“Why am I still alive?” Tark asked, aware that the quarrel could be loosed at any moment. “I can’t stop you.”

“Nobody can stop me. Today, right now, the future of Lyrian teeters on a knife-edge, and I get to determine which way it will fall. To side with Maldor will preserve my people and provide me with a long life as a noble lord. They might even grant me one of the few remaining displacer women as a companion.” He paused, his eyes momentarily distant. “To side with Galloran would buy me death and grant victory to my ancestral enemies.”

“You don’t have to die,” Tark said. “You could still try to flee.”

“I will not flee. I’ve fled enough. If I kill you, I will have no reason to flee. If I let you destroy Felrook, I will remain at your side and see it done. If my people must fall, I will be man enough to fall with them. There would be no place for me in the world after that.”

Tark felt a glimmer of hope. “Are you still undecided?”

“Not anymore. Funny. I came down here still uncertain, angry, all the possibilities dancing in my mind. I doubt anyone could have guessed what would sway my final verdict. Displacers have a reputation as selfish schemers, and my personal reputation is among the worst. But in the end I’ll make this choice based on friendship. It’s even surprising to me. I’ve never had friends before. Not real ones. Now I have three friends in the world, Tark. Three people who I truly love and respect. None are displacers. None serve Maldor. My friends are Jason, Rachel, and Galloran. In the end, with the fate of Lyrian in my hands, I’m not willing to let them down. I couldn’t harm them and live with myself. They’ll never know about this decision. They’ll never know how much their friendship meant to me. But I’ll know, and that’s enough.”

Ferrin lowered the crossbow.

“Really?” Tark asked. He had turned, offering his arm as a target rather than his chest. He had been braced to attack Ferrin after the quarrel hit. He had been braced to drag himself, bleeding, toward the orantium vein.

Ferrin gave a nod. “Naman made me angry. But I don’t care about him any more than I care about Maldor. Why should either of them influence me? You treated me well when the seedmen came for me. Galloran, Jason, and Rachel have consistently treated me well. They wanted this, so they’re going to get it. Besides, I gave Jason my word. Nobody has ever asked that of me. Not directly. Not knowing who I was. It pleases me to reward him for it.” The displacer seemed to relax, as if uttering his intentions had made the decision real.

“If you’re serious, we ought to hurry.”

“Agreed. I know where the sealed portion of the mine begins, but it could still be a chore to reach the vein itself. Before Naman apprehended me, I had considered suggesting to Galloran that I join you, but I worried that he might object to my presence here at such a sensitive time.”

Tark was already gathering gear. “Nobody can stop you now. I expect I’ll be glad you’re with me before the end. This is a weighty responsibility for one man.”

Ferrin collected the gear that Tark could not carry. The displacer led them deeper into the mine, taking turns that Tark had memorized. After a long stretch down a straight tunnel, they reached a wall of rubble. Deep engravings etched the walls. Tark understood none of the writing. “Can you read this?”

“A variety of ancient languages are represented,” Ferrin reported. “I can only read one of them. It warns intruders away. I checked all the tunnels. This was the only premature ending, and the only one marked.”

“This might only be the first barrier,” Tark said.

“I made the same guess,” Ferrin replied. “But I decided I had better not investigate until Galloran got away. It would have been a shame to destroy our own armies along with Felrook.”

Tark studied the wall of rubble, selected a pry bar, and went to work. After a minute or two he started giving Ferrin instructions. Together they heaved stones out of the way. After most of an hour, Tark paused, panting, holding his seaweed into the high gap they were creating. “I can see the far side. The tunnel goes on.”

Ferrin held up a canteen. “Water?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Tark tipped his head back and drank. “I wonder if that will be the last I ever drink?”

“I don’t think we’re that lucky,” Ferrin replied, wiping his forehead. Dust clung to his perspiration, and the action smeared it. “I expect we have more work ahead of us.”

They cleared the remaining obstacles and brought their gear through the gap. The tunnel angled downward. They advanced until they reached an iron gate. The bars of the gate and its frame stretched from floor to ceiling, utterly blocking the way. Carvings decorated the walls.

“More warnings?” Tark asked.

“Everything I can recognize says to turn back,” Ferrin replied. He rattled the gate. It had several locks. He peered at them. “These locks are corroded. I can’t pick them. The iron still feels relatively solid. Orantium?”

“I would hate to risk a cave-in,” Tark said, “but it might be our only choice.”

“Where do we place it?”

Tark cut a length of rope and tied one of the smaller spheres near the center of the gate’s hinges. They backed well away and flung rocks until the sphere shattered and the mineral inside exploded. The blast echoed down the long tunnel, the thunder skipping and rebounding as if the rumble were reaching for infinity.

Although damaged, the gate remained partially intact. A little work with their tools pried part of it open far enough for them to slip through.

Around a bend they encountered another wall of rubble. It proved to be very thick, requiring more than an hour of heavy labor with pickaxes and pry bars complemented by two orantium blasts. The first orantium blast actually seemed to make matters worse, but the second helped considerably.

Once on the far side, Ferrin and Tark finished the last of the water.

“That may be your last drink,” Ferrin said. “Unless we head back for more.”

“This is already taking longer than I’d like,” Tark said, running his tongue over his teeth. Even after the water, his mouth tasted gritty.

“Think of it as giving Rachel some extra time to get away,” Ferrin said.

“Do you think she has a chance?”

Ferrin shrugged. “Part of the prophecy was meant specifically for her. We have good reason to trust that Darian the Seer knew his craft. I expect that means she has a good chance. Since I’ll never know the truth, I prefer to assume she’ll survive.”