Page 90 of Mountain of Mirrors and Starlight
“Stop making me into a baby!”
A chuckle passed through the group as they headed further up the tunnel. They were spacing out, now, entering huge caverns and ancient outposts. Buildings carved from rock eased into view, bits of broken furniture protruding from the stone. Glass littered some of the rivers, but it had been there for so long that barnacles had started to grow on it.
From time to time, they’d pass a burial mound. Some of the pebbles making the graves were etched with names—all long since worn out.
“The dwarves haven’t seen external conflict in a millennia,” Bell explained. “Since the sky-sickness outbreak back in the Coal Age, 166. We stopped manning these outposts centuries ago—no one came down here who wasn’t escorted by a dwarf.”
Beau squeaked, awed by the honour.
“Not long now, little princeling,” Minerva said, jerking with her head. “Behold—the doors of Avalinth.”
Aislinnhadheardtalesof the Great Doors of Avalinth. They were thought to be the largest doors in existence. Rumour had it that the dwarves once had a bet with the Spring Court over who could build the largest entrance. The Spring Court’s were taller and made of woven branches and blooming flowers, but without magic to hold them together they could not support themselves.
These doors were carved from the mountain and almost as ancient, their locks and hinges now rusted over. They stood at the end of a tremendous cavern, the road, once smooth red brick, now blackened and crusted. Huge chunks were missing in places, which the wargis deftly avoided.
It looked abandoned, like nothing living could possibly lurk behind the monstrous doors.
“A question,” said Beau, “but how are we getting in? Do we just… knock?”
Minerva chuckled. “As if anyone would hear you, lad.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Bell walked up to the side of the door, her hand disappearing behind a concealed alcove. She yanked on something, grunting and groaning, and a much smaller door opened up inside of one of them.
Everyone dismounted. Minerva stood at the entrance, pausing.
“Min—” Bell started.
Minerva shrugged, and plunged inside.
Aislinn heard Beau’s gasp before she stepped through after him. Light danced everywhere inside this colossal rectangular space—from sconces on the walls, from immaculately cut fire pits, from the crystals embedded in the ceiling that mimicked the stars. Another great set of doors stood at the other end, but between them stood dozens of statues. Dwarves milled about between them, looking up as the party entered—a few turning to whisper amongst themselves.
Aislinn did not hear them. She was too busy staring at the statues as they passed, admiring the way stone had been carved to resemble rippling fabric.
It was why fae invited mortals into their homes, why mortality, however brief, was treasured. There was something inherently more valuable about beauty made by hand—a magic beyond magic.
“This is amazing,” Beau whispered.
“The Hall of Heroes,” Bell explained. “I know mortals have their gods and fae their monarchs and spirits, but if we pray, we pray to the heroes of old.”
“Do dwarves believe in an afterlife?” Caer asked.
Bell shrugged, like the question was neither here nor there. “Yes, and no,” she explained. “We believe that our souls are returned to the stone and fire, to forge new life—be it living or steel. We may be the sound of a newborn’s cry or the spark that forges a sword. Who is to say.”
It was a sentiment not far from the fae’s, and Aislinn found she rather liked it. She moved through the rest of the hall, admiring the other heroes. Despite the name, a large quantity of them weren’t warriors. There were doctors and blacksmiths, politicians and merchants. People who had wrought great changes or brought about advancements in arts and sciences.
There were occasional warriors, of course. Augustus Barrowsmith the Relentlesswho fought off a troll uprising, Caesaria Olestone the Undauntedwho explored the deepest levels of the Underground, and—
“Whoa,” Beau said, stopping in his tracks, “this one looks like you, Ais.”
Towards the end of the hall was the statue of a mortal woman on a low pedestal—possibly to compensate for her height. She did, indeed, look much like Aislinn, although she thought she looked more like her mother.
She glanced at the placard.
Cerridwen the Brave.
Aislinn froze, certain she was misreading.
