The Prophecy by Hilari Bell Page A

now?”
    “If you don’t have any helpful suggestions,” Prism remarked. “You’d do better to—”
    “Of course!” Perryn shouted. “What a fool I am! Why didn’t I think of it? The sun does move!”
    “What?” The others stared at him.
    “It does! It’s mapped on my globe of the stars. As the world moves around the sun it gets…never mind. Let me think a minute. It’s spring now so the sun’s almost at equinox. In the summer it would go that way, so the shadow would move in an arc that way. In the winter it would be the opposite. Lysander, what time of year was the twenty-seventh king buried?”
    “How should I…wait! The song talks about ladies clad in drifting silks. They held the funeral feast outside because the crowd was too big for the hall. They couldn’t do that in the snow. High summer, from the sound of it.”
    “Then it’s this way.” Perryn snatched up the shovel. “Come on!”
    The tomb had been dug into the side of a hill. The entrance was within ten feet of the place where Perryn told them to start looking.
    Lysander fingered the carving on the lintel, the only part of the door that showed above the ground.
    “Start digging.” Perryn sank his shovel into the fall of earth that blocked it.
    Despite Prism’s comments on the impropriety of their conduct, they made good progress. The crescent moon had barely risen when they finished.
    Perryn stared at the huge stone doors in awe. “Are they sealed?”
    “There’s one way to find out.” Lysander grabbed one of the ornate iron handles and heaved. With a resounding clank, the handle broke. Lysander fell over. Prism snickered.
    “It’s rusted through,” said the bard, examining it. “All right, moon beam, if you’re so smart you open the door.”
    “If you wish.” Prism stepped forward delicately, inserted the tip of her horn into the narrow crack between the doors, and pried.
    The door grated and the hinges squealed, but it opened. The moist air that sighed from the tomb was colder than the breeze off the snowdrifts.
    “It shouldn’t be this easy,” said Lysander. “Light the torches.”
    Torch in hand, the bard stepped in and examined the backs of the doors. “It doesn’t look like these were ever sealed,” he said nervously. “That’s crazy.”
    “Maybe whatever they used to lock it was on the outside, and it rotted, or was stolen,” said Perryn.
    “Maybe,” said the bard.
    “In any case, we’re in. Prism, whatever you do, don’t faint. If we get into trouble, we may not have time to carry you out.”
    “I’ll try not to,” said the unicorn dubiously.
    Perryn raised his torch and started down the tunnel, the stone floor uneven beneath his feet. Elaborately carved statues of the most famous ancient warriors stood at the sides of the long hall.
    When the flickering torchlight first caught the man-shaped form on the floor, Perryn thought one of the statues had fallen. Then the light picked out the hollow sockets and shining teeth of the skull.
    “A fellow grave robber?” The bard went forward to examine the body, and Perryn followed reluctantly. The man’s flesh was entirely gone, but scraps of his boots and his heavy leather belt remained. The bard rolled the skeleton over.
    Perryn shuddered. “Don’t you dare faint, Prism.”
    “Why should I?” The unicorn sounded surprised. “It’s only bones.”
    “Perryn.” Lysander’s voice was tense. “There isn’t a mark here to show how this man died.”
    “Maybe he was shot by an arrow and it didn’t hit a bone,” Perryn suggested. “A falling-out among thieves?”
    “Then where’s the arrowhead?”
    “So maybe he was stabbed,” said Perryn impatiently. Part of him was curious, but the sword was so close! The thought of claiming the final piece of the prophecy made his heart beat faster. “Come on. There’s nothing we can do for him.” Perryn strode down the corridor. The torchlight found another skeleton. And another.
    “This is worse than