They were no longer in the same place. The stone slab and its ancient burial were gone. The dim alcoves built into the tomb had vanished, replaced by a smooth-walled, empty chamber carved out of rock. Ivar scrambled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knees. He stared at the walls surrounding them, unmarked by the strange sigils that had decorated the walls of the tomb where they had taken refuge from the Quman army.
“Come see,” said Baldwin without stepping fully out of the stairwell. “You can’t believe it!” He began to descend.
Because he held the only light, they hastened to follow him. Sigfrid took Hathumod’s hand, and Ermanrich walked after them as Gerulf helped his nephew to his feet. Ivar groped around and found the torch Gerulf had been holding before the blue fire had snuffed it out. With the light receding quickly, he scrambled to the opening and descended. Fear gripped his heart, making him breathe in ragged gasps. Had Baldwin been possessed by the spirits of the dead? Or had he stumbled upon an enchantment? Where were they?
Ai, God, his knees hurt.
o;I was walking down a road, and I was weeping, for I knew it was the road that leads to the other world, and do you know, Uncle, more even than my dear mother I really did miss my Fridesuenda for you know we’re to be married at midwinter. But I saw a man. He came walking along the road with a black hound on either side. He was dressed exactly like a Lion but with a terrible stain of blood on his tabard. He reached out to me, and then I knew he couldn’t have been any Lion, for he wore a veil of light over his face and a crown of stars. I swear to you he looked exactly like that new Lion, the one what was once a lord, who’s in Thiadbold’s company.”
Gerulf chuckled. “I recall that one well enough, Dedi.” It took Ivar a moment to identify the liquid tone in the old Lion’s voice: he was crying as he spoke. “He shamed you into returning that tunic to the lad who lost it dicing with you.”
“Nay, Uncle, he never shamed me. He just told me the story of Folquin’s aunt and how she wove it special for her nephew when he went away to the Lions. Then he and his comrades offered to work off the winnings by doing my chores for me. It seemed mean-hearted to say ‘nay’ to them.”
“Ach, lad,” said Gerulf on a shuddering breath. “Lay you still, now. I promised your mother I’d bring you home safely, and so I will. I’ve got to get light here and see what happened to the others.”
Ivar grunted and got his arms to work, pushed up to his hands and knees just as he heard other voices whispering in alarm, many voices breaking into speech at once. “Quiet, I pray you,” he said hoarsely. “Speak, one at a time, so that we know we’re all here.”
“I’m here,” said Gerulf, “and so is my nephew Dedi—”
“I can speak for myself, Uncle.”
“Is that you, Ivar?” asked Sigfrid. “I can’t hear very well. My ears are ringing. I had the strangest vision. I saw an angel—”
“It’s the nail he took from Tallia,” said Hathumod, still weeping. “How did it come to be here?”
“Hush, Hathumod,” said Ermanrich. “Best to be quiet so that we don’t wake anything else. I had a nightmare! I was being chased by monsters, with human bodies but animal faces….” He trailed off as, abruptly, everyone waited for the seventh voice.
In the silence, Ivar heard water dripping. “Baldwin?” he whispered. Again, in a louder voice: “Baldwin?” His heart pounded furiously with fear. Ghosts always wanted blood and living breath on which to feed, and Baldwin was the one who had disturbed the skeleton.
“Ivar!” The voice echoed eerily down unknown corridors, but even the distortion could not muffle that tone of triumph. “Come see this!”
Ivar swore under his breath.
Ermanrich gave a hiccuping laugh, blended out of relief and fear. “When we’ve eyes as pretty as yours, maybe we can see in the dark, too. Where are you?”
As out of nowhere they saw a gleam of pale golden light. Baldwin’s head appeared, the soft light painting his features to an uncanny perfection. He smiled as his shoulders emerged, then his torso. It took a moment for Ivar, still on hands and knees and with his head twisted to one side, to realize that Baldwin was walking up stairs.
“You must come see!” Baldwin exclaimed as his cupped hands came into view. A ring adorned with a blue stone winked on one forefinger. He carried a bauble, all filigreed with cunning lacework and studded with pearls. The gold itself shone with a soft light, illuminating the walls of the chamber.
They were no longer in the same place. The stone slab and its ancient burial were gone. The dim alcoves built into the tomb had vanished, replaced by a smooth-walled, empty chamber carved out of rock. Ivar scrambled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knees. He stared at the walls surrounding them, unmarked by the strange sigils that had decorated the walls of the tomb where they had taken refuge from the Quman army.
“Come see,” said Baldwin without stepping fully out of the stairwell. “You can’t believe it!” He began to descend.
Because he held the only light, they hastened to follow him. Sigfrid took Hathumod’s hand, and Ermanrich walked after them as Gerulf helped his nephew to his feet. Ivar groped around and found the torch Gerulf had been holding before the blue fire had snuffed it out. With the light receding quickly, he scrambled to the opening and descended. Fear gripped his heart, making him breathe in ragged gasps. Had Baldwin been possessed by the spirits of the dead? Or had he stumbled upon an enchantment? Where were they?
Ai, God, his knees hurt.
Twenty steps took him, blinking, into a chamber no larger than the one he had come from but so utterly different that, like his companions, he could only gaze in wonder.
They had found a treasure cave heaped with gold and jewels and all manner of precious chests and bundles of finest linen and silk cloth. Strangest of all, the chamber’s guardians lay asleep, seven young men dressed in the garb of a young lord and his attendants. They slept on heaps of coins with the restful comfort of folk sleeping on the softest of featherbeds. The young lord, marked out from his attendants by the exceptional richness of his clothing, lay half curled on his side, with one cheek resting on a palm. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. His fair hair set off a complexion pink with health. A half smile trembled on his lips, as though he were having sweet dreams.
“Seven sleepers!” exclaimed Sigfrid in a hushed voice. “The church mothers wrote of them. Can it be that we’ve stumbled across their hiding place?”
“I can count!” retorted Baldwin indignantly.
“Didn’t we read about the Seven Sleepers in Euseb?s Church History?” Ermanrich asked.
“Lord preserve us,” swore Gerulf. “That’s Margrave Villam’s lad, his youngest son, the one called Berthold. I remember the day he disappeared. Lady bless us, but I swear that was two years or more ago.” Fearful, but determined, he crossed to the young lord and knelt beside him. But for all his shaking and coaxing, he could not wake him, nor could any of the sleeping attendants be woken despite their best efforts to break the spell of sleep.