracken, roots, and branches had been heaped up.

Beside the fire sat a giant, cross-legged. His black, upthrust tusks ripped at the whole haunch of a roasted cow’s leg.

Kilim went still.

The giant’s purple eyes blinked at them.

The dead yellow skin and warty brown bumps, the wicked black talons of its long arms, all spoke of his kinship to the other ogres. Yet when he lumbered to its feet, they saw he was taller and more powerful than any of them.

He shook the braised, half-eaten cattle-haunch like a club, and his tyrannical bellow rattled the walls of the chamber.

Kilim raised his crossbow and—thwack!—the burnished bolt struck true. The shaft buried itself in the beast’s right knee.

The bellow rose to a shriek. The knee buckled, the giant stumbled.

The greasy haunch of beef slipped from his grasp, cartwheeled through the air, and splashed into the pool of water.

All of Eithne’s training, all her experience with bandits and brigands, all her anger with herself, rushed through her arm. She stabbed the point of her sword straight into the giant’s wyrd white pupil.

The beast fell to his good knee, howled with pain, and grabbed his ruined eye with both black-taloned hands.

Eithne danced left around the creature and sliced at the right arm and shoulder. The beast recoiled, but the left knee wouldn’t hold. He teetered, off-balance.

Kilim cranked the crossbow’s winch.

Too slow!

Eithne shoved with all the strength of her shoulder into the giant’s hip.

The giant tottered, his long arms thrashed.

Then, slowly, like a tipping tree, over he went into the wyrd green pool and splashed into the unfathomable depths.

In a frothing cascade, bubbles boiled to the surface.

The string of Kilim’s crossbow clicked into place. Talwyn bounced on her feet and clapped. Approval gleamed in Tommalt’s eye.

The last gurgles burst and rippled on the gleaming surface of the pool.

Kilim pointed along the marge of the pool. “Thorin gilaim.”

Eithne cast a last look at the pool, then followed Kilim. A short tunnel twisted into another large chamber. Many dripping columns depended from the ceiling. The floor sloped into a gully.

Kilim led them down, then followed the dry bed of the ancient watercourse.

Weariness burned through Eithne’s whole body. She picked her footing through the rocky gully.

Talwyn scampered beside her, parried and thrust with her little knife. “Dat was marthys! Yow! Zing!” The lantern swayed in her hand. She looked up at Eithne. “Did ye pub prys wanna be a warrior?”

Eithne shook her head. “No, not always.” She felt tired, heavy, used up. “When I was your age, I dreamed I’d be carried away by a handsome shynn-prince. I’m named for a woman of legend. Eithne, daughter of the one-eyed giant, Balor.”

Kilim scowled and made a sign with one hand, to ward off evil.

“Ooo, legends! Tell me! Tell me!”

“In the tale, Balor learned of a drymyn’s prophecy”—much like Father learned about the geas on me, she thought—“A prophecy that he’d be killed by his own grandson. So he imprisoned his daughter, my namesake, in a great tower, away from all men.”

The gully narrowed and the ceiling dropped. They entered another narrow tunnel.

“Eithne was cared for by twelve women. Their only job was to keep her from ever meeting a man.” She grimaced. Much like I was kept in Dolgallu. “But a man named Cian gained entry to the tower. Balor had once stolen a cow from Cian’s father, so Cian wanted to steal a treasure from Balor in revenge.”

Shouts and screams of rage no longer echoed through the tunnels. Perhaps the giants have lost our trail.

“Well, with the help of a magickal shynn named Biróg, Cian seduced Eithne. Later, she gave birth to triplets. But Balor sent all the babes to be drowned in a whirlpool.” Eithne sidestepped a broad boulder. “The messenger drowned the first two, you see, but he dropped the third in the harbor, where he was rescued by Biróg, the shynn.”

Kilim held up a hand and they stopped. He went to the edge of the lantern light, peered ahead, then waved them on.

She wondered what Kilim might have heard or seen to give him pause.

“Then what, me arlodhes?”

“Well,” said Eithne, “Biróg took the child back to Cian’s father, who gave the child to his brother, Gavida the Smith, to foster the boy.”

Talwyn’s eyes were wide. “Uh-huh! Wh’appened next?”

Eithne took it for encouragement. “Well, that boy grew up to be the god Trógain of the Many Skills. He slew his grandfather Balor in the mighty battle that drove the giants from these lands. And so the prophecy came true in the end, no matter what Balor did.” Eithne grimaced. Is this what’s happening? Are Eowain and I caught in such a prophecy, no matter what we do?

The ground rose again, the ceiling dropped. Eithne stooped and went on. “Anyway. That was my dream. When I was a girl. I thought a handsome shynn prince would make me his wife. We’d have many children, and they’d grow up to be as great as Trógain Many-Skills.”

Talwyn and Kilim hardly hunched at all as they went on, but Eithne and Tommalt were bent nearly double. “It was a silly dream, to be sure.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, me arlodhes. I—”

Kilim put up his hand again and they stopped. He made a motion for them to stay where they were, then went ahead alone.

Eithne suddenly felt she’d spent a too much of her life waiting. Peered into the darkness for her father’s lantern light, waited for him to return from the wood shop, smelling of saw dust and cut lumber. Waited for the man of her geas to come and marry her.

It was as if she wasn’t supposed to figure out what to do with her own life. She should just wait for a man to come, and then live his life.

And now the moment is here. Eowain is the man, if the drymyn are right. So now what? She had a vision of herself, a young woman, pregnant, waiting to give birth. A matron, nursing their child, waiting for Eowain to return from war. He’d be her link to the world, he’d take care of everything.

And then what? When will my life begin? What had her namesake done in that great tower all those years, with only twelve women for company? The stories never said. As if it didn’t matter. She might as well have been sleeping. Or dead.

Kilim came back to the edge of the lantern light. “Belthoruzak. Thrónorbek gilaim.”

“Where are we going?”

His expression was puzzled. “I just told you. This way.” He turned and went on. Eithne and Tommalt rolled eyes to each other, then followed him.

The way ahead forked again. Kilim chose the rising branch.

She wondered where the other branch went. Deeper into the Abred? What’s down there? She thought about the strange matter of choice. A different tunnel taken might have avoided the ogres, or the lizard, might have bypassed the two-headed snake and the death of Dwo.

In the lantern light, the slimy, natural rock tunnels ended in another well-worn shaft of limestone with iron stiles driven into the wall. Kilim leaned against the stones and bowed his head, then gestured up the ladder.

Fear filled Eithne’s mouth like bitter bile. “What’s up there?”

Kilim gave her a taciturn shrug. “The shrine. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Is it? Weariness washed over her. She sank down onto the tunnel floor. What damn choice do I have anyway? She gritted her teeth. Resentment welled up in her like a red tide. I didn’t have any choices as a young girl, so why should I have any now?

Kilim gave her a queer look, gestured up the shaft.

Tommalt knelt beside her. “You alright, mum?”

Eithne shook her head. “Everything I’ve ever done was to please my father,” she said. “But it was never enough.”

Kilim arched an eyebrow at her, and Tommalt frowned. “Beg pardon, mum?”

Eithne put her head in her hands. “Just give me a minute. I just need to rest.”

Kilim plucked at her sleeve and pointed up the shaft.

“No, damn it,” she snapped. “I need to rest. Don’t you ever just need to rest?”

Kilim leaned on his knees and shook his head. Then he staggered down the tunnel away from them. From the dark, his retches echoed back, then went silent. He limped into the lamp light. His complexion was pallid. Even the reddish tinge of his skin had faded to an unhealthy pink.

“Damn it. Here I’m feeling sorry for myself.” She’d entirely forgotten Kilim was injured. “Sit down. Let’s have a look at you.”

He frowned at her, shook his head, and gestured up the shaft again.

“It can wait. Sit down. Let’s have a look at those bites.”

He puffed up his chest and crossed his arms over his beard, shook his head again. Then he blinked his pale blue eyes and wobbled on his feet.

Eithne put a hand out to steady him. He swatted it away, then fell against the wall. She eased him down to the floor. He protested, but she pushed his hands aside.

The two-headed snake had taken a chunk from his calf, and though it wasn’t very deep, it was bloody. The leg itself was swollen and bruised, and the wound already festered.

Eithne remembered Dwo’s convulsions, the froth that had sprayed from his lips before he fell. “Poison.”

“But the snake’s venom killed Dwo instantly. How’s he survived so long?”

“I couldn’t say. But clearly it’s still at work.” She took the belt from her waist and cinched it around the leg, just under the knee. “Can you climb?”

He scowled and thumped his chest with a fist. “I’ll damned well climb out of here.”

“Alright, come on then. Up we go.”

Kilim climbed into the shaft above her. Eithne sheathed her sword and dagger, and began the climb. Talwyn scrambled, one-handed with the lantern, and Tommalt followed.

Trepidation filled Eithne’s heart. The preacher in the black robes—Inloth—he said I was cursed. Is he right? Dwo’s death haunted her. He deserved better than to be left to the appetites of that hideous snake.

Fear and uncertainty settled on her chest like a stone’s weight. Tightness clawed at her throat.

But even if he’s right, what choice do I have? I can’t stay in these tunnels forever. I have to learn what’s happened to Eowain, to my people.

The shaft was narrow, barely half an arm’s span around. Her back scraped against the wall. The limestone was moist with the slime of centuries. She reviled at the touch of the wet, rusty iron stiles in her hand.

Above her, Kilim’s booted feet stopped and stood on a rung. He fumbled along the wall, then found a knob of limestone, pushed and twisted. A click echoed down the shaft.

He grunted down at her, then reached over his head and pushed again.

Stone ground against stone and set Eithne’s teeth on edge.

Kilim went on up the ladder, then reached a hand down to her.

Eithne hurried up the last few rungs, eager to be out of the tight shaft.

Two braziers illuminated a square room of granite blocks. The high-priestess Corchen, with an oaken staff in her hand and white robes on her portly frame, sat on a large, impressive stone seat.

A man in his middle fifties, in a white drymyn robe with his hair shorn in the Kârnite fashion, stood at Corchen’s left hand.

Seated on a fur-padded stool was another small man. His hair was black and grizzled, his beard braided and impressive. He wore a strange, black suit of steel plates, articulated at the joints, which covered him from the neck to the ground.

Together, they regarded Eithne and her companions with equanimity.

Eithne drew her sword and brought it to bear.

Corchen smiled down the length of Eithne’s blade. Shadows flickered over her face.

“I see you’ve met our servants.”

Once Talwyn and Tommalt were clear, Kilim pressed at an inconspicuous place on the wall.

With a groan, the stone slab ground back into place by some hidden mechanism and covered the shaft.