Wind scoured the canyon walls, carrying with it the faint taste of iron and rain. The ledge was no wider than a man's shoulders, a ribbon of stone winding along the cliff face. Below lay a thousand-foot drop into a river of white mist that shifted and curled like living smoke. Occasionally, something beneath the mist moved — a shadow with too many arms, a flicker of pale eyes.
Aric walked ahead, one hand brushing the wall for balance, the other clasped over his coat where the little bell pulsed faintly green. Lyra followed, her threads unspooled and anchored to cracks in the stone so if the ledge gave way she could catch them both.
"This path feels wrong," she murmured.
"It's a Path," Aric said. "It's supposed to feel wrong."
She made a face. "There's wrong and then there's… this."
Another low tone rolled through the canyon. It wasn't quite sound; it was pressure, like the world inhaling. Pebbles skittered off the ledge and vanished into the mist. Lyra stopped, hugging herself. "That's the same toll we heard before."
"Closer now." Aric slowed, listening. 'Not a Market toll. Not quite a Keeper either. Something else.' He glanced at Lyra. "Keep your threads ready."
"They're always ready."
They rounded a bend. The ledge widened into a natural balcony strewn with pale moss. Beyond it the canyon opened into a massive hollow, a chamber carved by time and something more deliberate. Suspended across it was a network of ropes and bridges strung with hundreds of black bells. At the far end, half-hidden in mist, stood a stone gate carved with enormous ears.
Lyra whispered, "Another Hall?"
Aric squinted. "Not exactly."
A cluster of figures moved among the ropes. At first they seemed like monks: hooded, barefoot, moving with ritual precision. But as Aric's eyes adjusted he saw their faces were blank stone masks with narrow mouth-slits. Each carried a long tuning fork, striking it against the ropes in slow rhythm. The sound rolled across the hollow like a heartbeat.
"What are they doing?" Lyra asked.
"Building a Path," Aric murmured. "Or closing one."
One of the monks turned its head toward them. The mouth-slit widened slightly. A dry hiss escaped, like a bell cracked underwater.
Lyra took a step back. "They see us."
Aric held up a hand. "Stay calm."
He stepped forward onto the balcony. "Carriers passing through," he called. "We don't want trouble."
The monk tilted its head. The hiss rose into a low chime. The others stopped striking their forks and turned as one. For a moment the only sound was the wind and the faint pulse of Aric's bell.
Then all at once the monks struck their forks again.
The ropes trembled. The black bells swayed, ringing a discordant tone. The air grew heavy, pressing down on Aric's shoulders. He muttered, 'That's not a welcome.'
Lyra whispered, "What do we do?"
"Follow my lead." He reached into his coat, touched the Mirror. "If they're tolling a Path, they're bound to its rules. We can bend them."
He stepped onto the nearest rope-bridge. It swayed under his weight. The bells hanging from it chimed softly. Lyra hissed, "Vale—"
"Stay close," he said.
They moved carefully across the bridge. The monks began to chant — a guttural, wordless hum. Each note made the ropes vibrate, shaking the bells harder. The mist below roiled, rising in tendrils.
Halfway across, one monk raised its fork and struck the rope directly. A shockwave of sound shot along the bridge toward them.
"Down!" Aric barked. He dropped to a knee, tilting the Mirror. The wave hit, split, and spiraled past him, smashing into the canyon wall in a burst of dust. Lyra's threads lashed out to anchor them.
She muttered, "This is insane."
"I warned you." He rose smoothly. 'Their sound rides the ropes. Cut the ropes, cut the sound.' He flicked his eyes at Lyra. "Can you sever a few lines?"
Her lips quirked. "Watch me."
She snapped her fingers. Threads shot from her wrists like silver fish, wrapping around three of the thinner support cords. She yanked. The cords snapped with a sound like twanging harp strings. The section of rope-bridge ahead sagged. Bells tumbled into the mist.
The monks hissed in unison. One leapt lightly from a higher rope onto their bridge, landing in a crouch. Its stone mask was blank except for the mouth-slit. It raised its fork, humming.
Aric moved first. He swung the Mirror upward, catching the monk's hum and bending it back. The reflected note struck the monk's mask, cracking it. Lyra's thread snapped out, snaring the fork and flinging it into the void.
The monk convulsed and toppled off the bridge, vanishing into the mist below.
Lyra blew out a breath. "That's one."
"More coming," Aric said.
Indeed, two more monks dropped from the ropes above, landing lightly, moving with eerie synchrony. They began to hum in harmony, building a chord that made the bridge shake.
Aric whispered, 'Too many. Need to end it.' He looked ahead. The stone gate at the far end pulsed faintly, seams glowing. "The gate's the anchor. Break it and the toll stops."
Lyra groaned. "Of course."
They ran. The monks pursued, their hum rising to a shriek. The bridge swayed violently. Bells fell like rain. The mist below climbed, forming reaching hands of vapor.
Lyra flung threads behind them, snagging the monks' legs, tripping one into the void. The other leapt the threads easily, landing ahead of them, blocking the path. Its hum rose to a piercing pitch.
Aric skidded to a halt. 'Mirror won't hold a note that sharp.' He glanced at Lyra. "Can you throw me?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Across." He jerked his chin at the gate.
"You're insane."
"Correct."
She swore under her breath but braced herself. Threads wrapped around his waist and shoulders. She muttered, "If you die, I'm taking your stuff."
He grinned. "Fair."
She heaved. The threads snapped taut, slingshotting him past the monk. Aric twisted in midair, landing hard on the last section of bridge before the gate. He rolled to his feet, drew the little bell from his coat, and slammed it against the gate's seam.
The bell didn't ring. It pulsed.
The gate shuddered. Cracks spread outward, glowing green. The monks hissed, their hum faltering. The mist below recoiled as if burned.
Aric pressed the bell harder. "Open," he hissed.
The gate's symbol — a single ear — rotated, splitting into two. A low tone rolled out, deeper than thunder. The ropes snapped one by one. Bells exploded in showers of black shards.
Lyra yelped as the bridge collapsed under her. Threads shot from her fingers, anchoring to a surviving rope. She swung like a pendulum, crashing into the ledge near Aric. He grabbed her wrist and hauled her up as the last of the bridge disintegrated.
Behind them the monks wailed soundlessly as the mist rose and swallowed them. The gate swung open with a hiss of displaced air, revealing a narrow passage lit with faint green light.
Lyra sprawled on the stone floor, panting. "I… hate… you."
Aric grinned breathlessly. "You're welcome."
She sat up, glaring. "What was that plan, exactly?"
"Get to the gate. Break the toll. Survive. We did two out of three."
She snorted, despite herself. "You're ridiculous."
He offered her a hand. "Come on."
They stepped through the gate. It closed silently behind them, sealing out the canyon's wind. The passage ahead sloped downward, walls lined with carvings of ears and tongues. The air smelled of damp stone and old secrets.
Lyra shivered. "Where are we now?"
Aric looked at the little bell. Its green glow had shifted to pale gold. He felt it tug forward like a compass. "Somewhere quieter."
"That doesn't sound reassuring."
"It shouldn't."
They walked in silence for a time. The only sound was their footsteps and the occasional drip of water. After a while Lyra asked softly, "What did you think about when you said you were insane?"
He smiled faintly. "That this Path is leading us exactly where someone wants us to go."
She blinked. "You think we're being herded?"
"I think we've been on someone's map since the Market. The question is who's drawing it."
Lyra muttered, "Great. More mysteries."
He chuckled softly. "At least you're getting good at swinging me across bottomless pits."
"Don't push your luck."
They rounded a bend. Ahead the passage opened into a small chamber. At its center stood a stone plinth carved with concentric rings. On it sat a single object: a glass orb filled with swirling mist.
Lyra tilted her head. "Another fragment?"
Aric approached slowly. The orb pulsed faintly. He reached out, then hesitated. "Not a fragment. A memory."
"A memory of what?"
Before he could answer, the orb flickered. A voice spoke from within, low and clear, a woman's voice: "Carriers. Welcome to the Whisper Vault."
Lyra froze. "It knows us?"
The voice continued. "You have taken the first toll. Now you will learn what silence can buy."
Aric thought, 'Finally, some answers.' Aloud he said, "We're listening."
The orb's mist swirled faster, forming faint shapes — faces, bells, threads. The voice whispered, "But at a price."