by Angie Sage
SEPTIMUS HEAP
BOOK SIX
Darke
ANGIE SAGE
ILLUSTRATIONS BY MARK ZUG
Dedication
For my brother, Jason,
with love
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue - Banished
Chapter 1 - The Visit
Chapter 2 - Visitors
Chapter 3 - Birthday Eve
Chapter 4 - Apprentices
Chapter 5 - Runaways
Chapter 6 - Choice
Chapter 7 - The Bringer of the Book
Chapter 8 - Chemistry
Chapter 9 - Charming
Chapter 10 - Upstairs
Chapter 11 - A Darke Domaine
Chapter 12 - Boomerang
Chapter 13 - Gothyk Grotto
Chapter 14 - Dagger Dan’s Dive
Chapter 15 - Doom Dump
Chapter 16 - Call Out
Chapter 17 - Witch Princess
Chapter 18 - The Emissary
Chapter 19 - The SafeChamber
Chapter 20 - Cordon
Chapter 21 - Quarantine
Chapter 22 - Ethel
Chapter 23 - Safety Curtain
Chapter 24 - Palace Things
Chapter 25 - Simon and Sarah
Chapter 26 - Absences
Chapter 27 - Bott’s Bridge
Chapter 28 - Hermetically Sealed
Chapter 29 - Retreat
Chapter 30 - In the Dragon House
Chapter 31 - Horse Stuff
Chapter 32 - Day of Recognition
Chapter 33 - Thieves in the Night
Chapter 34 - The Big Red Door
Chapter 35 - The Longest Night
Chapter 36 - Outside
Chapter 37 - Brothers
Chapter 38 - The Pig Tub
Chapter 39 - Descent
Chapter 40 - Annie
Chapter 41 - Bleak Creek
Chapter 42 - The Darke Halls
Chapter 43 - Dungeon Number One
Chapter 44 - The Wizard Tower
Chapter 45 - Dragons
Chapter 46 - Synchronicity
Chapter 47 - The Great UnDoing
Chapter 48 - Restoration
Chapter 49 - The Chief Hermetic Scribe
What Happened in the Darke Domaine— and Afterward
About the Author
Also by Angie Sage
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Banished
It is a Darke and stormy night.
Black clouds hang low over the Castle, shrouding the golden pyramid at the top of the Wizard Tower in a dim mist. In the houses far below, people stir uneasily in their sleep as the rumble of thunder enters their dreams and sends nightmares tumbling from the sky.
Like a giant lightning conductor, the Wizard Tower rears high above the Castle rooftops, Magykal purple and indigo lights playing around its iridescent silver sheen. Inside the Tower the duty Storm Wizard prowls the dimly lit Great Hall, checking the StormScreen and keeping an eye on the UnStable window, which has a tendency to panic in a storm. The duty Storm Wizard is a little on edge. Magyk is not usually affected by a storm, but all Wizards know about the Great Lightning Strike of Long Ago, which briefly drained the Wizard Tower of its Magyk and left the rooms of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard badly scorched. No one wants that to happen again—particularly the duty Storm Wizard.
At the top of the Wizard Tower in her as yet unscorched four-poster bed, Marcia Overstrand groans as a familiar nightmare flickers through her sleep. A loud craaaack of lightning splits open the cloud above the Tower and zips harmlessly to earth down the duty Storm Wizard’s hastily conjured Conductor. Marcia sits bolt upright, dark curly hair awry, trapped in her nightmare. Suddenly her green eyes open wide with surprise as a purple ghost shoots through the wall and skids to a halt beside the bed.
“Alther!” gasps Marcia. “What are you doing?”
The tall ghost with long white hair tied back in a ponytail is wearing bloodstained ExtraOrdinary Wizard robes. He looks flustered.
“I really hate it when that happens,” he gasps. “Got Passed Through. By lightning.”
“I’m very sorry, Alther,” Marcia replies grumpily, “but I don’t see why you had to come and wake me up just to tell me that. You may not need to sleep anymore, but I certainly do. Anyway, it serves you right for being out in a storm. Can’t think why you want to do that—argh!”
Another craaaack of lightning illuminates the purple glass of Marcia’s bedroom window and makes Alther appear almost transparent.
“I wasn’t out there for the fun of it, Marcia, believe me,” says Alther, equally grumpily. “I was coming to see you. As you requested.”
“As I requested?” says Marcia blearily. She is still half in her nightmare about Dungeon Number One—a nightmare that always comes when a storm is playing around the top of the Wizard Tower.
“You requested—ordered would be a better way of putting it—that I track down Tertius Fume and tell you when I had found him,” says Alther.
Marcia is suddenly wide-awake. “Ah,” she says.
“Ah, indeed, Marcia.”
“So you have found him?”
The ghost looks pleased with himself. “Yup,” he says.
“Where?”
“Where do you think?”
Marcia throws back the bedcovers, slips out of bed and pulls on her thick woolen gown—it is cold at the top of the Wizard Tower when the wind blows. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Alther,” she snaps as she pushes her feet into the purple rabbit slippers that Septimus gave her for her birthday. “I wouldn’t ask if I knew, would I?”
“He’s in Dungeon Number One,” Alther says quietly.
Marcia sits down on the bed rather suddenly. “Oh,” she says, her nightmare replaying itself at double speed. “Bother.”
Ten minutes later, two purple-clothed figures can be seen scurrying along Wizard Way. They are both trying to keep out of the needle-sharp rain that sweeps up the Way, Passing Through the leading figure and soaking the one close behind. Suddenly the first figure dives down a small alleyway, closely followed by the second. The alleyway is dark and smelly but at least it is sheltered from the near-horizontal rain.
“Are you sure it’s down here?” asks Marcia, glancing behind. She doesn’t like alleyways.
Alther slows his pace and drops back to walk beside Marcia. “You forget,” he says with a smile, “that not so very long ago, I came down here quite often.”
Marcia shudders. She knows that it was Alther’s faithful visits that kept her alive in Dungeon Number One.
Alther has stopped beside a blackened, brick-built cone that looks like one of the many disused Lock-Ups that can still be seen scattered around the Castle. Somewhat unwillingly, Marcia joins the ghost; her mouth is dry and she feels sick. This is where her nightmare always begins.
Lost in her thoughts, Marcia waits for Alther to unlock the small iron door, which is pockmarked with rust. The ghost gives her a quizzical look. “No can do, Marcia,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Wish I could,” says Alther wistfully, “but, unfortunately, you are going to have to open the door.”
Marcia comes to her senses. “Sorry, Alther.” She takes out the Universal Castle Key from her ExtraOrdinary Wizard belt. Only three of these keys were ever made, and Marcia has two of them: one of her own in her capacity as ExtraOrdinary Wizard, and one that she is keeping safe for Jenna Heap until the day she becomes Queen. The third is lost.
Making an effort to steady her hand, Marcia pushes the
iron key into the lock and turns it. The door swings open with a creak that at once takes her back to a terrifying snowy night when a phalanx of guards threw her through the door and sent her tumbling into the darkness.
A foul smell of rotting meat and burned pumpkin tumbles out into the alleyway, and a trio of curious local cats screech and head for home. Marcia wishes she could do the same. Nervously she fingers the lapis lazuli amulet—the symbol and source of her power as ExtraOrdinary Wizard—that she wears around her neck and, to her relief, it is still there—unlike the last time she passed through the door.
Marcia’s courage returns. “Right, Alther,” she says. “Let’s get him.”
Alther grins, relieved to see Marcia back in form. “Follow me,” he says.
Dungeon Number One is a deep, dark chimney with a long ladder attached to the inside of the top half. The bottom half is ladder-free, lined with a thick layer of bones and slime. Alther’s purple floating form drifts down the ladder but Marcia steps carefully—very carefully—down each rung, chanting an UnHarm Spell under her breath, with a Begird and Preserve in readiness for both her and Alther—for even ghosts are not immune to the Darke Vortices that swirl around the base of Dungeon Number One.
Slowly, slowly, the figures descend into the thick gloom and stench of the dungeon. They are going much farther down than Marcia expected. Alther had assured her that their quarry was “only lurking around the top, Marcia. Nothing to worry about.”
But Marcia is worried. She begins to fear a trap. “Where is he?” she hisses.
A deep, hollow laugh answers her question, and Marcia very nearly lets go of the ladder.
“There he is!” says Alther. “Look, down there.” He points into the narrow depths and, far below, Marcia sees the goatlike face of Tertius Fume leering up at them, an eerie green glowing in the darkness. “You can see him, you can do the Banish from here,” says Alther, lapsing into tutor mode with his ex-pupil. “The chimney will concentrate it.”
“I know,” says Marcia tetchily. “Please be quiet, Alther.” She begins to chant the words that all ghosts dread—the words that will Banish them to the Darke Halls forever.
“I, Marcia Overstrand . . .”
The greenish figure of Tertius Fume begins to rise up the chimney toward them. “I am warning you, Marcia Overstrand—stop that Banish now.” His harsh voice echoes around them.
Tertius Fume gives Marcia the creeps, but she is not deflected. She carries on with the chant, which must last for precisely one minute and be completed without hesitation, repetition or deviation. Marcia knows that the slightest falter means she must begin again.
Tertius Fume knows this too. He continues his approach, walking up the side of the wall like a spider, hurling insults, counter chants and bizarre fragments of songs at Marcia to try to put her off.
But Marcia will not be deflected. Doggedly she continues, blanking out the ghost. But as she embarks upon the closing lines of the Banish—“your time above this earth is done, you’ll see no more the sky, the sun”—out of the corner of her eye, Marcia sees the ghost of Tertius Fume drawing ever closer. A stab of worry shoots through her—what is he doing? Marcia reaches the very last line. The ghost is inches away from her and Alther. He looks up, excited—almost exultant.
Marcia ends the chant with the dreaded words, “By the power of Magyk, to the Darke Halls, I you . . .”
As Marcia reaches the very last word, Tertius Fume stretches his hand up to Alther and Merges with his big toe. Alther recoils from the touch but is too late.
“Banish!”
Suddenly Marcia is alone in the chimney of Dungeon Number One. Her nightmare has come true. “Alther!” she screams. “Alther, where are you?”
There is no reply. Alther is Banished.
Chapter 1
The Visit
Lucy Gringe found the last space on the dawn Port barge. She squeezed in between a young man clutching an aggressive chicken and a thin, weary-looking woman wrapped in a woolen cloak. The woman—who had uncomfortably piercing blue eyes—quickly glanced at Lucy, then looked away. Lucy dumped her bag down by her feet to claim her space; there was no way she was going to be standing up for the entire journey to the Castle. The blue-eyed woman would have to get used to being squashed. Lucy swiveled around and looked back up at the quay. She saw the damp, lonely-looking figure of Simon Heap standing on the edge, and she gave him a brief smile.
It was a bleak, cold morning, with a threat of snow in the sky. Simon shivered and attempted a smile in return. He raised his voice against the bangs and thuds that accompanied the barge’s sail being readied. “Take care, Lu!”
“And you!” Lucy replied, elbowing the chicken out of the way. “I’ll be back the day after Longest Night. Promise!”
Simon nodded. “You got my letters?” he called out.
“’Course I have,” returned Lucy. “How much?” This was addressed to the barge boy who was collecting the fares.
“Six pence, darlin’.”
“Don’t call me darlin’!” Lucy flared. She fished around in her purse and dumped a large collection of brass coins into the boy’s outstretched hand. “Could buy my own boat for that,” she said.
The boy shrugged. He handed her a ticket and moved along to a travel-stained woman next to her, who was, Lucy thought, a stranger who had just arrived at the Port. The woman gave the barge boy a large silver coin—a half crown—and waited patiently while the boy made a fuss with the change. When she politely thanked him, Lucy noticed that she had a strange accent, which reminded her of someone, although she couldn’t think who. Lucy was too cold to think right then—and too anxious. She hadn’t been back home for a long time, and now that she was sitting in the boat bound for the Castle, the thought scared her a little. She wasn’t sure what kind of reception she would get. And she didn’t like leaving Simon, either.
The Port barge was beginning to move. Two dockhands were pushing the long, narrow boat away from the shore, and the barge boy was raising the worn red sail. Lucy gave Simon a forlorn wave, and the barge drew away from the quay and moved toward the fast incoming tide running up the middle of the river. Every now and then Lucy glanced back to see Simon’s solitary figure still standing on the quay, his long, fair hair blowing in the breeze, his pale wool cloak fluttering behind him like moth wings.
Simon watched the Port barge until it disappeared into the low mist that hung over the river toward the Marram Marshes. As the last vestige of the barge vanished, he stamped his feet to get some warmth into them, then headed off into the warren of streets that would take him back to his room in the attic of the Customs House.
At the top of the Customs House stairs Simon pushed open the battered door to his room and stepped across the threshold. A deep chill hit him so hard that it took his breath away. At once he knew that something was wrong—his attic room was cold, but it was never this cold. This was a Darke cold. Behind him the door slammed shut and, as if from the end of a long, deep tunnel, Simon heard the bolt shoot across the door, making him a prisoner in his own room. Heart pounding, Simon forced himself to look up. He was determined not to use any of his old Darke skills but some, once learned, kicked in automatically—and one of these was the ability to See in the Darke. And so, unlike most people who, if they have the misfortune to look at a Thing, see only shifting shadows and glimpses of decay, Simon saw the Thing in all its glorious detail, sitting on his narrow bed, Watching him with its hooded eyes. It made him feel sick.
“Welcome.” The Thing’s deep, menacing voice filled the room and sent a stream of goose bumps down Simon’s spine.
“G-Ger . . .” stuttered Simon.
Satisfied, the Thing noted the terrified expression in Simon’s dark green eyes. It crossed its long, spindly legs and began to chew one of its peeling fingers while regarding Simon with a baleful stare.
Not so very ago, the Thing’s stare would have meant nothing to Simon; one of his pastimes during his residency at the Observato
ry in the Badlands had been staring down the Things that he occasionally Summoned. But now Simon could hardly bear to look in the direction of the decaying bundle of rags and bones that sat on his bed, let alone meet its gaze.
The Thing duly noted Simon’s reluctance and spat a blackened nail onto the floor. A brief thought of what Lucy would say if she found that on the floor ran through Simon’s mind, and the thought of Lucy made him just about brave enough to speak.
“Wher—what do you want?” he whispered.
“You,” came the hollow voice of the Thing.
“M—me?”
The Thing regarded Simon with disdain. “Y—you,” it sneered.
“Why?”
“I have come to Fetch you. As per your contract.”
“Contract . . . what contract?”
“The one you made with our late Master. You are still Bound.”
“What? But . . . but he’s dead. DomDaniel is dead.”
“The Possessor of the Two-Faced Ring is not dead,” intoned the Thing.
Simon, assuming—as the Thing intended—that the Possessor of the Two-Faced Ring could only be DomDaniel, was horrified. “DomDaniel’s not dead?”
The Thing did not answer Simon’s question; it merely repeated its instruction. “The Possessor of the Two-Faced Ring requires your presence. You will attend immediately.”
Simon was too shocked to move. All his attempts to put the Darke behind him and make a new life with Lucy suddenly seemed futile. He put his head in his hands, wondering how he could have been so foolish as to think that he could escape the Darke. A creak in a floorboard made him look up. Simon saw the Thing advancing toward him, its bony hands outstretched.
Simon leaped to his feet. He didn’t care what happened but he was not going back to the Darke. He raced to the door and pulled at the bolt but it would not shift. The Thing was close behind him now, so close that Simon could smell the decay and taste the bitterness of it on his tongue. He glanced at the window. It was a long way down.
His mind racing, Simon backed away toward the window. Maybe if he jumped he would land on the balcony two floors down. Maybe he could grab the drainpipe. Or haul himself up onto the roof.