She missed Condor, her little room in the Rider wing, and Ghost Kitty. And she missed ...

She bit her lip. The king was probably going about his daily business not even thinking about them—her. He walked in the sunlit world and she ached to join him there.

“Do you think we’re going to get out of this?” Yates asked.

“I don’t know,” Karigan replied. “I really don’t know, but I hope so.” If for no other reason than she could once more look upon her king.

WATCHERS

The groundmites leaped and danced around Grandmother and her retainers, fur flying. They “sang” in grunts and yips and waved spears around their heads. Some wore the skins of other animals, but most wore nothing at all, teats and male parts peeping out from beneath matted fur. Grandmother thought to cover Lala’s eyes, but she couldn’t do so forever. It would not be long before the girl grew curious about such things anyway. Hiding it from her would not protect her; only delay her coming of age.

Sarat clung to Grandmother’s arm and whimpered. “They’re going to eat us!”

“I do not believe so,” Grandmother replied. “They are simply welcoming us.”

After the burning of the gift of entrails, several male groundmites had stepped out of the woods, thus revealing themselves as the Watchers who had followed Grandmother’s little group for so long. They had gestured for Grandmother and her people to follow them. Though they carried spears and clubs, they were not used in a threatening manner. Since they were continuing down the road in the direction Grandmother had intended to travel, she decided to accept their “invitation.”

After much wearisome walking, their escorts brought them off the road to this, their village, or habitation, or whatever groundmites considered their collection of dens, really nothing more than mounds of dirt with entry holes.

The creatures carried on their dancing for quite some time. Then suddenly they stopped and a portion of the circle opened to admit a small groundmite with a humped back. She wore skins draped around her waist, her teats hanging slack to her belly. Animal bones had been knotted into her gray-striated fur. Though stooped by age, she carried herself with dignity. She gazed up at Grandmother with one rheumy eye. The other was missing.

It was clear by the way the others regarded the groundmite that she was a leader among them.

“Ugly little beast,” Deglin muttered.

“They all are,” Cole replied. “Smell worse than a pack of wet dogs.”

“Hush,” Min snapped. “You aren’t smelling too good yourselves.”

The old groundmite issued some unintelligible proclamation to Grandmother. When she finished, all Grandmother could think to say was, “Thank you.”

All the groundmites stared silently as if expecting more. She licked her lips. “We are descendents of Arcosia,” she said. “Of Mornhavon the Great’s people.” She pulled out the pendant of the dead tree.

The old groundmite’s one eye widened in recognition. She babbled excitedly and the rest started carrying on again. They brought Grandmother gifts of bone necklaces and raw meat. It was good to know the creatures still honored the empire. Their ancestors had served Mornhavon in battle.

How, she wondered, might she get these groundmites to serve her?

The old groundmite patted her chest. “Gubba,” she declared. “Gubba.”

“What’s she saying?” Deglin asked.

“I think it’s what she is called,” Grandmother replied. She pointed at the groundmite. “Gubba.” Then she rested her hand on her chest. “Grandmother.”

Gubba caught on immediately and mimicked Grandmother and pointed at her. “Grrrnmudda.” Then pointed to herself. “Gubba.”

Once the names were settled, Gubba pulled on Grandmother’s sleeve, leading her toward one of the dirt mounds.

“Grandmother!” Sarat cried.

Grandmother glanced back. Groundmites blocked her people from following, anxiety on each of their faces, except Lala’s. “Be patient,” she told them. “I will come to no harm.” She would not, she knew. This Gubba had welcomed them, felt that Grandmother was her equal. It did not mean Grandmother held any desire to crawl into the hole, but etiquette seemed to require it.

Gubba dropped to all fours, and despite her age, crawled agilely into the mound. Grandmother had no choice but to follow. She slowly lowered herself to her knees and crawled into the mound, dragging her yarn basket with her.

Inside, Grandmother was assaulted by the rank stench of piss and wet fur and damp dirt. Plant roots dangled through the domed, earthen ceiling, which was alive with crawlies. Gubba snatched a writhing centipede from overhead, popped it into her mouth, and mashed it with her gums. After swallowing, she peeled her lips back in a sort of smile. She was missing many teeth, but yellowed canines remained.

A clay cup filled with clotted fat made a crude lamp, the sooty smoke rancid. A woven reed mat covered the floor and Gubba gestured for Grandmother to sit. Not that Grandmother had much of a choice for the ceiling was low and the insects not far from her hair.

As her eyes adjusted to the muted light of Gubba’s den, she espied gnawed bones strewn about the floor, the movements of more crawlies in the dark recesses, and a jumbled heap of . . . objects. Objects that required a second glance. They were metal, she was sure of it. Some looked like the rusted shards of swords, a pile of nails, pieces of armor, but the other bits were beyond her ken. Jointed pieces that had been made for movement, springs, and tubes—were these artifacts from Arcosia? The chronicles of her people claimed her ancestors had been uncommonly clever artificers.