Below the Gardens

Elias reached the ridge again before full light. He had backed away from the tower grounds at dusk when his legs turned unreliable and the open paths felt too exposed for guessing at hidden doors. After a sleepless night in the narrow shelter above the lower terraces, he had come back at first gray light before the gardens filled. The dome above the gardens held a dull gray-blue, neither night nor morning, and the leaves around the dark tower carried a wet shine from the night mist. He moved slower than he wanted. Each time he stepped off a stone edge, pain cut from his shoulder into his side in a hot line. If he bent too fast, the ground tilted and the whine in his left ear swelled until thought went thin.

He stopped behind the low swell of shaped earth where he had seen the hidden hatch the night before. In daylight the place looked even more false. Moss had been laid in neat soft runs over a hard curve. Vines were trained with the same patient care as the arches by the pools, but here they hid seams instead of framing flowers. Nothing in the surface world had looked accidental. He crouched, bracing a hand on his thigh when his ribs objected, and pressed his palm to the ground.

Warm.