Reaching a sheer rock face that she supposed marked the start of the Western Wall, Bee hissed in a breath. Whatever she’d expected, this was not it. The cave entrance appeared to be a perfectly formed half-circle that receded at a downward angle until it was forced out of sight by a gradual curve. It was tall enough for them and their horses to walk comfortably. The tunnel walls were pocked by what looked like burst mud bubbles, causing Bee to imagine the intensity of the heat when the lava was erupting and creating a way for them to travel. She guessed that the circle would be almost perfectly round under the layer of mud that had formed on the cave floor over millennia.

  “Can we bring the horses?” she asked.

  “Yes. It is like this for most of the way,” Dornálaí explained. “The dangerous part is in the center when it skirts a molten lake. The ledge is narrow, and we must walk in single file, hoping the horses can keep their footing.”

  “Where ye were going to push Finn off?”

  Dornálaí grinned sheepishly, which she found a strange sentiment from someone who’d recently brained a man with a hammer. Shrugging, he said, “We must make torches before we enter. A goodly part of the way is lit by the lava, but most is not.”

  “How long will we be in there?”

  “It is about eight leagues. Our pace will be slow. Last time I used the tunnels, it took me two full days to cross. I suggest we rest for now and start in the morning. We can take the time to make torches and collect firewood. We can use Finn’s horse as a pack animal.”

  After cutting several staves and finding suitable material to burn for torches, Bee sat listening for Bheara to make a call. She felt relieved when the hoot didn't come. It didn't wholly convince her, though, that death was not waiting in the tunnels under the Fiery Mountain.

  “You sleep, and I will keep watch,” Dornálaí said.

  Nodding her thanks, Bee wrapped herself in her blanket but couldn't sleep. She couldn't rid herself of the feeling she was being used, but that wasn't all. The image of Finn’s head cracking like a hard-boiled egg didn't seem to fit with what Bee knew about The Three. And then there were the inconsistencies that Dornálaí seemed to think she’d missed, like his saying he watched her while she waited for Finn but also that he listened to Finn and Bren talking in the Boiled Cock. As far as she knew, not even the Greater Gods could be in two places at once.

  I’m safe for now. If the ring fighter meant me harm, I would be dead already.

  Bee must have succumbed to sleep at some point because she felt Dornálaí shaking her shoulder. “Come, Bee. It is time.”

  As she led her horse into the tunnel, trailing Finn’s horse behind, her fear was palpable. She considered herself a brave person, but sometimes, the gap between courage and stupidity was too flimsy to be noticeable. For Bee, entering a place where no one came back was on the idiotic side of the divide.

  Danu, watch over me, she prayed as darkness enveloped her, and Dornálaí lit the first torch.

  She used the beauty of the torchlight dancing on the walls to distract her. Traces of minerals in the stone were multicolored and multi-faceted—creating a fascinating spectacle.

  Dornálaí—she couldn’t bring herself to call him Goibniu—whistled as he led them under the mountain. Usually, Bee would find that type of unconscious tic irritating, but his skill was intriguing. At times, he sounded like he was playing a flute.

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  She was unsure how long they’d been walking when he called a halt, and they lit a fire using firewood that they’d packed on Finn’s horse.

  “Do you have any problem sleeping in the dark?” Dornálaí asked.

  “D’ye think me a child, perhaps?”

  “No, Bechuille, but our torches are few. We need to preserve them, so I suggest we sleep with firelight only.”

  “I can use a heat hex if we need sudden light.”

  “Good. I will sleep. There is no need to keep watch, so I suggest you sleep as well.”

  Nodding, Bee wrapped herself in her blanket and lay down by the fire. It wasn’t cold under the mountain, but she found the warmth of the flames somehow comforting. As soon as Dornálaí began snoring, she sat up against the tunnel wall and stared morosely into the darkness.

  She felt a hand touch her thigh and opened her eyes. The fire had burned low, so all she could see was the outline of a shape silhouetted by the embers. Dornálaí was still snoring against the tunnel's other wall, so the shadowy figure was not him.

  “I’m dead, I reckon,” the shape said matter-of-factly. Finn. How is that possible? “Surprised you left me to the wolves, Bee. Always thought you’d do the decent thing.”

  “I’m dreaming, so I am.”

  “Aye. Won’t deny it.”

  Bee felt the realization should offer her some solace, but it didn't. Over recent days, her dreams seemed to be as much a part of her existence as her reality. She no longer felt it was right to say dreams were not real. She was sure The Three had visited her. It was as real as anything could be. Wasn't it? And Goibniu was with her now.

  But he never said he was The Smith; he just didn't deny it.

  “If he’s not The Smith, then who?”

  “So, you’re getting it. I knew you would.”

  “What do you want, Finn?” she shouted, unable to help herself.

  “To warn you. He’s not what he—”

  “Bee. Bee,” Dornálaí said, shaking her less than gently.

  Opening her eyes, she saw him crouching, one hand braced against the wall, the other vigorously shaking her shoulder. Much like in her dream, his outline was silhouetted by ember light. “What is it?”

  “You were crying out. Visited by an incubus, perhaps.”

  “What was I saying?”

  “I do not know. The words were indistinct like you were underwater.”

  Or perhaps ye heard but don't want to repeat the words.

  “I can’t remember anything about the dream,” she lied.

  “Well, no matter. Let us be thankful that dreams are just dreams.”

  Except when they’re not. Listen to the ring fighter. Never mind the ring fighter, listen to yerself. Ye’re acting the fool. If he meant you harm, ye’d be dead already.

  “How long did we sleep?”

  “Long enough. It is time to go.”

  Bee was glad to be moving again, away from her dreams and fanciful encounters. As they went, the darkness began to lose its edge, and an orange light crept up the walls from the floor. At the same time, she began to get a sulfurous odor, which grew as the light grew and the air became warmer. Dornálaí started to whistle, and she felt her mood lighten.

  When they passed out of the tunnel and arrived on the edge of the enormous cavern, Bee’s breath caught in her throat, and she stopped to stare into the abyss. She had no way of knowing how deep it was, but the molten lake, moving and broiling in never-ceasing motion, seemed close enough for her to reach out and touch. Molten geysers spouted every few moments far higher than she would have thought possible. The noise was deafening and constant.

  “A wondrous sight, is it not?”

  “Aye. It is.”

  “That, though, is more daunting than wondrous,” Dornálaí said, nodding to Bee’s left. Turning, she saw something else that made her breath catch. Running around the edge of the abyss was a ledge that was only slightly wider than their horses. One wrong foot would mean a fiery death. Following it, she saw a dark circle almost directly opposite where they were standing.

  “That’s the way out?”

  “It is. We need to cover the horses’ heads. They will never start on the path otherwise.”

  Listen to the ring fighter.

  “Let’s go. If we’re to stop Bren, we can’t dally here.”

  In the end, they skirted the molten lake without incident. Bee was surprised at how quickly they got around. In what felt like no time, they were climbing up the opposite tunnel and soon had to light a torch because the light from the magma lake had vanished. The stench of rotten eggs followed them, but that was all. When they left the tunnel on the eastern side of the Western Wall, the sky was a deep blue, and stars were alive with twinkling light. The clearing before the tunnel was lit by silvery moonlight, making everything different shades of gray.

  “We will camp here tonight and continue for Breshlech Mór in the morning,” Dornálaí said. “Can you cook?”

  “Aye. Not as well as…” she trailed off, not wanting to name him in case it prompted another dream of the talking dead.