Page 38 of Yasmin and the Yeti
He was grateful for the assurance, but he still felt exposed, vulnerable—his most precious secret laid bare before those who had once judged him unworthy.
Broc must have read his expression. “Things change, Rhaal. Perhaps it is time the past stayed buried.”
But that’s the problem, he thought grimly.The past never stays buried.
He gathered what he needed quickly—glow crystals, dried meat, the cave hooks. The weight of clan eyes on his back was a pressure he had forgotten how to bear. Seven years of solitude had not prepared him for this return.
The entrance to the underground river system was a jagged mouth in the lowest level of the clan caves. Cold, damp air flowed from it, carrying the mineral scent of deep places. He knelt at the edge of the river, dipping his hand into the water. It felt normal—icy cold and swift—but his instincts screamed that something was wrong.
He followed the main channel, moving deeper into the mountain’s heart. The cave ceiling dropped lower, forcing him to wade through chest-deep water in places. His white fur grew sodden and heavy, but he pushed on, his night vision guiding him through the darkness.
Hours passed. The network of tunnels was extensive, branching and rejoining like the veins of some massive beast. He had traveled these paths as a youngling, part of hunting parties seeking the prized cave fish. He remembered the excitement of those hunts—the thrill of the chase, the pride of bringing back a full catch.
Now, the tunnels felt empty. Wrong.
He paused at a wide pool where the current slowed. This had once been a prime fishing spot, the deep water teeming with the silver-backed fish that harbored the sothiti parasite. Now, the pool was nearly lifeless. A few small fish darted away from his approach, but they were thin, sickly-looking things.
Near the far edge, he spotted the bloated corpse of a larger fish, its body decomposing in the slow current. He waded over and examined it without touching. The flesh around its gills was discolored, tinged with an unnatural bluish-green.
Poison.
He continued downstream, finding more dead fish. The pattern was clear—the further he went, the more corpses he found. Whatever was killing them was coming from deeper in the system.
After two days of travel, he reached a point where the river disappeared into a narrow crack in the rock wall—a crack too small for him to follow. The water flowing from this crack carried a subtle wrongness, a scent his sensitive nose could barely detect beneath the mineral smell of the caves.
He stood in the waist-deep water, frustration building in his chest. The source of the contamination lay beyond this impassable barrier. He needed another way.
He backtracked to a larger chamber and found a vertical shaft that led upward. Ancient handholds were carved into the rock—a path to the surface used by hunters when the lower tunnels flooded. He began to climb, his powerful arms and legs making quick work of the ascent.
The shaft emerged onto a rocky shelf halfway up the mountain’s eastern face. Cold wind whipped at his fur as he pulled himselfout, the late afternoon sun momentarily blinding him after hours in darkness.
Once his eyes adjusted, he surveyed his surroundings. He was higher than he’d expected, with a clear view of the valley below. To the north lay the clan territories. To the south…
The Valley of Echoes.
He frowned. The Valley was sacred ground, the place where generations of his people had laid their dead to rest. It was named for the way sound carried there, bouncing between the steep cliff walls until it seemed the ancestors themselves were answering.
It was also where Ayla was buried.
He hadn’t visited her grave since the funeral. Couldn’t bear to face the stone marker that proclaimed his failure. But now, as he scented the air, he caught that same subtle wrongness he’d detected in the water below—coming from the direction of the Valley.
It made no sense. The Valley was geologically stable, protected by ancient taboos. No natural blight would originate there. And no Hothian would dare disturb the resting place of the ancestors.
But offworlders might.
The thought chilled him more than the mountain wind. He began to descend the outer slope, moving with the silent grace of a predator despite his size. As he drew closer to the Valley, the scent grew stronger—a chemical tang that didn’t belong in this wild place.
The Valley of Echoes was a long, narrow gorge carved by an ancient glacier. Its walls rose steep and smooth on either side,and its floor was dotted with stone cairns marking burial sites. He approached reverently, his steps slowing as he crossed the invisible boundary between ordinary ground and sacred space, then bowed his head in a quick, silent prayer.
Ayla’s grave would be near the center, where the clan’s most honored dead were laid to rest. He didn’t look for it. He couldn’t. Not yet. Instead, he followed the alien scent, tracking it along the Valley’s eastern wall.
The scent led him to a section of cliff face that looked unremarkable—just another expanse of weathered gray stone. But as he drew closer, his instincts prickled. Something was off about the rock formation. The patterns were too regular, the texture too uniform.
He placed a hand against the stone and felt a faint vibration. Not natural. Mechanical.
He explored the area methodically, running his sensitive fingers over the rock surface. Near the ground, he found what he was seeking—a small irregularity in the pattern, a seam where none should exist.
A hidden door.
