Light began seeping from the edges, flowing from tiny cracks, reminding her of moonlight on snow, so pale it was nearly white, forming a ghostly shroud that clung to the runestone. Then it began to shimmer. Speechless, all Zoé could do was stare into the light, immense and pure, glowing mysteriously.
“Looks like something you’d see in a desert by the Nile,” murmured Ian.
“Absolutely wizard,” said Pippin.
“No one must know you have this,” Bron said quietly. “No one.”
Zoé held the runestone, breathing in the smell of it: sweet, like honey, mixed with earth and mold. Each time her eyes fell on the runes, she felt transported, as if she were dreaming her life instead of actually living it. Had this really been written by Arianrhod, handed down through centuries of chaos and wars, pirates and plague—and the sinking of Wythernsea?
“Then this is our weapon against the Scravens,” said Ian.
Bron stood for a long moment, smiling that odd smile of hers—as if she knew a thousand secrets but wasn’t about to reveal any of them.
“Aye,” replied the seeress. “The Runestone of Arianrhod will be their undoing.”
Zoé kept the runestone inside her backpack as she wound through the narrow streets with Ian and Pippin. The fog, instead of burning off as the day wore on, had thickened, turning the pale buildings a dreary gray, clinging to the walls of the Old Town. Damp, chilly air swirled around them, and sometimes through the mist she thought she saw someone following at a distance, fading in and out: maybe a ghost from the tunnels, although a ghost would be far preferable to a Scraven.
“Did you see how Bron threw her spell over the guards? Fantastic, eh?” said Pippin, tearing off her raggedy sweater. She seemed to be gloating—as if, thought Zoé, she’d done the magic herself. “Didn’t know what hit them, did they? They’ll have aching heads and won’t remember a thing. That’s the kind of magic Bron works.”
“Subtle,” said Ian.
“Can I show Granddad the runestone?” asked Zoé. “He won’t tell anyone and he loves old things and Arianrhod’s his favorite goddess—”
“No!” said Ian and Pippin in unison.
“Granddad’s not to know about any of this,” said Ian. “We shook hands on it, remember? Our special handshake.”
“Bron said not to tell anybody,” Pippin reminded her.
“But Granddad’s not just anybody,” argued Zoé.
Then again, she knew it wasn’t fair to pull Granddad into a frightening situation involving Scravens and dark magic, not to mention disreputable people like Stokes. They needed to keep him safe.
As they approached the cottage, Zoé saw her grandfather standing in the doorway; she could tell by his uncertain expression that he’d been worrying about them.
“I was up at dawn and your beds were empty,” he said. “When you didn’t show for breakfast, I got a bit worried, see. Usually when you go out like that you leave me a note saying when you’ll be back.”
Zoé and Ian exchanged a guilty look.
“Sorry, Granddad,” she said. “We didn’t think—”
“It’s my fault, Mr. Blackwood,” Pippin cut in. “I asked them to meet me at North Beach early this morning to search for puffins and we forgot the time.”
“Puffins?” Granddad scratched his head. “Well now.”
“Mirielle Tate, who runs the pub, she’s seen ’em gathering there at dawn,” Pippin went on, and Zoé had to admire her bravado. Pippin was a spectacular liar.
As they entered the antiques shop, Granddad shut the door behind them, hanging a Closed sign over the doorknob. “I daresay you haven’t heard the latest, have you?”
Zoé’s heart began to thump.
“What’s happened, Granddad?” asked Ian, his voice tense.
“There’s been another accident off Caldey, the third in the past week. A cruise ship was lost in the fog and broke up on the rocks. Perhaps you saw the rescue boats heading out from North Beach.”
“We did, as a matter of fact,” said Pippin evenly, and Zoé cringed at the lie. “But we didn’t know about the disaster. Everyone okay?”
Granddad shrugged. “I can’t answer that, I’ve only just heard the news. There’s been a fair bit of scaremongering going on, and it seems the fog and shipwrecks are driving holidaymakers away from Tenby. The tabloids are calling this area a dangerous destination.”
“Oooh, that’ll be bad for business,” said Pippin. “Tourists keep the town ticking over, that’s what my Auntie Gwennie says.”
“I’m already feeling the pinch,” said Granddad, and an uneasy silence fell over them. “Right, then, think I’ll have a lie-down,” he said at last. “There’s bread and Branston Pickle in the pantry. Help yourselves.”
Zoé studied her grandfather’s wan face, noticing dark circles beneath his eyes. “Are you okay, Granddad?”
“Fancy I’ve a cold coming on. Snuffles, congested chest, nothing to worry about. Ta-ta.” Granddad strode out of the room in his typical elegant fashion, ducking beneath a beam and vanishing up the stairs.
“Hey, guys, do you think the Scravens are connected to these accidents?” said Ian.
“What if all this is part of the Scraven invasion?” said Zoé, feeling a flash of panic. The thought hadn’t occurred to her before.
“C’mon, here’s our chance!” whispered Pippin, and Zoé, seeing a wild glint in her eyes, felt suddenly nervous. “Where’s the puzzle?”
“Forget it,” said Ian. “We can’t go to Wythernsea, it’s too much of a risk. More Scravens could escape!”
“Scared, are you? Now, there’s a pity,” said Pippin with a grimace, and Zoé could tell she was acting. “You’ve got rare mist and a runestone to scare off anything that comes your way, but I guess what you don’t have is adventure in your bones. Derring-do, blood-and-guts courage, that’s what we Welsh have. We’re tough as old boots.”
“Huh! I’m just as brave as you,” muttered Ian. “Braver, even.”
“Just because we’re Americans doesn’t mean we’re wimps,” Zoé snapped. “We’re rugged and brave, and we’ve got Welsh blood, too, so there. We’re—what was it Bron called us?—harrowers!” Suddenly, she felt the pull of the puzzle, drawing her upstairs.
“What’s stopping us?” persisted Pippin. “You said time goes really slow in Wythernsea, so we’ll be back in a jiff, before your grandfather wakes up, and the Scravens won’t even have time to escape! Come on, don’t be fuddy-duddies.”
“Nope. Too dangerous,” said Ian, consulting his watch. “Aren’t you late for school?”
“No matter,” said Pippin. “I can miss one day.”
“Ian’s right. Besides, Miss Glyndower said not to come back until we know who The First is,” argued Zoé. “I don’t want her getting mad at us.”
“Give your Miss Glyndower the runestone,” said Pippin. “That’ll make her happy.”
“I just thought of something,” said Ian, looking even more worried. “Don’t we need the runestone to defeat the Scravens? I mean, why are we supposed to take it to Miss Glyndower after we find The First? Tenby’s where all the Scravens are headed! We need the runestone more than she does! I think we should go down there right now and straighten this out.”
It was a losing battle, Zoé realized: the puzzle had a hold on all of them. They were dazzled by it, drawn to it, unable to resist its magical force.
“Harrowers we are, then,” said Pippin with a grin. “Show me the way to Wythernsea.”
Clutching the runestone to her chest, Zoé felt herself falling through the glass tunnel, Ian’s shouts and Pippin’s fierce screams echoing around her. All she could see of them were blurred shadows, and she worried about the stone shattering or turning to dust, it was so ancient and fragile. That fragility was why she’d decided to carry the stone instead of putting it in her backpack, where it might get smashed.
To calm herself, she remembered sitting with her mom on the front stoop of a rented house, red and orange
leaves falling around them. Her mom was talking about the past, something she rarely did, describing her life in Tenby when she was Zoé’s age—taking shortcuts to school, hiking with her chums along the headland, watching Punch and Judy shows, riding donkeys on the beach—it had all sounded magical.
Spinning down through the blue depths of the puzzle, Zoé rocked and shuddered, a clammy mist enfolding her. She felt as if all the oxygen had gone out of her lungs. After what seemed like an endless fall, she looked down to see a patch of green coming up beneath her.
Moments later her feet grazed brambles, grass and tasseled fronds. She sat up, catching her breath, relieved to see Ian and Pippin nearby—and to see the runestone still in one piece.
Beside her, Pippin lay flat on her back, giggling hysterically. “I’m all befuddled,” she said with a hiccup. “Ohhh, me blinking brain, my bones are aching.”
Zoé watched Ian struggle through the high grass, like an explorer setting foot on some new planet.
“Where are we?” he murmured. “This doesn’t look like Wythernsea.”
“Course it is,” said Zoé, gazing uneasily at the skeletal branches hung with moss, blocking out the light. “Wythernsea’s the only place the puzzle takes you to.”
Gray mist drifted around her, and from the moist black earth came a bitter smell. We’re in a forest, she thought, heart rising to her throat. A creepy primeval forest. The flowers were hideous and black, bobbing on thorny stalks, and dead leaves swirled through the air. They seemed to be in the middle of a swampland, with weird creatures slinking through the grass, shaped like squid and jellyfish and eels, and strange reptiles with heads like miniature crocodiles.
Zoé felt a strange prickling all down her spine. This wasn’t at all how she remembered Wythernsea.
In the distance beams of sunlight fell through fog-shrouded trees, and she gazed at the mechanical claws snapping and revolving, and the motionless weathervanes high on the turrets. Beyond the city wall rose a jumble of rooftops and chimneys, gleaming beneath a brilliant blue sky.
“Oh no!” she gasped, feeling air rush out of her lungs. “We’re on the wrong side! We should’ve landed over there, in Wythernsea!”
“Are you kidding? We fell short of the wall?” said Ian in a panicky voice. “That means we’re in the Harshlands!”
Pippin stopped laughing and bolted upright. “The Harshlands, what’s that?” she demanded. “Not where them creatures live … is it?”
The others didn’t answer.
“It’s your fault this happened,” Zoé said accusingly to Pippin. “We never should’ve listened to you! You bugged us to come here and we told you no, but you went on and on about going through the puzzle, calling us fuddy-duddies and stuff, so we caved in.” Hot, angry tears splashed down her cheeks. At this very moment she hated Pippin with a passion.
“You’re blaming me?” said Pippin. “I’m just an innocent bystander!”
“It’s nobody’s fault, so stop your bickering,” growled Ian. “We need to figure out how to scale that wall.”
“Okay, okay,” said Zoé, still upset but aware that she was being unfair to Pippin.
She sensed a movement in the trees and, turning, saw with a flash of terror a dark shape in the mist. It was a Scraven crouched on a branch, knobbled and hunched, eyes smoldering, leathery wings snarled across its back.
“Scraven!” she yelled.
“Head for the wall!” shouted Ian.
Gripping the runestone, Zoé ran for her life, feet squelching through wet grass and slurry mud, stumbling over thick roots, vines snagging her ankles. She reached the wall first and scanned it hurriedly: the stone was falling apart in places, chunks of it gouged out, but she could see no footholds to climb or cracks to wriggle through.
As Ian and Pippin caught up with her, a shriek rang out. Through a scrum of leaves she saw a Scraven launch itself from a tree the height of a four-story building. She froze in her tracks, watching two gigantic wings snap open. The Scraven catapulted down, heading straight for them.
There was a loud thwack! and the creature screamed as a flaming arrow plunged into its chest. Zoé watched the Scraven plummet, crashing through leaves and branches, landing with a sickening thud on the earth.
“Hurry, you dim-witted fools!” shouted a voice, and she saw a Defender waving his crossbow at them. Stern and massive, he’d thrown open a hidden door in the wall; a shaggy, long-snouted dog stood next to him, growling deep in its throat.
Zoé scrambled with the others through the narrow doorway, too frightened to worry about the barker. High-pitched shrieks echoed through the forest, and as the door closed behind them, she saw more Scravens leaping from the trees.
“What were ye doing in the Harshlands?” demanded the Defender, bolting the door with a leather-gloved hand.
Zoé stared at his torn chain mail and scuffed boots, his impassive face and bloodshot eyes. The barker had stopped growling and was gazing up at her, tongue lolling on one side of its mouth. The poor animal was a mess, its white coat filthy and matted, with cuts on its snout and one eye glazed over.
“If my arrow had been a few centimeters off, d’you know what would’ve become of ye?” The Defender curled his lip in contempt.
“We’d be toast,” said Pippin, brushing a huge snail off her sleeve.
“Aye, gruesome toast, and that’s a fact.” The man rubbed his grizzled chin. Somehow Zoé felt reassured by his large, blunt presence.
“That creature would’ve taken the three of you at once, it was that big.” When he spoke, it sounded as if he had marbles rolling around inside his mouth. “We’re waging a war here, can’t ye see?”
Throat tickling, Zoé was suddenly aware that the air was heavy with smoke. There were scores of Defenders along the wall, some on ladders, others balanced on the turrets, flinging burning arrows.
“Thanks for helping us out,” she heard Ian say in a quaky voice. “We’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”
The Defender grunted.
“Ach, that Scraven was disgusting, eh?” said Pippin.
“We have to go now,” said Zoé, noticing the Defender eyeing the runestone, his expression one of a plundering pirate.
“What’s that you’ve got?” he demanded, looming over her.
Zoé gave him a defiant look, determined not to be browbeaten. “This belongs to Miss Glyndower, and we’re here to deliver it.”
“That’s right,” said Pippin in her street-tough voice. “And she’ll cut off the head of anyone who tries to take it.”
“Get a move on, then,” the man said gruffly, waving them away, but not before casting a last glance at the runestone.
Aware of the Defender watching them, they turned and marched off. When Zoé looked back, the barker had vanished into the smoke and fog, along with its master and all the others defending the wall.
Overhead the Wythernsea sky was a rich, searing blue, but the waterfront lay still and silent. Taverns, inns and warehouses were shuttered; shopfronts had been boarded up. There were no people selling goods in the marketplace or hawking baskets of eels, no fishermen on the wharves, no workmen repairing boats. It saddened Zoé to see the bright fishing boats abandoned on the docks.
They came to an arched bridge, the same one Gwyn Griffiths had taken them across, but there was no sign of the furry long-necked animals. Seems like ages ago, thought Zoé, thumping over the wooden boards.
Pippin gasped when she saw the great sweeping staircase to the Retreat.
“We’re here, we’re here!” shouted Zoé, crunching over shells and slipping on wet seaweed as she raced up the steps.
The polished door gleaming in the sunlight, the image of Arianrhod and the whale’s jawbone all seemed welcomingly familiar. Zoé stood on her toes and lifted the worn knocker—a silver crab that looked alarmingly real. The knocker fell and there was a brief silence, followed by shufflings and mutterings on the other side. The hinged door at the bottom flapped open and Zoé saw two eyes, s
et wide apart, blinking behind the grille.
“Tegan?” she ventured.
“Do I look like a girl?” said an indignant voice. “ ’Tis Jasper here. Jasper Morgan.” The boy paused. “And who be you?”
“We’re Zoé, Ian and Pippin,” announced Zoé.
“I’ve orders to open this door to no one,” said the boy.
Ian bent down, speaking quietly through the grille. “We’ve got something extremely important to deliver to Miss Glyndower, so please open up,” he said in a coaxing tone. “She’s been waiting for us.”
“Sorry,” said the boy. “I’ve orders, see, and nobody gets in.”
“Unlock this door at once!” shouted Pippin, pounding her fist against the wood. “Else we’ll break it down!”
Zoé heard the boy say in a tiny whisper, “Hold on.”
Minutes passed before the door swung wide, revealing Miss E. Morwenna Glyndower in a luminous beaded gown, her diaphanous hair blowing around her face as she gazed down at them with a stern expression. Behind her stood a moon-faced boy with springy curls and a face like an angry bulldog. Jasper Morgan, thought Zoé, glaring fiercely back at him.
“My dear children,” said Miss Glyndower. “I was not expecting you this soon.”
“Here it is,” said Zoé, triumphantly holding up the runestone. “We found it!”
“The Runestone of Arianrhod,” murmured Miss Glyndower as Zoé placed it into her hands. “Thank you, my dear.”
“Weren’t easy getting it, mind,” said Pippin. “Took some doing. I’m Philippa Jenkyn Thomas, by the way, the one who found the glass puzzle. You can call me Pippin.”
Before Miss Glyndower could respond, Ian said excitedly, “First we went to the museum looking for the runestone, then we went down into the tunnels.”
“To a place called the Tombs,” said Zoé. “A seeress took us.”
“The seeress Bron Gilwern of Tenby, a friend of mine,” explained Pippin. “Bron chanted some cryptic words, see, and knocked the guards down flat. Like a hex, it were.”
The Glass Puzzle Page 14
