“For the sunset,” Fenoderee said, and then pointed to the ceiling. Tom followed the fay’s finger to see a miniature, golden, inverted pyramid hanging from the ceiling. “The setting sun shines through the window, onto that, and the room is bathed in golden light.”
It was a beautiful scene to imagine. The rest of the room was filled with old, rotten treasures, rusting swords in tattered scabbards, scrolls and parchments that were little more than dust, bottles filled with wine that would probably taste awful. And, in the very centre, directly under the golden pyramid, was the sarcophagus of Sir Dolorio the Vintner.
Tom recognised him from Emyr’s stories. Tall, slender, well-groomed, a beard that was little more than three pointed patches of hair on chin and upper lip. His clothes were of a similar cut to the elfs buried on floors below, and they looked odd on a man. His effigy bore no tokens, no weapons or crowns. But he wore a contented smile. He seemed happy as he was, without finery or riches. This room felt peaceful in a way the statue-filled chamber had not.
Fenoderee broke the spell. “Can you read this?” He pointed to words engraved on the side of the sarcophagus, no more than a dozen. It was otherwise plain save for a single, black veined marble set above the text.
“No.” It was written in the old tongue.
“It says ‘I do not speak until I drink’,” the fay replied.
Tom nodded. Perhaps apt for a man known for creating wine, but an odd thing to put on his grave.
“Do you know what it means?”
Tom shook his head. He didn’t even know why he was here. “We should head back.”
“No.” There was an unusual insistence to the fay’s voice. He pointed again. “Think. What could it mean?”
“I don’t know,” Tom snapped. “You brought me here, you tell me.”
“We don’t know,” Fenoderee repeated. “No-one does.”
So why would Tom know? He shook his head. “We’ll lose the night,” he said.
“Please, Tom. It’s important.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s important to the fay.” Fenoderee implored him with his uneven eyes. His slouching face. Revolting and pathetic at the same time. Whatever this was, he thought it mattered. And Tom had no reason to disbelieve him.
So he looked again. Closer, as if he could read the text. It was old, faded. He crouched down and ran a hand over it. The stone was smooth. He blew at it. He didn’t know why. Dust leapt out of the engraved lines and he coughed, blinked.
“What do you think?” Fenoderee was now leaning over his shoulder.
“I think we’ve come a long way to solve an old riddle.”
“The fay think that Dolorio was Ambrose’s secret,” Fenoderee murmured. “No-one thinks of Dolorio as a real knight because he made wine. So who better to entrust your secrets to? Someone no-one would think to ask.”
Tom stilled. Should he be trying to help the fay find Ambrose’s secrets?
“Our king and queen take a pleasure in undoing Ambrose. He wanted the gift of foresight, so they gave it to him, but took his memory of things past. He sought a way into Faerie, so they conspired to trap him with the Nimuë.”
The Nimuë. Not Nimuë.
“If Ambrose has a secret here, it is something the fay dearly want.” Fenoderee leant closer, his wet breath on Tom’s ear. “And you must make sure they never find it.”
Why not? What would they do with it? And why was Fenoderee saying this? Wasn’t this treason, to thwart the king and queen?
“Then I should leave it here,” Tom replied.
“No.” His voice was grave. “You need to discover it. Tonight.”
“Why?”
The fay retreated and Tom twisted to watch him walk into a corner and slump, not crouched, not stood. Somewhere between the two that didn’t look natural. Didn’t look comfortable.
“Why, Fenoderee?”
“Solve the riddle,” he said, as if in very great pain. He was trembling.
“Why?”
“Because.” But that was all the fay said.
Because. Tom glanced up at the window. It was still dark, but it had taken a long time to climb this tomb. The others were probably waiting for them.
He looked back at the writing on the sarcophagus. Ambrose’s secret. Curiosity told him to solve it. But keeping a secret from Maev didn’t sit right with him. And he was far too tired for riddles.
“You haven’t been honest with me, Fenoderee,” he said.
“We have only been honest.”
“No, you haven’t. You end all your truths in riddles, like this one. If you were being honest with me, you would simply tell me what was going on here.” He stood and turned to the slouching fay. “You told me Glastyn was sent to me but you wouldn’t tell me why. You told me the king and queen have a purpose but you wouldn’t tell me what it is. You tell me I have to find a secret here, tonight. But you won’t tell me why.”
The fay was very still. Too still. Not even breathing or twitching. Even his speech didn’t animate his head. “Some things we do not know.” He spoke with a very great effort. “Some things we dare not say.”
“Why not?”
He grunted. Then he said, “Why do you think the fay want to break the monoliths?”
Tom felt a chill. It was a question he had no answer for. “Entertainment?”
“It is that, and also more than that. Think what the monoliths do. How they affect the fay.” Then he cried out and lurched around. His face was a rictus of ugly pain, his jaw hanging too low, gaping in a silent scream. He pawed at the air and Tom took an involuntary step back. “We are using you,” he said, and then, in a very different voice, softer, darker, “We go too far.”
Then he let out a hideous groan, something that came from far too deep within to be natural, something that went beyond unpleasant sound and reverberated in Tom’s mind, in his very soul, plucking at something deep within him and coating it with terror. The groan rose in pitch and then, a semitone before it became a scream, he collapsed. Not backwards or forwards, but inwards, as if his bones had disconnected, limbs twisting within the skin, until his rotting body was an awkward pile of flesh and moss and mould. His face was left gaping up at the ceiling, away from Tom.
“Hurry,” it whispered. Then it was still.
Tom knew he would get no answer but still said, “Fenoderee?”
The fay was still.
“Iron nails,” Tom breathed. But there was nothing but silence.
No. Not silence. Now he could hear footsteps on the stairs. Soft, padding footsteps. Puck.
He didn’t understand how. But he knew the fay had done something to Fenoderee. Punished him. In the most horrific way. A splinter of that scream was still lodged in his hearing, in his very self, like he would always hear it and feel it. And now Puck had been sent to fetch him. Or to hurt him. To take him away. Or to force him to figure out this secret.
Was it safer to go ignorant?
We are using you, Fenoderee had said. They have a purpose, he’d said.
Tom turned back to the text, running his hands over it, heart pounding, breath quick. If the fay meant him harm, ignorance wouldn’t help him. They would hurt him regardless. Better to know. I do not speak until I drink. What could it mean? Was it the bottles of wine scattered around the sarcophagus? But they all looked like regular bottles, with nothing inside.
Puck’s footsteps were getting closer.
“I do not speak until I drink.” Perhaps the effigy, pour something into the lips? No, it was plain stone, no hole, not even a crack. He checked the rest of it for a flask of some kind, but there was nothing. “I do not speak until I drink.” It became a little mantra, like Emyr’s prayer. Puck was making little noises as he climbed, chuckles, growls, mutterings. He was close. What would he do when he got there?
Breathe. Be calm. “The father and the prayers, and fasting and charities, and calmness of the soul until death.”
Emyr. Ambrose.
He
darted back to the sarcophagus. How could he have been so blind? The marble wasn’t a marble. It looked more like a pearl, veined in black.
A merrow Call.
He touched it and felt the magic, scrabbled at it with his nails to pry it from the stone. But it was stuck fast. There was no removing it.
“Oh Tom,” Puck called in singsong. His voice echoed darkly. “Are you up there, little Tom?”
No time. Tom spat on the Call.
The hum of magic around it grew stronger. It drank the bubbling spit. And Tom heard a voice, a whisper. Ambrose. “He who finds Eirwen will deliver her king.”
That was it. No more. Tom blinked. It made little sense. Eirwen had disappeared a thousand years ago.
He jumped at Puck’s voice. “Ho ho ho, Tom.” It wasn’t a laugh. It was a growl. A threat. Puck was crawling over the top of the stairs, stalking towards him. “And what are you doing there?”
Tom put a hand on the sarcophagus to steady himself. Show no fear. “Hello, Puck,” he said, and he managed to keep his voice steady and calm. “What happened to Fenoderee?”
“He displeased Queen Mab.” Puck’s voice was a low growl and he stopped his crawl. He scratched at the floor with clawed fingers. “Will you displease her too?”
“I hope not.”
“What have you found, dear Tom?”
He pushed himself to his feet. “Sir Dolorio’s tomb. Some writing I can’t read.”
“But Fenoderee told you what it said.”
“He did.” He forced a shrug that felt awkward. He was trying too hard. “Does it make any sense to you?”
Puck crawled onto the sarcophagus, squatting over stone-Dolorio’s stomach. “What does it mean to you?”
Tom shrugged again. Stop shrugging. Too obvious. “Dolorio was a vintner,” he said. “I thought it might have something to do with his wine.”
Would he take that for an answer? No. Puck bared teeth and said, “But you don’t think that.”
Tom shook his head. “I can’t see how he could have hidden a secret in those bottles.”
“So where is the secret?”
It seemed unnatural to keep secrets from the fay. But he was confused, and hurt and tired. And he wasn’t sure if he was trusting the right people.
And Fenoderee had suffered. Tom’s teeth still felt like they vibrated with that awful scream.
“Why did he bring me here?”
“To betray secrets,” Puck hissed at the body.
“Whose secrets? The fay’s?”
Puck’s head jerked and his face changed. He clambered down to the floor. “Never mind that mess of a fay.” His voice was lighter, all threat gone. He reached up and took Tom’s hand. “Come, we must meet with the others.”
“What about Fenoderee?”
Puck tugged Tom’s arm. “Leave him. His body will return to Faerie with time.” It already seemed smaller. As if it was seeping into the stone below.
Tom knew not to sneak up on an aurochs. But the Puck’s sudden change was too obvious. The fay didn’t want him asking questions. So he said, “Fenoderee mentioned Ambrose. Was it Ambrose’s secret?”
Puck cackled but it was empty, false. “That old fool?” The fay was a terrible actor. “The only secret he has is how a wise man can be so stupid.” Puck cackled again. “Come along, Tom, let us leave this foolery.”
Puck’s evasiveness made Tom bold. “I thought you would relish in foolery.”
Puck’s expression darkened. Did he look afraid? “Some foolishness is beyond even a fool’s bravery.” Then he forced a grin. “Come, come with Puck.”
Tom glanced back at Fenoderee. He knew the fay wasn’t truly dead. So he didn’t mourn. But he did feel a sense of loss. First Draig. Then Siomi. Katharine and Six. Now Fenoderee. He was running short of friends.
And answers, too. Why bring Tom here, and risk incurring such wrath? Only for something important. But the secret was nonsense.
He who finds Eirwen will deliver her king.
Why do the fay want to break the monoliths?
Chapter 15
The others were already in the Between.
“Where have you been?” Brega asked. She frowned behind her scarf. “We were worried.”
“Tom’s been sneaking around the city,” Puck replied. “Doing a little sightseeing.”
Brega’s frown turned quizzical but she said nothing.
“Fenoderee took me to the tomb,” Tom said.
“Why?” she asked. Then, “Where is he?”
“Ho ho ho.” Puck did a cartwheel and landed at her feet. She stepped away but the fay pursued. “You won’t see Fenoderee for a while.”
“The fay did something to him,” Tom said. He could still feel that scream. Like a cold belt around the chest. “He’s not dead. But he’s gone, for a while.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
Mester Stoorworm slithered forward and placed an enormous palm on Tom’s chest. Obviously he had finished sulking. “Fenoderee has been undone?”
Undone. It seemed too pleasant a term for what had happened. “Yes.”
The fay dipped his head. “I liked him. He was nice.”
“Oh cheer up, you overgrown snake.” Puck kicked his tail and yelped and hopped in mock pain, hopped on the other foot for a moment before he realised no-one was laughing. Then he scowled and returned to all fours. “He’ll be back,” he grumbled.
“Why did they do this?” Brega asked. She was eyeing Puck with a new look. Perhaps she realised she didn’t understand him as well as she’d thought.
“Fenoderee abducted our dear friend Tom.” Puck leered at her. “He risked Tom and he risked the sword. He had to be punished. Isn’t that what we do?” And he looked at Tom with a nasty smile. “Hurt people who betray us?”
It made his stomach clench, to think of how he’d hit Katharine. “How would you know, Puck?” he sneered. “Weren’t you too busy cowering behind Dank’s legs?”
Puck growled, hunkered to the ground, shoulders shifting, like a cat ready to pounce. He bared his teeth. “You dare speak to us that way?”
“You’re forever speaking to me that way.”
Puck continued to growl in the back of his throat. But Tom refused to back down. Refused to look away, refused to apologise. These fay had so many rules, so many mores and traditions. It was no different to Cairnagan. No, it was worse. Because no-one at Cairnagan had been toying with him.
“We’re all tired,” Brega said. She took a careful step between them, and turned her back to Tom. It felt like an affront.
“We will fail without the sword,” she said. “And Tom is dear to us. Thank you for bringing them back to us.”
Tom blinked. He was surprised how touched he was, to hear her speak of him that way.
“You’re welcome,” Puck muttered. Tom stepped to Brega’s side and watched the fay crawl away into the fog.
“What happened?” she murmured, still watching Puck.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted.
“I thought the fay all had the same thoughts.”
It wasn’t so simple. “Not always,” he said. He was too tired to explain.
When he didn’t say anymore, Brega sighed and looked down. “You were meant to destroy those vineyards.”
“Fenoderee said it was important.” But it sounded weak, even to him. Why was it important? He couldn’t say. He didn’t know.
“You should have told me, before we left.”
“I didn’t know.”
She shook her head. She didn’t believe him. But he couldn’t lie, so how could she think he was telling her anything but the truth? But then she said, “Six and Katharine. They abandoned us and we punished them for it.”
“This is different.”
“Is it?” Her gaze demanding explanations. “They risked everything. So did you, when you took that sword with you on a jaunt through the city.”
“It wasn’t a jaunt.”
“We were relying on you to do something. You didn’t do it.” She pointed a finger at him. “You let us risk our lives for nothing.”
“Not nothing.”
“Did it keep Lord Neirin safe?”
No. No, it had nothing to do with Neirin’s safety. Tom met her eye and shook his head.
“How can I count on you?”
He placed a hand on the sword.
Keep us safe.
Caledyr pushed aside the fatigue in his limbs and he said, “You can count on me.”
Brega looked at his hand on the sword’s grip for a long moment. “Was Six right?” she asked. “Does it talk to you?”
Something in her tone said he should answer carefully. “There’s magic in it,” he said.
“Magic.” She repeated the word with a sneer and shook her head. Then she met his eye and said, “We need to work together.” And she stalked away into the fog too. Always angry. Never satisfied. As if he’d wanted to climb the whole tomb. As if he’d wanted to see Fenoderee be ‘undone’. As if he’d wanted to hear that supposed secret.
He was tired. Physically, despite Caledyr’s efforts. Mentally too. Of mortals. Immortals too. Of this journey and this purpose. Of this sword.
Keep us close.
He undid his belt, let the scabbard fall to the ground and sat down beside it. Making sure no part of him was touching the sword.
“You don’t believe Puck.”
He turned and saw Dank stood behind him. He wanted to tell the boy to go away, to leave him alone and let him sleep. But he doubted Dank would be dissuaded. Not if the fay wanted to know something. So he said, “No.” No sense in lying. Or, at least, dancing around the truth.
“Why not?”
“Puck loves games and tricks and lies. He’s devious.”
The boy laughed and earnt a glare from Brega. He ducked his head. “A fair description of his character.”
“Do you believe him?”
Dank shrugged.
“Why did Fenoderee take me to that place?”
“We seem to know less than Puck.”
Was he lying? Refusing to say? “But what one fay knows, all fay know.”
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 58