Alone again and in the dark, I don’t know when or why I wobbled back to Root, but I was here and grateful for the relief. I tried to imagine a scenario where Edmund and Joshua set me free from that basement cell, but I just couldn’t. The criminal nature of their deeds had them in a bind. There was no way they could let me out alive without consequences. If I wanted out, I would have to rely on my own wits. The cavalry wasn't busting through that door.
My woolgathering was disturbed by the faint rumbles and moans of some distant Reapers. The bottom of the pit, vast as it was, suddenly seemed not only exposed, but confining. I abandoned my idea of weaving a shelter. I was determined to get myself out of that hole.
I set to work, first by illuminating patches around the circumference of the pit to fill its shadowy recesses with light. That made things much less creepy. I then wove myself another hoodie and a pair of jeans, this time with a more careful and deliberate weaving that I hoped would be more resistant to the spells of the Dusters. I took the time, as well, to make a weapon—a samurai sword just like the one I had used to battle that old, scarred Reaper. It seemed like a good choice for me—light, maneuverable and a potent focuser of my will.
One by one, I carved stairs and handholds angling up the wall of the pit. It all went smoothly until the roots transitioned to solid bedrock. I tried to get the stone to respond to my spells but I couldn’t even alter its shade. I had to change tact.
Manipulating my sword like the magic wand that it was, I expanded the topmost step into a platform that jutted like a balcony over the lumen of the pit. And then I grew a stalk out to support its base, severed the balcony and cantilevered it out from the pit wall, extending it slowly but surely in stretches and spurts.
The contraption looked absurd, like something out of Dr. Seuss. The dang thing started to tilt and teeter and nearly dropped me back into the bottom of the pit. I hung on and ascended into the open air, leaping across the gap to reach solid ground.
I raised my sword in the air, victorious. Let those Dusters come at me now and the outcome might be different. I don’t know why I held such a grudge. Maybe I just took offense to the smug and inglorious way they had treated me, like some errant sheep strayed from its paddock.
Horizons dark, the night was full-blown, lit by a moon with too many spots. I could see the dark notch in the hills that was the canyon where the Dusters had nabbed me. I scanned the sky to get my bearings, glad to see no mantid wings silhouetted against the stars. I half expected to see giant moths infesting the sky.
What now? Victoria had wanted me to find a better place to await her return, a pit less accessible to mantids. I wasn’t sure why it mattered. I supposed it would be good to find a pit that was a little less waterlogged and provided easier access and egress. Something not quite as deep would do.
That first sinkhole from which we had reached the surface would be ideal. The tunnels connecting it to the rest of Root were mangled and constricted, thanks to me. There was water there, but not too much. But most importantly, that was the last place in this world I had seen Karla and Isobel, so it was the most likely place to find them should they reappear.
Maybe it was perverse of me to wish for Karla to be immersed in utter misery, but that was the only she could maintain her connection with Root. It was my last hope of ever seeing her again. I was much too lonely and selfish to wish her the best—a life without the Liminality. Without me.
The pit of my stomach tightened. What if she was actually doing well wherever she was? What if she missed me only a little bit, not enough to drive her into a full-blown depression? And what if she didn’t miss me at all? What then, was left for me to hope for? Frelsi? Should I stake my future on some sketchy place full of souls who had engineered their own deaths?
