The Drowned Tomb (The Changeling Series Book 2)

by James Fahy

  When the lesson was over, he asked Calypso what the cantrip was used for.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, tidying away the silver cups.

  “Well, you know, what practical uses does it have in the field?” He was holding a wooden crate helpfully, into which she placed the goblets one at a time.

  “Which field do you speak of, Scion?”

  “No, not an actual … what I mean is, what is it used for?”

  She blinked at him, looking completely perplexed. “What use?” she murmured, as though this was the silliest idea anyone ever had. “Why, Scion. Almost all magic is completely without use. Magic is not a tin-opener, or a feather duster. Magic is no dull, utilitarian tool made for purpose. Magic simply … is.”

  She took the crate from him and smiled. “This was your first lesson, and you performed very poorly.”

  Robin's face burned, surprised by her bluntness.

  “I shall take this as a good sign,” she said lightly. “If you are this terrible, and you truly are absolutely appalling, then there is no direction in which to go other than improvement, is that not so? Take heart, my student. You can get no worse than you are today.”

  Robin got the impression that nymphs were not very good at motivational pep talks. She seemed to notice his embarrassed expression, and to be a little interested by it.

  “You are such delicate creatures, you Fae,” she mused, half to herself. “You are the song in the bird and the whisper in the trees. This is the Netherworld’s moulding. We creatures of the Tower of Water are hardier. We are the glaciers slicing mountains, we are the undertow which pulls you out to sea, and the darkness at the bottom of the frozen oceans.”

  “Is that meant to be reassuring?” he asked.

  The nymph nodded at his mana stone. “We must make you harder, Scion. Bolder. Your mana is a great lake, but right now it trickles like a crack in a dam. It is pent up behind your fussy thoughts. It must be let loose, to roar like a waterfall.” Her soft eyes narrowed as she smiled. “We must, and will, find your guts.”

  * * *

  The next day was Saturday, and Aunt Irene gathered everyone at the folly on the lake. The sky overhead was clear and the sun glittered on the lake in broken fragments, but for once, a light breeze came across the water, relieving some of the summer’s heat. Mr Drover and Henry were present, in sober black suits. Karya and Woad too, as Robin’s aunt and Calypso re-interred the grave of the dead Undine in a simple but heartfelt ceremony.

  Irene had insisted that it wouldn’t be right to leave the grave undisturbed, and that everybody and everything deserved respect in death.

  The hole which Robin had inadvertently made days before when he had crashed out of the sky was newly filled. Karya’s Earth Tower magic he presumed, though he hadn’t been present when she’d done it.

  Hestia had made, at Irene’s instruction, a simple wreath of summer flowers, which his aunt now took from the housekeeper and lay gently on the fresh earth amidst the stony ruins. The old lady looked calm and sombre, and very odd in an uncustomary dark dress of thundercloud blue-black.

  “We take a moment today to remember a fallen being,” she said to all present. “About whose life we know little, other than it ended here, in the quiet safety of Erlking, where so many things end, and so many begin.” She nodded in respect to the grave. “And we thank this Undine for her trusted guardianship of Tritea’s secrets, and for her brave and unwavering loyalty to the true rulers of the Netherworlde. May her bones and spirit rest now, in peace and unburdened by the responsibility she has carried for so long.”

  She was referring, Robin knew, to the cylinder the Undine had guarded in life and death. He shuffled a little in the warm sunlight. He hadn’t been to anything like a funeral since his gran had died, and although this was more of a remembrance, a show of respect, it still brought back unwanted memories of that dark day. His life had been so very different back then. Gran’s death had been the tipping point which had changed things, irreversibly, forever.

  Robin didn’t own a suit, so he was dressed in jeans and a dark pullover, the best he could muster for the occasion, and the sweater was thick and uncomfortable in the season. Henry had his Sunday church suit on, he guessed, and had even combed his hair. Karya’s customary tattered coat was dark enough to serve purpose as it was, and he doubted whether she could have been convinced to part with it at any rate. As for Woad, Robin didn’t think the small blue faun could ever be convinced to wear anything as human as a shirt. It was a struggle to convince him to wear pants at the best of times, but he looked uncharacteristically sombre and subdued as Irene spoke. Around his neck there hung a small jam jar on a string, filled with black liquid. Robin had asked, on the walk down to the lake, what on earth it was. “It’s my pet, Pinky. Mind your own businesses.”

  The only splash of real colour in all of the assembled party on the sun-dappled island was his tutor. Calypso was robed in a diaphanous gown of layered silks as always, but they shimmered today in soft rainbow hues, the iridescent sheen of a pearl, a pink-white seashell. Her enigmatic expression was as unreadable as ever. Her hair was loose and toyed along her back as they listened to Aunt Irene quietly recite a suitable poem in the high tongue. Calypso had known this Undine, at one time, Robin thought. Long ago before the war. This Undine loyal to Tritea who had stood against the Dark Empress when Calypso hadn’t, and had remained in Hiernarbos, the haven. A place his tutor had revealed she was no longer welcome.

  As Robin glanced over at her, musing on this, he saw a single tear escape her eye and roll softly down her calm, pale cheek. She glanced his way suddenly, making him feel tremendously guilty, as though he had invaded a very private moment.

  Before he could avert his eyes, he saw the tear roll back up her cheek and disappear into her eye once more, recalled by water-mana and sheer force of will. She gave him an odd, small smile as Irene finished talking, and Robin, unsure what to make of it, stared down instead at his clasped hands.

  THE BLACK KNIGHT OF WALPURGIS

  On Sunday, while Mr Drover weeded the gardens and changed the Redcap wards (they were lunar powered, he had explained, and the relentless good weather had drained them of almost all potency), Robin dragged Henry inside to look up what he could about the Fae Guard. The library of Erlking was on the second floor in the west wing at the back of the house. It wasn’t one of Henry’s favourite haunts. The dust from the books made him cough, he said, and besides, the place smelled funny. Unfortunately, Robin pointed out, it was the only place, probably in the world or the Netherworlde, where they were likely to find even the most basic scrap of information worth reading, and Karya had been shut up in her room all morning, so Henry was simply going to have to suffer and cough.

  “The smell will only be old books anyway,” Robin said, as they made their way along a portrait-filled gallery. “I quite like it. Gran was always at the local library. She used to get books out every week. Those large print ones though, where the writing’s massive.”

  Henry sniffed. “I don’t like large print books,” he said decisively, walking along with his hands in his back pockets. “I can’t shake the feeling they’re shouting at you. I mean, it’s hard to get the feel of a good story when the words are bellowing off the page, isn’t it?”

  Robin shrugged, smirking. “Well, your eyesight’s fine isn’t it, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Anyway, it’s not the smell of old books,” Henry argued as they ducked under a curtained archway in the corridor. “It’s more like smelly old men’s brains going off like bad eggs.” He wrinkled his nose.

  Robin supposed this was a fair approval of some old books, but suspected that had Gran still been alive and here right now, she would have whooped Henry up the back of the head with a volume of Shakespeare for saying such a heresy against literature, and considering it would have been a large print folio of Shakespeare’s Bellowing Sonnets, Henry could very well have ended up unconscious.

  “We cou
ld be out in the woods now, you know,” Henry muttered. “Woad said he found a pool in a glade somewhere. There’s a little waterfall any everything. He’s there now.”

  “I’ve had enough water lately.” Robin rolled his eyes. “Bad enough I nearly killed myself at the lake, but I don’t reckon Calypso is too wild about my prowess. I tried to move my orange juice from the jug to my cup at breakfast this morning, and all I managed to do was somehow turn it from smooth to that rank stuff with bits in.”

  Henry chuckled. “No one like OJ with bits in,” he said. “Except Lady Eris. I bet she does. She’s a weird one though, that new teacher of yours, isn’t she?”

  They turned a corner in the corridor, passing a long parade of arched windows, slicing the view ahead into shadow and light.

  “You sure you’re not just saying that ‘cause she pinned you to a wall with ice?”

  “The pretty ones are always mental,” Henry said, with lofty knowledge of all things female. “I reckon she’s got more than a little fluid on the brain that one, even if she is a looker.”

  Robin agreed the nymph was hard to get a handle on. She was stunning alright. Neither he nor Henry could look directly at her for any length of time, it was like staring into the sun. Or as Karya eye-rollingly observed, like watching two idiots dissolve into embarrassing mush. Still, he wished he could get a handle on the Tower of Water. It hadn’t been any easier with the Tower of Air, but at least he’d had books as a starting point.

  He shrugged diplomatically as they finally reached the rather grand old oak doors of the library, above which, etched in stone was the familiar motto:

  Studio sapientia crescit.

  By one side of the doors now stood a shining suit of armour. The helmet had been shaped by some demented metalworker to resemble not a human head, but rather that of a horned stag. The boys barely glanced at it as they walked up to the doors.

  Henry reached out a hand to push them open. As he did so, there was a piercingly loud squeal of rusted metal hinges, making both the boys jump, and with uncanny speed the suit of armour flung out its arm in a silvery blur, its wicked-looking sword outstretched, effectively barring them from the doorway.

  The movement had been so sudden and abrupt that Henry and Robin barely had time to let out manly squeals of shock.

  “Bloody Nora,” said Henry in a rushed breath, clutching at his heart. They both stared wide-eyed at the suit of armour, now blocking their way like a much overdressed bouncer. The stag-shaped head had tilted slightly to one side, the empty eye sockets regarding them like some manner of predatory bird.

  “Where did this bloody thing come from?” Henry spluttered. Neither of the boys had ever seen the strange suit of armour before.

  The helmet squeaked in the direction of the boy’s voice, again, the movement almost too fast to follow. The metal antlers flashed in the light. There was no discernible mouth in the visor, but it still managed to speak, the words sounding far off and tinny, like a bad telephone connection in a storm.

  “Who dares challenge the Black Knight?” it cried somewhat theatrically.

  Robin stared at the haunted apparition in disbelief. Its rusty sword arm still hung before the door mechanically, the jagged-edged blade looked keenly sharp. Much sharper than say … anything else he had recently been threatened with.

  “Erm … sorry,” said Robin hesitantly. “I think there’s been a bit of a mix up…”

  The visor swung in his direction with a squeak.

  “Who dares challenge the Black Knight?” it repeated.

  Robin held up his hands innocently. “Not us, we’re not challenging anyone,” he said hastily.

  “We came for some books,” Henry supplied helpfully from a wise if not hugely brave few paces behind Robin.

  “Books? What are you speaking of boy? What books?” the tinny voice rang out impatiently. The empty gloved fingers twitched around the hilt of the sword.

  “From the library,” Robin said, pointing helpfully. “Behind you? We live here.”

  “Well, he does,” Henry pointed at Robin. “I just visit a lot.”

  “Any that dare to pass the Black Knight shall meet with certain death!” the suit of armour warned in a deafening and slightly shrill bellow. “I am charged to guard forever the sacred chamber of…” The voice trailed off somewhat, as Robin’s words sunk in at last. The visor turned on the neck, quite slowly, until it was facing completely backwards like an owl. There was a pause, in which Robin was sure he heard a deep, resigned sigh inside the suit of armour. The head snapped forward again to face the boys.

  “They’ve only gone and moved me, haven’t they?” the suit of armour complained.

  “I’m … I’m sorry?” Robin said helplessly.

  “They must have done it when I was sleeping,” the suit of armour mused to itself, lowering its sword arm with a squeak and raising its other hand to its metal chin in a thoughtful way. “Fancy that. I call that cheeky, I do. Most irregular. Most undignified.”

  “Is everything … alright?” Henry asked tentatively.

  The suit of armour looked up at him. “What? Oh, yes, yes quite. No, sorry, terrible mix up there you see. I am, as I may have said, the Black Knight, and you see I’m rather charged for all eternity to guard … well, something pretty dashed important anyway, only … the thing is you see…” It looked around the corridor. “ … I appear to have been moved from my place of eternal guard … and placed rather decoratively in this corridor instead. Awfully embarrassing. This is the mortal side of Erlking, isn’t it? Most irregular, really.”

  Robin and Henry exchanged looks.

  “So…” Robin tried. “Now you’re guarding the library?”

  The visor looked at him a little absently. “Yes, yes I suppose I am, aren’t I? Well, that’s a bit of a step down and no mistake.” It straightened up, as though determined to make the most of the situation. “Ah well, mustn’t grumble I suppose – an eternal charge is an eternal charge by any name, I suppose.”

  “Well,” said Henry, in a forced and business-like manner. “Don’t know about you two, but I know I’m glad that that’s cleared up. So … we just need to go and get some books about Robin’s dad and his pals and we’ll be on our way and out of your hair … or antlers or whatever.”

  He started forward. The sword lashed out again to block the door with sudden ferociousness.

  “Who dares to challenge the Black Knight?” bellowed the suit of armour.

  “Bloody Hell! Watch it will you? You nearly had my arm off then!” Henry yelled in a shaky voice, backing up. “What are you playin’ at?”

  The suit of armour wobbled its head a little. “Well, I may very well no longer be guarding the dashed important thing I was guarding last time someone woke me, but blast it all, I’m jolly well good at what I do, and I am going to guard this sacred…” It looked around again briefly, “ … library, as best I can.”

  “Look,” said Robin. “This is silly, we just need to look something up, that’s all. Aunt Irene said we could—”

  “Not without facing the wrath of the Black Knight, you shall not!” the suit of armour shrilled. It seemed to be rather enjoying itself now it had found its footing again.

  Henry pulled Robin back by the elbow.

  “Look, we’re not getting past this bloke, Rob,” he said in a stage whisper. “He’s about two sandwiches short of a picnic, if you ask me.”

  “Well, I need to know more about this Tritea woman and her connection to the Fae Guard,” Robin said in reply.

  “You need your legs more, Robin,” Henry hissed. “Which do you reckon would make your aunt angrier, having no leads, or having no legs?”

  Robin shook the older boy off and turned back to the suit of armour, which was hopping slightly from one foot to the other with a series of clanks in anticipation.

  “Look, Mr … Black Knight,” he said. “What do we have to do to get past you?”

  The visor stared at him. “You must challenge the Blac
k Knight,” it said in menacing tones.

  “Okay, what kind of challenge?”

  “Say what?” the suit of armour stuttered.

  “What’s the challenge?” Robin asked politely.

  The suit of armour lowered it arm slightly. “Hmm,” it said, thoughtfully. “To tell the truth, it has been many a moon since I set a challenge. Let’s see.”

  It turned around secretively, and there was much shuffling and squeaking, as it reached into its chest plate and withdrew something.

  It turned around, holding aloft what looked like a clay pot.

  Looking satisfied with itself, if that was possible with such unmovable features, the stag-headed suit of armour set the pot on a small marble plinth which stood near the doors.

  “What’s that?” Henry asked, peering at it.

  “That, my dark haired and rather scruffy young varlet, is your challenge,” the suit of armour replied happily, in a genial manner. “In this pot lies the key to the door behind me. You must take it and open the doors yourself.”

  Henry looked suspicious. “That’s it? Just take out the key? No funny business?”

  The metal helmet squeaked in a nod. “That is the challenge.”

  “It’s full of poisonous snakes, that vase, isn’t it?” Henry said accusingly. The suit of armour shook its head.

  “Flesh eating beetles? Mousetraps? Battery acid?” Henry said suspiciously. The suit of armour shook its head briskly to each.

  “There is nothing in the jar but the key,” it assured them smugly in its tinny voice. “You must claim it, and open the doors, using only your wits and what you have here before you.”

  Robin approached the pot and looked cautiously within. At the bottom, there was a swirl of bright yellow-red light, a shimmering flickering form, breaking apart a little but somehow holding a regular shape.

  “It’s … made of fire,” he said to Henry.

  “What?”

  “The key,” said Robin, as the older boy joined him and peered into the pot alongside his friend. “The key is made from fire!”