The Immortal Words (The Grave Kingdom), стр. 4
The ground was covered with dead leaves, an undisturbed carpet, which was why she didn’t see the cleft in the ground until it swallowed her.
Pain.
Darkness.
Quiet.
Bingmei.
The whispered thought was featherlight and brushed against the walls of her mind. She wasn’t dead, for she could feel stone crushing her ribs. It felt like being squeezed in a giant’s arms. Her legs dangled, nothing beneath them, and they felt as if they would stretch until they popped out of her body. Her hands and face still ached with pain from the splinters created when the meiwood staff shattered.
Bingmei.
There it was again, the sound as soft as the drone of a mosquito. She tried opening her eyes, but something wet and gooey prevented it. Blood? Mud? Both? Her throat burned for a drink of water. She tried twisting her neck and felt shivers of pain shoot down her spine.
“Help,” she croaked, the word coming out garbled.
I’m here, Bingmei. Help is coming. Hold on.
It hurt to breathe. As she rose to consciousness, memories began to trickle back into her mind. She’d crossed the Death Wall. She’d used the meiwood cricket to reach the wilderness of quaking aspen, only to fall into a hidden pit. She was still there, trapped in shadow. Panic flared in her heart. How long had she been down here?
It’s all right, Bingmei. Be patient.
The voice was not one she recognized, but the tone was comforting. At least it made her feel less alone.
Each breath she took was agony. “Help.” She tried again, but it came out as a whisper. She had no strength to speak aloud.
Help is coming. It’s coming. Soon.
Her hands were both above her head, cushioned in dead leaves, her fingers tingling from lack of blood. She tried to wiggle them, and they responded. It wasn’t the death feeling, then—just cramped circulation. With effort, she tried bending her elbow and managed to plant it on a piece of earth in front of her. It eased the pain in her ribs a little. But there was nothing to push off of, the ground was too soft. She felt herself slide a little lower, and the pain became worse.
Hold still, Bingmei. Or you will fall farther. Rest.
“I . . . can’t . . . breathe . . .” she gasped. The pain intensified, each attempt at breathing sending daggers of agony through her.
She heard the trilling of a bird that sang in soft, sweet tones. It was perched in the trees above her. The melody was beautiful, so she tried to calm herself by listening to it.
Her heart leaped at the sound of crackling twigs, approaching bootfalls. The birdsong increased in volume and eagerness. Another bird chirped nearby in response. The bootfalls kept coming closer, crunching through the detritus.
Then she heard Quion’s voice. “Bingmei?”
She grinned at the sound. “Here,” she called in her whisper-like voice.
The sound of Quion tromping through the woods stabbed her ears with its noise. He was coming her way. She sighed, which sent a shard of pain into her chest, and tears of gratitude welled in her eyes.
She heard the noise begin to fade, heading off to the left.
Her thoughts became desperate. No! I’m over here! Right here!
He’ll find you, Bingmei.
The sound of his steps faded. She heard him call her name again, and try as she might, she couldn’t answer loudly enough. The smell of mud and mulch pressed in against her, masking all other scents. He hadn’t even gotten close enough for her to smell his fishy scent.
The trilling bird grew louder, and she heard the boots stop. Relief washed over her as they started coming back her way.
The birdsong was directly above her. Her lips tasted like dirt. Her throat screamed for water.
He’s coming.
Gratitude swelled in her heart. Thank you! Who are you?
A sister. I will see you very soon.
“Bingmei?” She heard the crunch of leaves, and some of the shadow surrounding her grew darker. The trilling bird whistled joyfully.
“Bingmei!” he gasped.
“Can’t . . . breathe,” she whispered.
But Quion was there. He’d found her. Her world brightened as he began clearing the leaves away from her head and arms. Brightness burned against her eyelids. Everything seemed impossibly green. The sensation of the dragons, watching, hunting, had dissipated.
“I only saw your muddy hand,” he said. “I almost didn’t see it at all. You’re wedged in a crevice.” She smelled him now—that familiar, honest smell of fish—and felt a throb of relief. Her ability to smell emotions more often felt like a curse than a boon. She already felt different because of her winter sickness. But she enjoyed the way Quion smelled. He was the most honest and steadfast person she’d ever known.
“Here, let me get a rope around you.” Of course. Quion could solve just about any problem with rope.
In a few moments, he’d squirmed down to her location and tied a rope around her chest. He cinched it tight, then clambered back up to the edge of the crevice.
“Get ready,” he warned. She felt the rope tense and dig into her armpits. It hurt, and she groaned in pain, but Quion wrenched her up, and—instantly—she could breathe. Fresh, sweet air filled her lungs. The tingle in her arms and