The seconds passed. Patch wondered if he’d be asked to wait outside, but then a much deeper clunk sounded.
“Ah!” said Rundel. “It seems you have been approved. Now, please keep clear!”
The sarcophagus started to sink, along with a sizeable part of the stone floor, to reveal a wide stairwell carved in rock, leading down a sharply descending tunnel.
“Behold,” said Rundel Stone. “The Caves of Casimir!”
There certainly were a lot of steps.
Tobias was at the front with Erner, followed by Alia and Rundel. Alia was helping support Rundel as he took each step – the kind of help he would have refused from anyone else. Patch, Wren and Barver were at the rear, and had already fallen behind by quite some way; Barver was going even more slowly than Rundel, wincing as he descended.
“Are you okay?” asked Patch.
“You go ahead,” said Barver. “These tiny steps were made for humans, and they are not comfortable. The edges keep cutting right into the tender parts of my feet. Ow!”
Wren looked at Patch. Tender parts of his feet? she signed.
“I suppose some part of him had to be,” said Patch. He sped up, passing Alia and Rundel to join Tobias and Erner a little further ahead.
“Is Barver having trouble?” asked Tobias, glancing back.
“The steps are awkward for him,” said Patch. “He’ll be fine.”
“At this rate he’ll be left in the dark,” said Tobias.
“He has his own way to light things,” said Patch, grinning. “If he needs to.”
Further down the tunnel, he could see there was a corner coming up, but there was something unusual that he couldn’t quite figure out. Only as they drew nearer could he tell what was strange.
“Something’s glowing!” he cried, pointing.
Tobias stopped his descent and put his lantern behind him so it was darker up front, and there it was – a mysterious glow.
Alia smiled. “The walls of the Caves self-illuminate. You didn’t think Ural would have missed an opportunity for spectacle, did you?”
Patch grew more and more excited, and couldn’t help speeding up, even as he felt Wren’s claws dig into his shoulder. She squeaked a complaint, but nothing was going to slow him down.
And then they were at the corner. Two more steps, and the Caves of Casimir were revealed.
What a sight!
They emerged at the base of a large elliptical cavern. Around the circumference of the cavern, shelves were laden with leather-bound volumes; bottles contained fluids of every colour imaginable. Ladders and stairs led up to additional levels of construction, where the maws of further tunnels gaped wide, promising yet more marvels in the spaces beyond.
In the middle of the cavern floor, a great globe of the world was surrounded by curving desks and a tall cabinet filled with bizarre contraptions. All of this was lit by a glow that came from the actual rock of the cavern roof.
Patch was lost to the sight as he walked towards the centre, and the huge globe. Wren was the same – eyes glistening, enrapt. Erner, too, was standing with mouth agape.
Barver was the last to arrive. The entrance narrowed a bit and he had to wriggle to get inside, but the moment his eyes caught the majesty of his surroundings, he let loose with a series of dramatic and very rude phrases that made it clear he was just as flabbergasted as the rest of them.
“Feel free to explore this main cavern for a while,” said Rundel. “Don’t enter any others, or ascend to higher levels – those are off limits. Please disturb as little as possible. And in your case, Barver…take care not to destroy anything.”
Barver gave him a playful salute. “I’ll endeavour to do minimal damage,” he said.
Patch found himself being bossed about by Wren, who seemed eager to see absolutely every book, artefact, bottle and jar in the whole cavern.
Those shelves with the red books, she’d sign, and no sooner had they reached them than she’d point somewhere else, at something different that she was even more desperate to see up close. Patch grew quietly infuriated, as he kept spotting things that he wanted to spend some time gawping at, like a four-foot-high specimen jar filled with a murky liquid, in which he was sure he could see tentacles. Still, he kept his annoyance to himself, as he knew that all of this magical bric-a-brac was absolute heaven for Wren. The sheer joy on her little face was a wondrous thing of its own, in these caves filled with wondrous things.
At last, Rundel called them back to the centre of the cavern. He stood before the globe. “Now it’s time to begin the real work,” he said. “Somewhere in here is the rare and unusual book that Ural’s killer was looking for. And we must find it!”
There had to be thousands of books. Yet somewhere among them was a clue that might explain the murder of Ural Casimir, and possibly lead them to the Hamelyn Piper.
“You see why I need your help,” said Rundel.
Rundel divided the cavern into sections, marking the floor with chalk. In each section were large tables piled high with a mixture of printed books and handwritten notebooks. “I shall assign each of you to one of these areas,” he said. “We know almost nothing about the book we seek, only that it is rare and unusual. It could be any size, and about any subject.”
“So how are we supposed to know we’ve found it?” asked Alia.
“A fair question,” said Rundel. “Given that Ural had been seeking a copy of this book for years, he’s likely to have included some references to it in his notebooks. With luck, he’s been studying it – the chances are good that it’s among the books on the tables.”
“Admit it, Rundel,” said Alia. “You’re just hoping that it’ll be obvious when we see it.”
“Of course I am,” said Rundel. “But there’s no guarantee of that, which is why we must be methodical. Books on the tables should be examined first, before searching those on the shelves. And as I said, pay close attention to notebooks, and to loose pages too. We can’t afford to miss any clues.” He looked at Patch, and pointed to the section nearest him. “You and Wren will work together in this area.”
And so the search began.
Wren sat on one of the tables, with several notebooks open around her, reading hungrily. Every minute or two she scampered across a page and used her hind legs to push it over.
“I can turn the pages for you, if you like,” said Patch.
I’m fine, signed Wren. Found anything interesting yet?
“Not really,” said Patch. “Lots of books about the history of sorcery, but all rather dull so far. How about you?”
These notebooks are packed with spells, signed Wren. All kinds of stuff!
“You’re supposed to look for clues,” he said. “Not read every word.”
Try and stop me, she signed, grinning. Patch couldn’t help smiling back.
For the next few hours, the Caves of Casimir were silent save for the gentle rustle of turned pages, the thump of books dropped on tables, the small clap of covers being closed.
But at no time was there a shout of discovery. Eventually, Rundel Stone waved for them to approach. “We must return to the house,” he said. “We’ve made a start, and that was all that could be expected. A night’s sleep is needed, so we’ll be fresh for more searching tomorrow.”
The climb back up the steps seemed to take for ever, but at least Barver wasn’t suffering as he’d done on the way down. He’d found blank sheets of paper, and had strapped two thick piles to his feet with some twine – a pair of makeshift shoes to protect his soles from the steps’ cruel edges.
Near the top of the tunnel, a wooden lever sat in a recess in the stone wall. Rundel pulled it, and the crypt entryway opened up again in front of them.
There were plenty of bedrooms in the mansion, but Barver, being too large to get upstairs without causing serious structural damage, was to sleep in the entrance hall itself.
Patch and Wren opted to stay with him. The ornate couch in front of the fireplace was far more comforta
ble than it looked, or perhaps it was simply that Patch was so tired; either way, he was asleep in an instant.
They were woken the next morning by the smell of baking bread, which, with the addition of some carrots in beef fat, made for a simple breakfast. This time the descent down the tunnel seemed nowhere near as long, and with his paper shoes Barver found it no trouble.
The morning went much the same way as the previous visit. Wren spent her time engrossed in the contents of Casimir’s notes, and Patch carefully checked the books. He’d managed to get through about a fifth of the total in their section the day before, so it still seemed like a massive task – several more days of drudgery, most likely. Wren, on the other hand, was clearly enjoying herself. When Patch had a sneak look at a notebook she was reading he saw various tips on creating fireballs, but as he leaned in closer she waved him away.
Keep your nose out, she signed. I’m learning!
By the time they stopped for lunch, Patch was desperate for a break. Tobias cleared a table next to Barver for the food they’d brought down with them. Patch buttered a few crackers, took a chunk of cheese, and went for a closer look at the great globe, and the cabinet at the centre of the cavern. Wren came with him, nibbling the cheese on his shoulder.
He started by looking for Tiviscan on the globe, and even though his sense of geography wasn’t great, he found it quickly; the globe turned with ease. He traced their journey – his, Wren’s and Barver’s – as best he could, to Marwheel Abbey, Gemspar Mountain, Axlebury, the Dragon Wastes… Some of it he had to guess, as smaller places like Axlebury and Patterfall weren’t marked on the globe. “We’ve come a long way,” he said, and Wren nodded. He put his finger on Southern Praze, where his parents had died, then moved it west to Praze-by-Desten, where he’d grown up in the home of his grandparents. He wondered when he’d see them again.
Leaving the globe, he stepped over to the cabinet, six tiers of wood and glass filled with curious items. He and Wren studied them in silence.
There was a blue gem necklace made with delicate gold filigree; a pair of sea-glass pendants, the cloudy glass seeming to swirl as he looked closer; a copper box, with gearing visible through slits in the metal; a dark-green glass sphere that made him feel very uneasy; a pyramid of grey rock, carved with eyes on each side. And that was just the first tier.
Alia appeared next to him. “Ural made quite a collection of magical artefacts over the years,” she said. “But these were his pride and joy. Devices created by Sorcerers, to help focus their magic. I particularly love the ones that are part-mechanical. See the tiny mechanisms? So intricate!” She smiled. “Some of these came from Imminus Rock. When we dug them up, they just looked like bits of rust held together by mud, but when Ural cleaned them there was no rust at all.”
“Imminus Rock!” said Patch. “That’s my favourite chapter!”
“The Terror of Imminus Rock” was the second chapter in the official account of The Adventures of the Eight – in it, the heroes sought the help of a great Sorcerer, but only found an island full of monsters. Patch first heard it when he was very young, and it had scared him half to death with descriptions of manticores and basilisks and other terrifying beasts, but as he got older he relished the story.
Tobias joined them, while Alia continued: “Ural was especially fascinated by one of the ancient Sorcerers, a man called Lar-Sennen. He was the Sorcerer whose help we sought at Imminus Rock. Not him as such, mind, he was long dead – a thousand years ago! Instead, we sought things he’d left behind. Lar-Sennen, legend has it, created magical devices of such power that when he died, he buried them in secret locations all over the world, for fear that his greatest enemy would misuse his work. The Hidden Places of Lar-Sennen, they were known as.”
“Oh, Lord, Ural wasn’t just fascinated, he was obsessed!” said Tobias. He sounded oddly annoyed by the whole topic. “One thing about travelling with Ural Casimir, he never missed an opportunity to bang on about good old Lar-Sennen. He’d go on for hours.”
“I liked to hear him talk,” said Alia, wistful in spite of Tobias’s grumpiness. “Wait a second, I’m sure there’s a—” She walked off mid-sentence, and the others followed as she crossed to a table in Rundel’s section. There, she pulled a huge book over to her and opened the cover. Inside were drawings. Some were simple sketches; others were coloured in vibrant hues.
“Ural drew these himself,” said Alia. “He was quite an artist, although he wouldn’t have agreed. Ah! Here we go…”
She’d reached a full-page title, with the words “The Hidden Places of Lar-Sennen”.
And then, page after page came of fantastical landscapes. There were dragons in some (“Deep in the Territories” was written at the bottom of one page); another, titled “Solantis”, seemed to be entirely underwater. Patch noted one that showed a vast army of ghosts – “Battlefields of Blood in the Ortings”.
The next picture showed an island, with a craggy hill at its heart, on top of which was a small hut; in the hut stood a man, holding what seemed to be a ship’s wheel. Nothing was drawn to scale – the hut, and the man inside, were huge compared to the trees around the hill. At the shoreline, ominous tentacles protruded from the water, hidden terrors from the deep.
“Is that Imminus Rock?” said Patch.
“No,” said Alia. “See the title? This depicts the mythical ‘Massarken’, the mysterious moving fortress of the great Sorcerer himself! An island that can sail the seas! Some of the old legends say it was on the back of a giant crab.” She pointed to the figure on the mountain. “The wheelhouse, Lar-Sennen himself steering it.” She pointed now to the trees dotted around the base of the hill. “There, a forest filled with devil birds. And around the island, vast whirlpools suck vessels to their doom, and any that make it through are destroyed by great beasts of the sea.” She shook her head, and her eyes glistened. “Lar-Sennen was Ural’s hero,” she said, with a sad smile. “According to the legends, Lar-Sennen thought that one day, someone worthy of continuing his legacy would find the devices he’d hidden. I think Ural hoped he would be the one to fulfil that legacy. When the hunt for the Hamelyn Piper began, he’d already spent years seeking the Hidden Places – well, the ones he thought weren’t just fanciful myths. He was convinced we’d find something that would help us.”
“Yes,” said Tobias. “And so Ural led us on a merry chase, didn’t he?” He looked at Patch. “The devices we dug up on Imminus Rock proved entirely useless.”
“Ural was overjoyed to find them,” said Alia, looking back to the cabinet. “The devices from Imminus Rock were among those he treasured most in his collection.”
“Not worth a sparrow’s spit, though, were they?” said Tobias. “Junk, nothing more.”
Alia was rather defensive. “Ural believed they were genuine. A thousand years old, imagine it, yet with hardly a trace of corrosion! It’s true that he never made any headway understanding them, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Their secrets were lost to time.”
Tobias raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.
The rest of that day passed without further discovery. Then, on the third day of their search, something happened that would change everything.
As usual, Barver, Wren and Patch had slept in front of the fireplace. For breakfast they had oats and bacon, and once they’d assembled their lunch they set off towards the crypt once more.
“I don’t know about you two,” muttered Barver as they started their descent, the others ahead of them. “But I hope this doesn’t go on for much longer. Looking through all those books is starting to give me eyestrain.”
Speak for yourself, signed Wren. I’m enjoying every second!
“Well, you would say that,” whispered Patch. “You’re just reading whatever takes your fancy, not helping the search at all.”
That’s not fair! signed Wren. I’m doing my bit!
Patch looked her square in the eye. “What, by finding interesting spells?” She folded her arms and looked away
. “Exactly,” said Patch.
When they were halfway down the steps, Barver suddenly stopped.
“Are your feet giving you trouble?” asked Patch.
Barver was wide-eyed, and had an odd expression on his face. “What was that noise?” he said.
Patch looked to Wren, who shook her head. “We didn’t hear anything,” said Patch.
The three of them stood in silence for a few seconds, then Barver’s eyes widened further. “There it is again!” he said. Without another word, he turned and started to run back up the steps. This was a sight in itself, given the careful pace he’d maintained before – now he was absolutely hurtling up them.
“What’s wrong?” called Rundel.
“I don’t know,” said Patch. “But I’ve seen that expression on his face before.” He chased after Barver; Wren, squeaking in anger, was only just managing to hang on.
He caught up with Barver at the top of the tunnel; the entrance was opening in its slow, grinding way, Barver’s agitation to get outside clear. Patch was thankful for the chance to catch his breath.
Wren let out a very cross squeak. Will you please tell me what’s happening? she signed.
“Shanny,” said Patch, still breathless. “He had the same look on his face when we heard Shanny Pledger’s call. I’m right, aren’t I, Barver?”
Barver nodded, watching the crypt floor slide down, finally locking into position.
Wren was staring at Patch. You mean…?
Barver was already up through the hole, opening the crypt door.
“He heard a griffin,” said Patch. He didn’t want to raise Wren’s hopes, but there was only one reason Patch could think of for a griffin to be here: Shanny had promised to get the message out about Alkeran, using the Echoes – the griffin way of sending news.
A Vanishing of Griffins Page 9