It is proclaimed: It's No Good

Slowly, with the infinite patience of a man who has learned that haste is the enemy of survival, he pushed himself up and began to look about him.

The chamber was small, its walls of rough-hewn stone, its ceiling lost in shadow above the faint light that seemed to emanate from nowhere. And in the right wall, half hidden by the angle of the stone, he saw a niche.

He approached it, his wet shoes slipping slightly on the damp floor, and looked within.

Upon a stone that had been roughly shaped into a kind of platform, an amulet lay waiting. It was like the others in form and size, a thin disc of metal bearing an image carved with the same exquisite precision. But this image was different—a symbol of fire, tongues of flame rising and intertwining, captured in metal as if the artist had sought to imprison the very essence of warmth and light in this cold, dark place.

He reached out with trembling fingers and lifted it from its resting place.

The metal was cold against his skin, cold as the water from which he had emerged, cold as the stone that surrounded him. He held it for a moment, feeling its weight, its solidity, and then, with movements that were awkward from cold and shaking, he slipped it into his pocket with the others.

The locket with the little girl's face. The two lunar amulets. The spider. The dagger. And now the flame.

He pressed his hand against the pocket, feeling the combined weight of all he had gathered, and stood for a moment in the dripping darkness, listening to the slow fall of water and the sound of his own breathing as it gradually steadied and grew calm.

He turned from the niche where the flame amulet had rested, his pocket now heavy with the gathered symbols of his journey, and faced the dark water once more.

The chamber was cold, the dripping of water a steady rhythm that seemed to mark the passage of time in this place where time had no meaning. He stood at the edge, his wet clothes clinging to his body, his breath misting faintly in the chill air, and looked down into the blackness that had delivered him here.

There was no other way. The path forward lay back through that submerged passage, back through the absolute darkness, back through the cold that sought to steal the warmth from his very bones. He had come this far. He would not stop now.

He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the damp air, and then, without allowing himself to hesitate, he plunged once more into the water.

The cold struck him again, as shocking as the first time, as if his body had forgotten in the brief interval what it meant to be immersed in that liquid darkness. He kicked downward, his hands reaching for the walls of the passage, and soon his fingers found the rough stone that guided his way. He swam with steady, measured strokes, counting them in his mind as he had counted the steps on so many staircases, using the numbers to hold back the panic that lurked at the edges of his consciousness.

The passage seemed longer now, or perhaps it was simply that his strength was diminished, his limbs heavy with cold and exertion. But he swam on, his lungs beginning to burn, his movements becoming more urgent as the need for air grew pressing. And then, above him, the blessed lightening of the darkness that meant he had reached the end.

He broke the surface with a gasp that was almost a cry, his hands finding the stone edge, his arms pulling his weary body from the water. For a moment he lay there, coughing, breathing, feeling the blood pound in his veins as his body rejoiced in the return of air.

He was back at the edge of the stone precipice, before the opening marked with the dagger.

He pushed himself up, his limbs trembling with cold and exhaustion, and stood for a moment, water streaming from his clothes, his breath coming in great clouds that mingled with the damp air of the passage. The dagger symbol on the opening seemed to watch him, to acknowledge his return, to wait for his next move.

He turned to the left.

The tunnel stretched before him, no longer descending but running level, its walls gradually widening as he advanced. He walked with the careful steps of exhaustion, his wet shoes making soft sounds on the stone, his hand occasionally touching the wall for support. The water continued to drip from his clothing, leaving a trail of dampness behind him like a signature, like a claim upon this place.

The tunnel widened further, and then, without warning, his path was blocked.

A massive grating rose before him, its metal bars dark with age, its frame set directly into the stone of the walls as if it had been built when the tunnel itself was carved. The gaps between the bars were narrow, too narrow for a man to pass, and the metal, though rusted, felt solid and immovable beneath his testing fingers.

He peered through the grating, his eyes straining to see what lay beyond.

On the other side, the tunnel continued, but the water that covered the floor here was deeper, murkier, its surface disturbed by some subtle current he could not feel. And as he looked down, following the line of the bars to where they met the floor, he saw it.

A gap.

The grating did not extend all the way to the bottom. Below the lowest bar, between the rusted metal and the silt that covered the floor of the tunnel, there was a space—narrow, yes, but perhaps wide enough for a man to pass if he were willing to submerge himself completely in the cold, muddy water.

He did not hesitate. There was no point in hesitation now.

He drew another deep breath, filling his lungs to their utmost, and then, bending low, he plunged beneath the surface. The water closed over him, murky and cold, and he felt his way along the bottom, his hands sinking into the soft silt, his body twisting to fit through the narrow gap beneath the grating. The metal bars passed above him, close enough to brush against his back, and then he was through.