by Kaleb Nation
“Have you any sign or proof of your invitation?” the second statue asked, narrowing its eyes upon him hungrily. Bran’s fingers shook as he dug about in his pockets, but the letter from Adi was in his luggage, sitting far away, with the creatures’ heads in between. His hand touched the business card Adi had given him, and he drew it out quickly.
“This!” he said, and both heads snapped to look at what he held. He shoved it outward so that they could see the crow embossed on the card’s surface. Both creatures pushed their heads closer, studying it, sniffing at the card.
“This invitation shall suffice,” the first creature said, and then both heads drew back, hardening into stone once more. Before Bran could say anything, there came a great heaving and creaking, and the gate parted, scratching loudly against the stone as it swung inward, revealing the mansion.
Nim leapt from Bran’s shoulder and started forward, so Bran had to follow her, grabbing his bags as he did—though not before taking Adi’s letter and placing it in his pocket, in case there were more guards. He shuffled through, and the gate closed behind them the moment they had cleared it. They were left in the darkness of the garden.
It was not a very large place, for he could see the walls clearly encircling them even through the sparse trees and bushes scattered about in an unkempt manner. There were statues: gray, hulking things, just as monstrous as the two outside, with hideous faces of fear, locked in battle with one another. Order seemed to have no place. Straight ahead, between them and the mansion, was a long pool of water with a black fence encircling it and tendrils of vines and plants growing up through the bars of its short gate.
“Such a cheery place, isn’t it?” Bran said, looking about. Far above his head, the water seemed to appear again, though he could see no line of magic or glass where it began and ended. There was a shimmering where the surface of the water was, far above their heads, and he could see the shadowy shapes of fish swimming by.
He wondered how the plants and things grew there, so far from the sun, but he guessed it was some type of strange magic. There was little grass besides small pockets where it dared to grow, and the ground seemed to shimmer slightly from the broken light through the water above their heads. Bran looked to the house.
“Let’s go that way,” he said. “We’ll knock and see who answers.”
He had an uneasy feeling, one born not just from the surroundings. There was a pathway of rough stones through the garden, and he followed it. When they came to the pool, he slipped a glance through the bars. The water came up to the edge of the pool, its surface unbroken by wind or motion, the water so dark and dreary that anything might have hidden beneath the surface.
When he came closer to the house, he saw a porch built into the bottom, so that it was inset in the side of the rock and cast a deep, dark shadow over the doorway. It was supported by six tall, black columns, high and foreboding, and he passed them briskly, coming to the door. There were no windows on either side, and those that were nearest to him were too high for Bran to see any shadows or movement. He hesitated but then reached forward to knock.
It echoed deeply, the door bearing no evidence of age. There was no answer, so Bran shrugged and knocked again. He searched for a doorbell, but there was none, and after minutes of trying, still no one came.
He wasn’t about to just leave after coming all that way, and he also realized that he couldn’t leave anyway, because there was no way for him to get back to the surface. So he sat there on top of his luggage for nearly five minutes, hoping that someone would come.
“He’s probably in there now, but the house is so big he can’t even hear me,” Bran said to Nim. He was feeling very impatient, for every moment that he sat there waiting was another moment lost when he could be finding Astara. Using that as an excuse, he reached his hand out and quietly said,“Onpe likoca,” and the door gave a click, swinging open. He stuck his head around the edge to see in.
Bran expected a great room or a wide foyer; instead he was greeted with a narrow, darkened hallway. The walls were richly decorated, however, with fiery red and orange and yellow paintings. A long row of stone columns supported the ceiling, and at their tops flickered yellow light, as if there were candles there that he could not see. Bran took an unsteady step through the door.
“Hello?” Bran asked, his voice echoing lightly in the hallway. Nim skittered to his shoulder again, looking around.
“Gary?” Bran called out, taking his bags and closing the door behind him without taking his eyes off the hall. No one replied. The walls were dusty, and as he looked closer, he thought that he could see forms and faces in the outlines of the paint, though they appeared to have been brushed over and smudged away. He walked down the hall, and the corridor curved off a bit to the right up ahead so that he couldn’t see around it. There were dark, wooden doors with black metal hinges and keyholes and curved tops that fit into the stone walls tightly. Bran’s steps continued around the bend.
“He’s not one for cheery lighting, that’s for sure,” Bran told Nim, just to hear his voice in that dreary place. It smelled of stone and water in a strange way, and the columns on either side continued down, every step lit by the flickering candles above his head. He checked almost every door that he passed, but each was locked tight and wouldn’t budge. He considered using magic on them as well but thought better of it—he’d broken into the house, and it’d be hard to come up with an excuse for sneaking in any further.
He passed nearly eight doors when the hallway split. At the center there was a great painting that was nearly half as tall as Bran, hanging above a simple wooden table. The painting was of a giant golden key with red and orange flames bursting out from its sides, making the key seem to be afire itself. Bran thought the picture was stunning but a bit absurd.
“A key?” Bran said, and Nim jumped from his shoulder to look at it closer. “Now there’s an obsession to have. Where do you even buy paintings of keys?”
The diverging hallways were covered with a rich red carpet, and the walls were papered with a red and dark yellow design. The columns ended and were replaced with candles attached to the walls. Bran started toward the hall at the right without really even thinking, and Nim followed.
He almost called Gary’s name again but couldn’t bring himself to speak as he went down the hallway. It started to curve up and around, like a circular ramp going higher into the house. The walls began to be neatly decorated with inset glass displays. Behind the glass were keys in various shapes and sizes: polished, some gold and others brass, and some with gems and others with rich designs and markings. Bran put his hand in his pocket, feeling the key there once more, burning to his touch.
The hallway continued around until he found himself at a kind of crossroads; the hallway straight ahead went back down in a full circle. But there was another hall proceeding straight away to the left, which he followed. There were more key displays there, lit by soft lights he could not see. The hall began to lead upward again, and as he came to the end, he saw something looming in the darkness before him.
The thin hallway opened into a grand, circular room like an amphitheater, with the hallway carpet continuing around it to the left. Stepping forward, Bran saw that the hallway spiraled around the great room, like a balcony ramp that went up and around, higher and higher until it met the ceiling, too far above for Bran to see if not for the candles that continued up its walls.
However, Bran paid little heed to these things, for his gaze was riveted on the middle of the room where a towering wooden ship was floating in midair as if magically free of gravity, held to the floor by heavy black cables that were anchored with giant bolts. It was the type of ship that a pirate might have sailed in, the wood broken in many places, rusty cannons sticking out of portholes, the sails tattered and ripped to shreds. It was very old, and one of the masts was missing entirely, but its fierce power was still as intimidating as if Bra
n had seen it on the sea.
Bran looked around the giant room but saw no sign of anyone. He drew closer to the giant ship, running his eyes across its side and studying its materials. It seemed to get larger the closer he got, until it hovered above his head. Every sail was triangular, which struck Bran as odd; he was no expert on sailing, but he knew a triangular sail was probably a waste of wind power. The sails were layered, however, so that they seemed to cover one another.
He suddenly noticed a small pedestal with a metal plaque in the shadow of the ship. The words were hard to read in the dark, so he drew out his mother’s wand.
“Obro litighe,” he said, and from the end of the wand came a tiny glowing orb of light, detaching and floating in front of Bran’s head. It cast a dim white glow across the words on the plaque, and Bran read:
The Ship of Pythagorus Fearum
“Fearum?” Bran said, giving a small laugh.
At that sound there came a deep, rumbling noise, breaking his concentration on the glowing orb so that it vanished. He was again engulfed in the shadow of the ship, and the noise stopped, though it echoed up the giant room. Bran could not move, the sound having shaken the very floor itself, and he looked up to the ship again, feeling that it had come from its direction.
He started to slide away slowly, and he heard another sound. The ship seemed to rock slightly, then stop again.
The noises seemed to have come from a gaping hole in the side of the ship far above his head. There were many holes in the ship on that side, all so dark that he could not see within. Still, Bran’s curiosity got the better of him, so he moved a cautious step closer, trying to peer deeper into the dark.
“Hello?” Bran said. “Is that you, Gary?”
He heard another soft rumble that died out once more. Bran started to take slow paces backward, getting a very bad feeling under his skin. He heard something moving about inside the ship, and it began to shake and tremble slightly against the cords. Bran took another step, not letting his eyes leave it.
“I can come back later,” Bran said quickly, and he was turning to dash for the hall when there came a giant roar that filled the room. From every hole in the ship burst forth black tentacles, shooting out toward Bran. He shouted and started to run, but the tentacles caught him by the leg, grabbing him and pulling back. He dropped the wand when he was slammed against the hard floor. Then the tentacle lifted him high into the air, and the room filled with the violent roar of a beast.
Chapter 22
The Revdoora
Nim saw Bran being lifted by the tentacles, and she bit the creature, but it swatted her away angrily, and she tumbled across the room and out of sight.
“Nim!” Bran shouted as he flew through the air, the tentacles snaking around his waist and neck and arms, slinging him toward the ship. Through the high, gaping hole he saw a giant, black, dripping mouth and behind it a dozen glassy black eyes filled with hunger. There were no teeth in the mouth, just a gaping throat from which came another startling roar that blew his hair like wind.
“Feiro!” Bran shouted, fire launching from his palm toward the mouth of the beast. The fire sprayed into its mouth, but the beast shook Bran so that the magic was broken and roared again in pain and anger. The tentacles of the beast tightened so that Bran could barely breathe.
Nim came back again, trying to find a place to attack but spiraling as she was pushed away. The beast pulled Bran closer, and Bran struggled to regain his senses, to do anything to fight as he saw its mouth gaping before him.
“What’s all this noise?” came the roaring voice of a man. In an instant, the creature stopped its movement, so that Bran was held high above the ground in its grasp. Bran managed to open his eyes and saw that someone was standing at eye level with him on one of the balconies, holding a glowing lantern.
The man appeared to be in his late thirties, with short, dark hair and a few days’ stubble on his chin, already going gray. His nose was broken slightly, but Bran might not have noticed except for the lantern throwing such deep shadows on his face. Being so far under water, one might have expected the man’s skin to be pale, but he appeared healthy, despite the circles under his eyes and the wrinkles around the edges of his face.
“Who are you?” he demanded, gesturing at Bran with the lantern. Bran coughed; he couldn’t draw in enough air to breathe, much less answer. The man narrowed his eyes.
“Answer me!” he shouted.
“Wait,” Bran said, breathing hard. “I was sent here to meet Gary.”
“Well, that’s me,” the man with the lantern said. “But you should know visitors are unwelcome here.”
The tentacles of the beast tightened even further at Gary’s words, as if in anticipation.
“No, please,” Bran said. “I’ve got a note from Adi. Look, it’s in my pocket.”
“My sister?” Gary replied, lifting the lantern higher. “What of her?”
“The note,” Bran said, sliding one arm free and drawing it out of his pocket. He held it out in Gary’s direction.
“Open it yourself,” Gary commanded. “Read it to me.”
“I can’t, the seal can only be broken by you,” Bran said, insisting with the letter. Gary seemed unsure, but finally he beckoned the creature closer. Gary snatched the letter and drew back a few steps from Bran, opening the seal effortlessly and unfolding the paper.
He began to read it with anger in his eyes, but as he scanned down the page, his expression changed. Before he had even reached the bottom, his hands began to tremble. Bran didn’t know whether to read Gary’s reaction as fear or anger.
“Oh no,” Gary whispered, turning the page to read the back. “Oh no, no, no. No, Adi.”
He looked up at Bran again. His face had changed so drastically that Bran was shocked. Gary’s eyes had become filled with such agony, it was like he had been stabbed through the heart with a knife. He studied Bran’s face and shakily folded the letter, returning it to the envelope.
“It can’t be,” Gary’s voice cracked once. “You’re Emry and Thomas’s son.” If the room had been deathly still before, the silence had dropped even deeper, so that even the creature made no sound.
“I am,” Bran replied. “I’m Bran Hambric.”
Gary flinched at this but tried to hide it.
“Put him down,” he ordered the creature. The creature hesitated, and Gary straightened up.
“Put the boy down this very instant!” he shouted, so filled with rage that the end came out as a mad scream. The beast immediately deposited Bran over the railing and onto the balcony at Gary’s feet, and Bran rolled over dizzily. Gary stood over him, nervously holding the lantern out and extending his hand.
“I’m Gary,” he said. “I apologize so sincerely, Bran. I really do. Maven has lived in that ship since I got it, and I can’t get her out without wrecking the whole thing.”
“I’m all right,” Bran said, getting to his feet. Nim was at his side in an instant, clinging to his shirt in fear. Bran went to the balcony edge and, spotting the wand, held his hand out, and it flashed through the air into his palm.
“I thought I was gone for sure,” Bran said. Gary shook his head.
“You’re alive at least,” he replied. “I haven’t welcomed a visitor here in a great time. And even you, Bran…even you, being the first after so long?” Gary shook his head. “I never thought my sister would do such a thing to me.”
Bran did not understand what Gary was talking about, so he just nodded.
“She told you about the key, then?” Bran said. Gary looked up at him.
“Some,” he said. “Not very much. I still don’t understand why she would send you to me, considering our circumstances.”
Gary gestured around the room, as if Bran should know something. Gary glanced at Nim for a second and then pointed ahead with the lantern.
“No matte
r, we can speak of this in my office,” he muttered. He started up the balcony, and Bran followed with Nim on his shoulder, their steps taking them higher up. The beast drew back into the ship dejectedly, its tentacles slithering inward once more until it had disappeared entirely and gave a low grumble in disgust at losing a good meal.
As they continued up, lit by the candles and Gary’s lantern, Bran saw that these halls had no glass displays but instead had hooks spaced evenly every few inches. On each hook was a different key: car keys, house keys, skeleton keys; keys that were worn and keys that had been polished; some worth nothing and others inset with tiny jewels. They passed so many keys that Bran felt it would have taken a lifetime to amass them all, and yet every space seemed to be filled.
Gary led Bran through another long, carpeted hallway, with more keys on those walls as well. The house seemed to continue off in winding directions, like tunnels through an old hill. It had to have taken years to build, and Bran realized with amazement that he was still actually under the water, and far above his head somewhere was an island.
Many doors later, the hallway opened into a larger, circular room. It wasn’t very wide in circumference, but the ceiling domed high above Bran’s head. Messy furniture spread across the floor in a disorganized manner in front of a great, wooden desk at the end of the room. There was a gigantic brick fireplace to Bran’s right that crackled with flames, its mantle the shape of stone beasts like the ones at the gate. Bookshelves lined the walls around and above the doorway. But the most startling feature was behind the desk: a wall made entirely of glass.
The candlelight reflected in it, but Bran could see tiny glimpses of fish swimming by and little glimmers of color. It took his breath away, and again, he thought that Astara would have loved it. Thinking of her brought him back to reality, and he saw that Gary was watching him from behind the desk.
“Sit down?” Gary offered, his voice shaking. Bran nodded, and Gary rubbed his hands together nervously and then sat himself. He got up again, though, and went to a side table and began to pour two glasses of water. Bran noticed there was a small, open bird cage hanging to the left of the desk. Inside was a crow, with the darkest black feathers and the harshest expression its face, standing still and stately, its beak a solid, reflective silver that caught light. The bird sat in the exact center of his tiny cage, head held high as if looking down upon Bran for being such a loathsome mortal that was hardly worthy of being in his presence. The bird’s eyes narrowed.
