I walked out one day across County Leitrim and County Sligo, taking not the road but the fields and woods, finding I wanted to be a hidden thing. The mists on the emerald carpets of grass hung low, a fairy twinkle in the dawn light. The pack on my back, heavier than it had ever been, had long since carved ruts in my shoulders. ’Twas all but part of me now, that bag with that book, but I would never be separated from it, it being my eternal burden to bear.
A devil walked out in the early morning, across rolling, rolling hills, wildflowers thick along the stone walls, so bright they seemed almost artificial, hothouse perfect, dazzling rows of blue and yellow heads. They marked the way and I followed. Many times I had tried to walk this path, and each time something stopped me. But not this time. My heart, set in stone, would see the journey through. The hissing song of night gave way to the softer morning chatter of distant roosters and closer wrens. There were dunnocks, too, and singing thrush, blackbirds, and doves, all a-warble with the promise of a new day.
A sad, old creature, decrepit as only the ancient and regretful can be, walked until his feet ached and were bloody. This is how it happened:
Night had been blessedly cool, but now it turned to day, and so came the heat, and I stopped for a while to rest on a toppled stone ruin. The lake, undisturbed as glass, spread out behind me, the mountainous woods and my destination to the east. I watched the sun break over the water and fished out a canteen, helping myself to last night’s beer. It was sour but cold enough, and I drank deep, flinching as a buzz began over the horizon, then grew, a pointed white object soaring over the lake toward me, low enough to make my bones thrum. I would never get used to those things shooting overhead. Once, it would have been a Sky Snake protecting those skies; now it was only machines.
“Are you lost?”
It was a tiny voice, and from a girl. I turned to my right, resting the canteen against my side to find a lass no higher than my knee watching me from the hedges. She seemed a part of the place, wild, with tiny flowers dotting her very dark hair. Her eyes, huge and amethyst, watched me with such intelligence that I nearly laughed. Was this a girl or a little fairy creature? Impossible to know.
“I might be,” I said kindly, reaching into my pack again and coming up with a bit of chocolate I had bought in the last village. “I might be. Do you like sweets?”
“Mother says I must never take things from strangers,” the girl replied. “And you seem awfully strange.”
“Strange, yes, but also harmless.” I ate the chocolate myself, noticing the flash of envy in her eyes. “Do you have a name, little sprite?”
“Dahlia.”
I nodded and finished the chocolate, wiping off my hands on already-stained trousers. “You know, Dahlia, you must be careful who you give your name to, for names have power.”
Her eyes, already so large, grew bigger. “My mother says that, also. What’s your name?”
“Henry,” I said, then pointed to the wooded plateau to the east, miles and miles away. “Do you live there, by any chance?”
“Near.” Ah, a smart child. She took a few steps forward, putting her hands into two big pockets on her floral-patterned shirt. She wore wide trousers and round, brown shoes. I watched her take a spoon from her pocket and hold it at her side.
“I see,” I said, nodding toward her hand. “And what is that spoon for?”
“Nothing,” the girl replied. “I just like to have it.”
“I’ll bet it keeps you safe. But don’t you worry, I won’t harm you.” I would never harm you. “Won’t you keep an old man company? We might walk together, for I am bound for that hill, too.”
“Really? Have you come to visit?”
Her innocent, high voice pierced my heart, and I hefted the pack, sliding it onto my shoulders before starting toward her through the grass. Another plane whirred overhead, low, and she dropped into the hedge with practiced skill. I knelt and parted the branches, offering a kind smile.
“I hate them, too. They make my ears ring.”
Her nose wrinkled as if she could sniff out my intentions. Perhaps she could. Dahlia climbed out of the brush and dusted herself off, then reached for my hand, tugging me along the path of wildflowers and stones.
“You will get lost without help,” she said. “The woods are very twisty. How do you know to visit? Nobody is allowed.”
“I think I know your mother.” I grinned. “You have her hair and her eyes, though the color is all wrong.”
“Everyone says I have my father’s eyes,” Dahlia informed me. “Do you know him, too?”
“Perhaps. And what do you think of the moon, fair one?”
She put the spoon back in her pocket and toddled along more confidently. “I like it. I like it very much. But why are you here? Nobody is allowed, so it must be very important.”
We broke away from the lake, heading directly into dense, hilly country. The mist grew thicker, rising until only Dahlia’s head poked above it. A tiny blossom fell out of her hair, but I caught it and tucked it away.
“I need your mother’s help. The world has gotten ugly and dark, people are hurting each other.”
“Father says it’s because humans are awful and don’t know how to behave,” Dahlia told me. She wasn’t wrong, but I had to chuckle. A child’s view was simple, full of conviction, and I had no evidence to contradict her. She had also, apparently, divined that I was not human and therefore worthy of trust.
“He isn’t wrong, but that’s why I need help. We must . . .” How to explain war to a child? How to explain the unfettered crisis tearing the world to pieces? I sighed and moved a branch out of the way. “We must help them remember how to be good. Your folk were always full of goodness and light, and if we do nothing, all those human problems will find you, too.”
“Nobody finds us,” she declared.
“They can,” I said. “They will. But we can help them. Your mother can help them. I know she wanted to go away, to protect you all, but now she’s needed again. When something terrible happens you must do something, Dahlia, you must never do nothing. I did nothing once, and I regret it every day of my life.”
She considered that for a moment, a bullfrog taking its time to move out of the way as we tromped through the forest. Normally I would have taken pains to be more discreet, but then, I had a guide.
“Mother is quite stubborn, but you may try.”
Yes, I thought, she was the most stubborn person I had ever known. It seemed impossible that we should meet again, and yet, the paths of the gods had a way of crossing. I was only ever made to bring darkness to the world. Now more than ever, we needed light.
“Then I will try. You know, it is important, Dahlia, that we try. Tell me something, dear,” I said, helping her across a narrow, trickling brook. “Do you fancy birds?”
The End
Acknowledgments
This series would not exist without the patience, thoughtfulness, and guidance of Andrew Eliopulos. The team at HarperCollins worked so, so hard on these books, and I’m grateful for their creativity and persistence. Iris Compiet brought the magic of this world to life, and I’ve been so lucky to have her art side by side with my words. Thanks as well to Olivia Russo for publicity help, and Brooke Shaden for her gorgeous cover work. A sincere thanks to Kate McKean for always being such a rock and giving excellent advice. Additional thanks to the Association Assyrophile de France and Amanda Raths for translation assistance.
And lastly to my family, friends, and fans for coming along on this twisty journey and helping me realize the dream of these books. It has been the most gratifying adventure of my career.
Image Credits
Victorian border here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here © 2019 by iStock / Getty Images.
Wall texture here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here,
here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here © 2019 by iStock / Getty Images.
Rusty wall here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here © 2019 by iStock / Getty Images.
Photographs here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here © 2019 by Shutterstock.
Illustrations here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here by Iris Compiet.
About the Author
Photo Credit Greg De Stefano
MADELEINE ROUX is the New York Times bestselling author of the Asylum series—Asylum, Sanctum, Catacomb, Escape from Asylum, and The Asylum Novellas—which has sold into twelve countries around the world, as well as Allison Hewitt Is Trapped and Sadie Walker Is Stranded. This is the third book in her House of Furies series. A graduate of the Beloit College writing program, Madeleine now lives in Seattle, Washington.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Books by Madeleine Roux
Asylum
Sanctum
Catacomb
Escape from Asylum
The Asylum Two-Book Collection
Asylum 3-Book Collection
The Scarlets
The Bone Artists
The Warden
The Asylum Novellas
House of Furies
Court of Shadows
Tomb of Ancients
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
TOMB OF ANCIENTS. Text copyright © 2019 by Madeleine Roux. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art © 2019 by Brooke Shaden
Cover design by Catherine San Juan
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2018961751
Digital Edition MAY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-249874-8
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-249873-1 (trade bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-06-294200-5 (int.)
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FIRST EDITION
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