The apok hedgerow is thicker and taller here. The only way to find the door is to step into the moat. Maybe the whistle also disabled traps.
I consider leaving some kind of warning for Bates, but that would be too suspicious.
It takes three men to move the door, which reveals a tunnel sloping into the earth. The workers make more protective signs before trudging into darkness. The door is a rectangle of wan light, thinning as it shuts behind us.
Someone—Gandor, probably—claps his hands and lights come on. Neat rectangles set into the walls, too exactly spaced to be magical. They’re just strong enough for unsettling shadows, highlighting shapes in a red glow. The ceiling is a vague mass of earth felt overhead. The pace quickens. No one wants to be down here a second longer than necessary
