The Untold Tale (The Accidental Turn Series Book 1)

by J. M. Frey

  Pip makes me more myself than I have ever been, and I am scared, in the same way that little children are scared of the monster in the clothing cupboard, and just as full of conviction in the truth of it, that I will never feel alive again after Pip leaves.

  Pip tilts her head in for a kiss, stroking her tongue along mine until I am calm enough to speak without stuttering again. “I just wish, is all,” I say once we’ve parted. “That’s all it is.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” she whispers against my mouth. “You might not like how you get it.”

  “It would not matter. I would have you. The rest is just d-details.”

  She stills against me, and I want to pull back to assess her expression, but I do not think I could bear even that much space between us at the moment. “And what would you do if I did agree to stay?” she asks, voice studiously bland.

  “Then, I will fulfill my vow,” I say, pressing my lips to hers once more.

  “What vow?” she asks when we part.

  “Oh, it’s silly,” I say, wishing immediately that I had not brought it up.

  “Forsyth,” she says warningly, and I relent. I promised to stop thinking so little of myself, to not allow the fears and put-downs to bottle up and fester.

  “It’s just that . . . the afternoon before my brother arrived at Turn Hall, you laughed.”

  Pip frowns and rubs her hands in circles across the small of my back. It makes every pore of skin there prickle deliciously, and I dive back toward her mouth for another kiss. A kiss that she willingly gives up.

  “I laugh all the time,” she says. “So what?”

  “But the small dining room . . . this may sound a bit foolish, but, no woman has laughed in that room since my mother. I was so happy to hear you laugh in there that I vowed to fill every single room of that rotting great mansion with your laughter. That is what I want. I want to laugh every . . . fucking shadow out of that depressing place.”

  Pip stares up at me for a moment, eyes emerald with lust, and I can actually see her pupils dilating. She tangles her fingers into my collar and jerks me back down to her mouth so roughly that our teeth clash and our noses bump, and it is wonderful. She is kissing me like she wants to crawl into my mouth and bury herself in my skin, and I do not mind it one bit.

  “I can’t,” she says as we divest one another of clothing, festooning the leaf mold with fabric. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

  “I know,” I say, and the words are smeared into the skin on the back of her neck, an invisible scar left behind, overlapping the puffy white ivy leaf.

  ✍

  The hewn staircase is wide enough for the horses, as Pip guessed, and the descent winding but not so steep as to be uncomfortable for Dauntless and Karl. There is no ledge between us and the open air of the gorge, however, and that makes me more nervous than I can say. At first, I thought Pip and I ought to tie our saddles together, or tie ourselves on, but she pointed out that that meant that if either of us or our horses went over the side, we’d all go. So we pick our way down carefully and slowly instead.

  We reach the bottom in mid-afternoon, the damp of the mist that fills the river basin clinging to our coats and hair like jewels. Karl is restless and unhappy that we remain by the river, and Dauntless seems to be bracing himself for some sort of blow.

  “Whatever is behind that waterfall, the horses sure don’t like it,” Pip says, unnecessarily. We tie them to a large piece of sun-bleached deadfall and, after a hasty lunch of provisions for us and nosebags for our trusty mounts, we approach the base of the falls.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Now, we find your mystery woman. Ten bucks says she’s behind that.” She points at the raging curtain of water. “They always are.”

  “How do we get through without getting crushed?” I ask, voice raised so as to be heard over the crash of water splashing into the basin.

  “Open sesame?” she shouts.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, worth a try.” She frowns at the water. “Come this way.” She heads around to the side of the falls, staring up the sheer cliff face beside them. She raises her hands, running them over the jagged stone, digging her nails in between crevasses, and I realize she is looking for a door.

  “Speak friend, and enter! Mellon!” she shouts, pushing at the wall of stone, but nothing moves. “Dammit. Right, think like Elgar Reed,” she mutters to herself, turning around and scanning the riverbank. It is just as bleak as it was at the top of the cliff, comprised of massive slabs of slate and mossy scrub. The forest line is nearly a mile distant now, as if the roar of the falls has scared the trees away.

  “Tell me the story of this place again,” she asks, coming up beside me and cupping her hand around one of her ears to better hear me.

  “The stories are old!” I call back. “There is a woman who lives in the Salt Crystal Caverns beyond the Falls of Never-ending.”

  “And these are those falls? You’re sure?” Pip asks, looking over her shoulder at it.

  “Yes!”

  “Grand name,” she scoffs. “They clearly end.”

  “They’re not named for the falls themselves,” I say. “They’re named for the woman . . . or the cup, it’s unclear. Maybe both. The Cup that Never Runs Dry, that’s what the prophecy says, right? So you can see why it’s an attractive thing for a hero to have on an adventure.”

  “An endless supply of water.”

  “Yes. And the woman, she’s an immortal of some sort. Undying. Or undead. Or already dead.”

  “And she guards the cup, I assume.”

  “Yes.”

  “Against heroes?”

  “And villains.”

  “Right. And she’s some sort of magical thing?”

  “A ghost, or a sylph, or a wraith, or a fey. Something.”

  “Right, damn, right,” Pip mutters and walks over to the bank. She peers hard at the water, eyes darting back and forth, watching the way the whitecaps churn on the jumble of stones erosion has pulled from the lip of the falls. “Elgar Reed, Elgar Reed, who uses every hoary old fantasy cliché that ever was.”

  She whips around and stares at the deadfall we tied the horses to.

  “Oh!” she exclaims, her mouth a perfect circle of revelation. “Of course! Clever!” We sprint over, and Pip drops to her knees beside Karl’s foreleg. “Ah ha!” she proclaims, reaching her hand under the great bleached stump.

  I push the horse aside and peer down at her. “What’s that?”

  “The old entrance-through-a-hollow-tree shtick,” Pip crows. “Only this tree got old and fell over. The hollow is still here, though, and it smells damp under there. So . . .tunnel.”

  “Incredible,” I say, unable to keep the word back even if I had wanted to. Which I didn’t.

  “Get out your Wisp lantern,” Pip says. “Let’s go.”

  ✍

  The tunnel is indeed damp, and low-ceilinged. I am forced to stoop, though Pip, holding the Wisp aloft, is able to walk unencumbered. I can’t image the tight squeeze it would be on Kintyre’s shoulders and head if he and Bevel were to try to navigate this passageway.

  We walk in silence. There are no twistings, no turnings, just a straight line that goes down, and down, and down. We must be under the basin by now, deep under it, and I try very hard to remind myself that there is enough air in the tunnel, that I do not need to gasp in great noisy breaths, that the way back to daylight is open if we need to retreat. I don my Shadow Hand persona, forcing myself into calmness.

  And then, as quickly as she found the entrance to the tunnel, Pip stops. She waves the lantern about a bit, making the Wisp roll over against the glass. It lets forth a chirruping sound of reproach.

  “Sorry,” Pip apologizes to the creature absently.

  “Why have we stopped?” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m whispering, surely the creature knows we are in her tunnels by now. But there is something about the quiet darkness of the place, the sense of reverence w
ith which we have been approaching this magical woman, that seems to demand it.

  “Look at this,” Pip says, and points. Above us is a rounded lintel, made of a pale stone that sparks and shines in the Wisp-light. It is carved with a dizzying knotwork pattern that resolves itself into waves and clouds. “It’s beautiful. Do you recognize it?”

  “No,” I admit, and it fills me with an eerie uneasiness. “It could be an old Verdashlish design, but that culture was lost so long ago . . .”

  “So, maybe that does make our mystery woman a ghost. This could have been a safe house, or a hiding place.”

  “Or a tomb,” I add, and immediately wish the words back. They fill the air with an uncomfortable and sudden weight.

  “Er, yeah, that too,” Pip whispers.

  “We won’t know for certain until we get there,” I say, and take a step forward. Pip doesn’t move, as I expected she would, and I end up stepping right into her. She leans back against me, knees to shoulders pressed against my front, and takes a deep breath.

  “Pip,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Right. Yes.” But she does not move.

  “Why are you hesitating?” I ask. Something occurs to me, and I wonder why it didn’t occur to me sooner. The answer is that I would never have expected what I’m about to say to be true. But it is. “You’re scared.”

  “No,” Pip denies, and it’s a lie.

  “You are. Why? None of the rest of this quest has scared you so far. Why this?”

  “Because . . .” she gestures helplessly, flop-limbed, at the darkness beyond the lintel. “Because there’s a thing in there.”

  “Pip,” I admonish. “That’s unkind.”

  “No, not like that. Well, sort of like that, but I mean . . . it’s a creature. It’s a magical creature, the likes of which I’ve never . . . I’ve read about them, and it’s all well and good to have read about them, but we haven’t actually met any magical creatures, yet. Not-human people, I mean.”

  “Nonsense,” I say. “Three of the dandies in Gyre’s apartments weren’t human. One was a selkie, and two were halfling fey.”

  “I didn’t know that. They looked human.”

  “Humanish,” I allow. “Then what about the riddling raven?”

  “It’s still just a raven,” Pip said.

  “You are holding a Wisp.”

  “It’s just a blob of light.”

  “The dryad in the tavern?”

  “Set decoration. I never actually spoke to him.”

  I narrow my eyes at her, imparting my incredulity with a glance.

  “But the creature before us . . .” I prompt.

  “Exactly. I have no idea what to expect, and I have no experience, and . . . and that scares me. Because it . . . it proves it.”

  “Proves what?”

  When I crane my neck to catch sight of her expression, Pip’s eyes are wide and wet, and her bottom lip is trembling. “That . . . that I’m really here. That I’m really and truly . . . here.”

  That hurts more than I expected it to. “You have always been here, Pip.” I lay a gentle hand on the back of her neck, telegraphing my every gesture as much as I am able in the half darkness, so as not to startle her. “You are real. I am real.”

  “And whatever is beyond this doorway is real, too,” Pip breathes. “I just don’t know if I’m ready for my first fantasy monster.”

  “She may not be a monster. She’s just a woman,” I say. “And from all accounts, a sensible one that we can have a conversation with. There’s nothing to fear from the arrangement of her biology.”

  Pip snorts. “Easy for you to say. You grew up around talking foxes and unicorns, and summer trips to the seaside with mermaids and seal-men. You’re used to this.”

  “And you will get used to it as well,” I say, whispering straight into her ear, trying to fill her with confidence decanted from my own meager stores. “Now, let us go in and see who waits for us. I have no desire to return to the surface after sunset.”

  Pip nods once, fingers flexing on the handle of the Wisp lantern, and takes a step forward. Her boot makes a hollow scraping sound against the ground, and she lowers the lamp—there is a floor here, smooth and made of crystal, just like the lintel. It throws the brightness back at us in a scattershot of white and violet light.

  “It looks like it goes down forever,” Pip breathes. “That’s gorgeous.”

  The tunnel widens around us as we walk, the walls bowing out and the ceiling rising to become a great dome. We must be inside the cliff by now, possibly under the exact place where we made camp last night. Amazing.

  The tunnel, however, does not branch and does not become a large room. It just goes and goes and goes, onward forever.

  “I’m starting to think your idea of a tomb was right,” Pip says. “Nobody would just build one long hallway if they planned to live down here. There’s nowhere for beds, or to store food.”

  “Perhaps it was meant to be a treasury instead?” I suggest.

  “Correct,” a third voice cuts into our musing, and Pip freezes on the spot so suddenly that I bash into her.

  I take a stumbling step backward, and then another, ensuring I have enough space to draw my sword without slashing Pip, if it proves to be necessary. A stark white light flares at what I assume can only be the end of the tunnel.

  Pip makes a high-pitched sound of distress and scrambles backward so fast she knocks me straight over. She trips over my flailing legs, and, with a combined yelp, we tumble back onto the smooth crystal floor. The Wisp lantern smashes against the stone, and the little creature zooms off, whistling with terrified indignity.

  The light settles into something more tolerable to human eyes, and once the spots have cleared from my vision, I get Pip and I sorted and standing again.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “That light, it looks just like the light that . . .” She tugs at her collar and clears her throat. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  Any other time, I would press the issue, because it is now completely clear that there is something Pip is deliberately hiding from me, something important. Now, however, my attention must be on besting this hurdle and getting what we came for.

  “Who spoke?” I ask, raising my voice to pitch an echo around the tunnel.

  “I did,” the other voice says again, and it is female, the tones dulcet and just a little bit sultry. “Though, I must say, I’m not very impressed. I’ve never seen a hero fall over before.”

  “I’m a scholar!” I protest.

  “And what is a scholar doing down here?” the voice asks.

  “We seek the Cup that Never Runs Dry,” Pip says.

  “You’re here for the Endless Chalice?” There is a breathy sigh, and suddenly, the light contracts. It becomes dense and cylindrical, and then, with an irritated pop, turns into a woman.

  Her skin is vaguely bluish, clad only in the swirls of her dark green hair, and she looks very, very annoyed. Her hair moves in a strange, suspended sort of breeze, and it takes me a moment to realize that it is moving about her body, protecting her modesty, as if she were being gently rocked by underwater currents.

  And hers is quite the body to be protecting.

  Pip clears her throat, and, with a jolt, I realize that I have been staring.

  “Apologies,” I murmur, dropping my eyes to the floor, chastised.

  “Ha!” the woman chortles, and her voice sounds far less ethereal now that it is coming from a physical throat. “I’ve never had an apology before, either.”

  “We are sorry to intrude,” Pip says. “But we do need the cup. Please.”

  The sylph—for that is what she has to be; there is no other explanation for her appearance—turns her pale fish-eyes to Pip. She blinks, and two sets of eyelids draw down over her gaze before darting back up.

  “And a woman,” the sylph says. “Dressed like a man and wearing a sword. How unconventional.”

  “You’ll find I’m not
one for the screaming and dashing about role,” Pip says, keeping her voice even.

  “Refreshing,” the sylph allows.

  “Look, this small talk is great, but we’re sort of on a timeline,” Pip says. “I really hate to rush you, but we need the cup, so go ahead and do what it is you usually do to heroes who come to try and take it, so we can beat you and get out of here.”

  “Beat me?” the sylph growls.

  “Well, not physically!” Pip amends. “I mean, I’m not gonna punch you or anything.”

  The sylph’s heavy gaze cuts between Pip and me. Confusion crawls onto her face. “She speaks for you, hero?”

  “I’m not a hero,” I remind her.

  “But you are questing.”

  “Yes,” Pip cuts in. “And I can speak for myself.”

  The sylph wrinkles her nose. “That, I see.”

  “Look,” Pip says. “Can you please just give us the cup?”

  The sylph frowns. “And why should I do that? It is mine.”

  “I need it to get home.”

  “That is not my concern.”

  “It’s just for one summoning,” I add. “I can bring it back to you straight after.”

  The sylph looks surprised. “You would return it to me? Personally? When your task is completed?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  “None of the other heroes have returned it,” the sylph says warily, as if looking for a trick.

  “I’m a scholar,” I press. “Please.”

  “And manners, too,” the sylph murmurs. She floats closer to us. “You intrigue me, scholar,” she says. “If I give your woman the cup, what will you leave behind to ensure that you keep your end of the bargain?”