The torch light barely penetrated the dark. Mykal concentrated on his breathing. The rock staircase was slick, the steps uneven; some were a few inches below the one above, some a foot or two apart. A few steps were three feet long, others, only inches. It was as if the stairs had been carved by workers drunk on ale.
“Are you following that ruby of yours?” Quill said. His face was half in shadow, half alive with the reflection of dancing flames.
“We need to save our strength,” Galatia said, again issuing the importance of conservation. “If we cannot locate it, we shall call on her.”
“I think we’re at the bottom. Hand me a torch,” Mykal said. He knelt down and moved the light around. There were no more steps. He stood up, holding the torch high. He could not see the hatch. Above them was
