BEFORE
THEMONSTER’SNAMEwasIzumrud,thegreatworm,andtherewerethosewho
claimedhehadmadethetunnelsthatranbeneathRavka.Sickwithappetite,
he ate up silt and gravel, burrowing deeper and deeper into the earth,
searchingforsomethingtosatisfyhishunger,untilhe’dgonetoofarandlost
himselfinthedark.
Itwasjustastory,butintheWhiteCathedral,peoplewerecarefulnotto
straytoofarfromthepassagesthatcurledaroundthemaincaverns.Strange
sounds echoed through the dim warren of tunnels, groans and unexplained
rumblings;cold pocketsofsilencewerebrokenbylowhissesthatmightbe
nothing or might be the sinuous movement of a long body, snaking closer
throughanearbypassageinsearchofprey.Inthosemoments,itwaseasyto
believethatIzumrudstilllivedsomewhere,waitingtobewokenbythecallof
heroes,dreamingofthefinemealhewouldhaveifonlysomehaplesschild
wouldwalkintohismouth.Abeastlikethatrests;hedoesnotdie.
The boy brought the girl this tale, and others too, all the new stories he
couldgather,intheearlydayswhenhewasallowed nearher.Hewouldsit
besideherbed,tryingtogethertoeat,listeningtothepainedwhistleofher
lungs,andhewouldtellthestoryofariver,tamedbyapowerfulTidemaker
and trained to dive through layers of rock, seeking a magic coin. He’d
whisperofpoorcursedPelyekin,laboringforathousandyearswithhismagic
pickaxe,leavingcavernsandpassagesinhiswake,alonelycreatureinsearch
of nothing but distraction, amassing gold and jewels he never intended to
spend.
Then, one morning, the boy arrived to find his way to the girl’s room
barredbyarmedmen.Andwhenhewouldnotleave,theydraggedhimfrom
her door in chains. The priest warned the boy that faith would bring him
peaceandobediencewouldkeephimbreathing.
Lockedinhercell,alonebutforthedripofthewaterandtheslowbeatof