“How?” Yarrel sketched a circular dimension with his arms. “Like a pipe, small? Or a tunnel? How did they build it?”
“Why, a tunnel, small as tunnels go, I suppose. About as high as your shoulders. The walls and floor were laid in stones, I remember, with beams over the top and earth on that.”
“And it comes out where?”
“I don’t know.” He looked almost ashamed, as though he were guilty of some obscure sin. “I didn’t pay attention. Do you think it might join the stream again, further down?”
“It would make sense to do that,” said Chance. “I’ve seen it done that way many a time. Probably dumps out into a pool somewhere to overflow into the old riverbed. So I’ve seen it done.”
Yarrel’s eyes were glinting with an adventurous spark. He said, “Well, easy enough to find out. Shall we go together, Peter? You and I? Exploring once more?” He was remembering when we were very small boys searching the crannies of the attics in Mertyn’s House. The, memory brought back smells of dust and sunwarmed wood and the look of bats hung on old rafters like black laundry.
We cut a blanket into strips and made rope out of that. Chance lowered us one at a time down the old closet. It hadn’t been used in a long time, so it smelled no worse than an old barnyard midden, musty and rank, but not actually foul. Once at the bottom with our little lantern, we kicked away piled rubbish to disclose the turgid flow of water which crept from one side of the shaft to the other.
“I’ll wager it’s broken or plugged further up,” said Yarrel. “Which is lucky for us. There’s hardly any water at all.” Still, there was enough to make the place slimy with mold and greeny slickness on the walls. In places the old beams had broken or half broken to sag down into the already low ceiling of the place and drop clods of mud and things with legs onto our necks. The way turned and swerved inexplicably, but Yarrel said it was probably that they had dug it in a way to miss large outcroppings of rock. Whatever the builder’s reasons, it made a confusing way, and I soon lost any sense of the direction in which we moved. However, it was only a short time until we saw a glimmer of light ahead and came up to an opening all overgrown with brush through which the trickle wandered out and down a little slope into a mire. I could hear the river but not see it. We were surrounded by trees.
“Thank the Game Lords, Peter. We are in the trees and behind the stables. We may go from this place undiscovered and mounted, all else willing.” I left him where he was and went plodding back up the little tunnel to be hauled up into the light once more, blinking and filthy. Silkhands wrinkled her nose at me, and old Windlow said, apropos of nothing at all, “I have always wondered how moles keep clean…” He did not seem at all surprised when I told them the way was clear and we needed only wait until dusk to meet Yarrel at the tunnel entrance. We then spent some time, in devising a way to carry Windlow through the tunnel, for Silkhands demanded that he not be forced to huddle and crouch like the rest of us. In the end we slung him into an uncut blanket, and Chance and I carried him between us. Before we went, however, nothing would do but he must scurry around like a tottery old heron and pack up bits of herb and grass about himself, bladders full of this and wraps of that. By that time the warders were bringing our evening meal, so we shut the closet door and pretended Yarrel was within. When they had gone, we ate two bites and packed up the rest before lowering Windlow into Silkhand’s waiting arms. I went down, then Chance, pulling the makeshift rope after him. We abandoned it in the tunnel. The second trip down the little tunnel was easier for me, for I knew where it ended. Yarrel was not at the entrance, but three saddles were, together with other tack. He had even managed to steal some water bottles from somewhere. We had brought such clothing as we thought we would need, and now waited impatiently for Yarrel to come while Windlow lay upon his back making learned comments about the stars. He seemed to know much about them, as he did about everything, from all that Reading, no doubt. I could hear whickering of horses in the meadow, that coughing noise they make when they are quite contented, but interested in something. It was not long until they came, three of them, following Yarrel as though he had been their herd leader.