“If we wait, things could get worse,” Farilane said. “If we climb out now, we might clear the bad sections before the storm gathers its strength. I say we go.”

Kolby nodded, and the decision was made.

As she stepped out into the rain, Farilane double-checked that her satchel was sealed. The leather was treated to be waterproof. She looked toward her companions, expecting someone to inquire about her find, but everyone rushed out.

They’re all distracted by the storm, by the urgency of the growing crisis. Maybe they didn’t ask what I found because they’re just so relieved I’m safe.

Then again, having stowed the pages in her satchel, she looked the same way coming out as she had going in. They didn’t ask because they think I failed. That all this was for nothing. They’re afraid of embarrassing me.

A fine sentiment, perhaps, but she would have expected at least Virgil to inquire. Truth be told, she was glad. Indications were promising that she’d found The Book of Brin, but there was only so much she could determine in the dark of a monk-hewn tunnel. She’d hate to declare victory only to face the later embarrassment of a false conclusion.

Rock-climbing a jagged cliff in the rain, at night, was crazy. Luckily, most of the route—the worst, and last, part—had been carefully scouted over the first twelve days of waiting and secured with safety ropes. That section was a simple hand-over-hand affair following a safe line. Lightning flashed and fluttered over the Goblin Sea, illuminating the rock face. In those moments of stark light, the stone glistened black like the oiled skin of a dark olive. Everywhere, water ran. Tiny creeks rushed between boulders, through cracks, and leapt as daredevils off the ends of rocks, plummeting hundreds of feet. In the air, rain swept at angles tossed by gusting winds. The spray also made a point of striking Farilane’s face. Her hood had blown back, and the tie holding her tresses came loose, freeing the monster everyone else casually referred to as her hair. Long enough to reach between her shoulder blades, her locks were pretty at a party, but a hazard in the field. Wet and whipped by the wind, the monster lashed her face, frequently blocking Farilane’s sight just as both hands were busy clutching stone or rope.

Virgil is cursing me right now. If I’m struggling, he’s dying, and likely working his way through his third set of profanities from a number of languages.

The philosopher was behind Farilane, which she hated. She would have preferred Virgil where she could see him—where she could help if needed. Kolby had assigned the order, with Cedric going first and her second. Virgil, being seen as expendable, always followed the princess. And Kolby, being Kolby, brought up the rear. He was a stickler for procedure and not inclined to debate.