Syren (29 page)

S
eptimus and Syrah stepped into
a wide, brick-lined passageway lit by the same hissing white lamps that Ephaniah Grebe favored in the cellars of the Manuscriptorium.

The temperature fell steadily as they walked, and Septimus could see his breath frosting the air. He concentrated on his MindScreen—his walk the previous year along the Outside Path with Lucy Gringe. He wondered why that sprang to mind, and then realized that that walk into the unknown had led him into deep trouble. He had a distinct feeling that this one might be doing the same. He glanced down at his Senior Apprentice stripes, their
Magykal sheen still visible below the stains from Spit Fyre’s tail, and told himself that whatever he had to do right now, he could do it. He was, he reminded himself, the only Apprentice ever to complete the Queste.

The passage wound steadily to the left and, after a few minutes, they reached a wide flight of steps, at the foot of which was a massive wall of the same black shiny material that had formed the moving chamber. Septimus could see the rectangular shape of a wide doorway set into it, and he guessed that they were near their journey’s end.

As they walked down the steps, Syrah’s deep Syren voice suddenly—shockingly—rang out. “The boy comes no further.”

Septimus froze.

Syrah shook her head. Frantically she beckoned him forward, while her Syren voice countermanded. “Stand back! Do not touch the entrance!”

Septimus stood back. Not because he was obeying the voice, but because there seemed to be some kind of battle going on between Syrah and her Possessor, and he wanted to keep his distance. He watched Syrah move her hand up toward the worn opening panel beside the door with an odd,
juddering action, and he could see the muscles in her arms straining as, with a huge effort, she forced her hand onto the panel. Slowly the door hissed open, and Syrah walked forward in the manner of a mime artist pushing against an imaginary gale. With great trepidation, Septimus followed.

The door closed behind them. A faint click cut the air and a blue light came on. Septimus gasped. They were in a soaring cavern hewn from deep inside the rock. Above his head long stalactites hung, glittering in the ethereal blue light—and at his feet was the biggest Ice Tunnel hatch he had ever seen. Septimus was shocked.

It was not the massive size of the hatch that shocked Septimus—it was the fact that it was swimming with water. The slightly rounded bulge of the hatch emerged like an island from a sea of gritty gray swash that covered the cavern floor. For the very first time Septimus saw an Ice Tunnel hatch without its protective covering of ice, and it was impressive. It was a solid lump of dark burnished gold, with a raised silver Sealing Plate in the center. Into the gold was inscribed a long line of tightly packed lettering that began at the Sealing Plate and wound in a spiral to the edge.

Syrah’s wavering finger pointed at the hatch. Her other hand
went to her neck, then sprang away, grabbed her pointing finger and forced it down. Now Septimus understood what he was here for: Syrah wanted him to Seal the hatch with the Keye. He didn’t know why there was an Ice Tunnel here, and he didn’t know why it was UnSealed, but what he did know was that he had to act fast. Syrah was losing control of her actions. Quickly he took the Alchemie Keye from around his neck, got down on his hands and knees in the ice-cold water and held the Keye above the Sealing Plate. He felt Syrah’s gaze on the back of his neck and glanced up. Her white eyes were watching him with the expression of a wolverine about to pounce.

Suddenly Syrah lunged at the Keye and snatched it. Septimus leaped to his feet and then, bizarrely, with her muscles shaking from the effort of fighting the will of the Syren, Syrah very deliberately placed the Keye back in his hand and her mouth formed the words
Run, Septimus, run
. With a sudden inner force, her body was thrown to the floor, and she lay sprawled in the pool of melted ice.

Septimus stood for a moment irresolute, wondering if he could somehow save Syrah, but then he saw a telltale blue mist emerging from her prostrate form. He came to his senses and slammed his palm against the worn panel in the black wall.
The door hissed open. Behind him he saw the Possession Wraith rising from Syrah like a crab leaving its shell, and he ran.

Praying that the door would close before the Syren could reach it, Septimus hurtled up the steps, his boots clattering on the stone. As he reached the top, he turned just in time to see the Wraith of the Syren squeezing through the ever-diminishing gap. Septimus did not wait to see more. He tore along the curving, brick-lined passage, which seemed to go on forever, but at last he saw the shiny black wall of the moving chamber. He knew that his only chance was to get into the chamber and close the door
fast
.

He skidded to a halt in front of the featureless wall.
Where was the door?
He took a deep breath—
concentrate, concentrate
, he told himself. Suddenly he saw the worn spot where Syrah had placed her hand. He put his palm onto it, a green light glowed beneath, and the door opened briskly. Septimus leaped through and slammed his hand onto the corresponding worn spot on the other side. As the door began to close, he saw the Syren appear around the last bend in the corridor, so close that Septimus could see her features—her long wispy hair blowing as if in a ghostly breeze, her milky eyes staring at him, her thin,
bony hands stretching toward him. It was a terrifying sight, but there was something even worse. Running in front of her were
Jenna and Beetle
—who screamed,
“Wait, Septimus! Wait!”

Before he had time to react, the door closed.

Septimus discovered he was shaking. From the other side of the door he heard Jenna and Beetle shrieking,
“Help! Let us in, let us in!”

It was—he
knew
it was—a Projection. Jenna and Beetle had looked exactly as they had in his MindScreen, with Beetle wearing his Manuscriptorium uniform—not his fancy new Admiral’s jacket, which he had so far refused to take off. But the Projection spooked Septimus badly; the Syren was powerful—she could make Projections
speak
.

Septimus knew he had to get the chamber moving. Ignoring the pleading of the Projections, he went over to the orange arrow—but as he stooped to press it, the Syren’s song began.

Septimus was utterly transfixed. His hand fell limply to his side as he realized that all he wanted to do was listen to the most beautiful sound in the world. How, he wondered, had he ever managed to live his life without it? Nothing—
nothing
—had meant anything to him before this. It was exquisite. The song looped and soared through the chamber, filling his heart
and mind with a feeling of joy and hope, because in a moment, when he opened the door and let the Syren in, his life would be complete.
This
was everything he had ever wanted. Dreamily he wandered back toward the door.

As Septimus’s palm hovered over the opening panel, brilliant images cascaded through his mind: endless days on sunny beaches, swimming lazily in warm green seas, laughter, joy, friendship. He felt as though he were surrounded by all the people he loved—even Marcia was there. Which was, he suddenly thought, a little odd. Would he
really
want Marcia here on this island with him? An image of Marcia looking disapproving filled his head, and for a brief second it displaced the Syren’s song.

That second was enough. Keeping images of Marcia’s most disapproving moments firmly in his mind—which was easy, as there were so many to choose from—Septimus stepped quickly over to the orange arrow and pressed hard. With Marcia telling him that
he was late again just because he had been skulking in the backyard of the Manuscriptorium drinking that disgusting stuff with Beetle what was it called—FizzBoot? And did he really think he had the right to put the stairs on emergency mode and inconvenience all the hard-working Wizards going
about their business—he was sadly mistaken
the chamber gave a lurch, Septimus’s stomach dropped to his toes, and he knew he was moving up.

Septimus spent the journey in the company of an irate Marcia striding into Marcellus Pye’s house demanding
what Septimus thought he was doing there
until at last the chamber stopped. Quickly he pressed the opening panel, the door slid open and—to the accompaniment of Marcia complaining about Spit Fyre’s hygiene or, to be precise, lack thereof—Septimus ran. As he ran he heard the Syren’s voice screaming up from the depths, “I shall come for you, Septimus, and
I shall find you
…”

Septimus shot up the narrow escape stairs, which were hewn out of the rock of the cliff, and emerged through a Hidden exit into the Peepe. He saw his X still marked in the earthen floor, took a deep breath and ran straight at the apparently solid wall behind it. Suddenly he was standing on the springy grass of the cliff top, breathing in the fresh, warm air.

Syrah had told the truth.

S
eptimus raced away from the Peepe,
wondering how long it would take the Wraith of the Syren to swirl up the escape stairs and come after him. He dived into the cover of the trees and immediately began a basic SafeShield—something that did not need too much concentration.

He topped it up with a Silent UnSeen and set off through the copse, hoping that the Syren did not have the ability to See the telltale signs of Magyk—as some Entities did. When he emerged on the other side of
the trees, Septimus took a shorter, steeper path down the side of the hill that led to the cover of the dunes below.

As he half ran, half slid down the side of the hill, Septimus could not get the image of Syrah sprawled in the water out of his head. It took him right back to the time he had seen a Young Army boy left for dead in the shallows of the river, and memories of Young Army exercises in the Night Forest began to haunt him. Besieged by his thoughts, Septimus made his way through the dunes and was startled when he stumbled into Jenna and Beetle—but not half as startled as they were.

“Argh!” shouted Jenna, swiping the air. “Beetle, help! There’s something here! Get it, get it—oh! Sep, it’s
you
. What are you doing?”

Septimus had very rapidly removed his UnSeen, but not before Beetle landed a swipe on his arm. “Ouch!” he yelped.

“Sep!” gasped Beetle. Then, seeing Septimus’s expression, he asked with concern, “Hey, what’s up—it’s…it’s not Spit Fyre, is it?”

Septimus shook his head. At least that was one thing he did not have to worry about, thanks to Syrah.

Sitting in the sand dunes, watching the orange ball of the sun sink behind a strip of clouds on the horizon, outlining it with brilliant pinks and purples, Septimus told them what had happened.

At the end of his story there was silence. Then Jenna said, “That was a crazy thing to do, Sep, going into a creepy tower with that Syrah girl—or whatever she was. Some kind of island spirit, I suppose.”

“Syrah’s
not
an island spirit,” said Septimus. “She is a real person.”

“So why didn’t she come and say hello to us like a real person would?” asked Jenna.

“Syrah
is
real,” Septimus insisted. “You don’t understand because you haven’t met her.”

“Well, I hope I don’t,” said Jenna with a shiver. “She sounds weird.”

“She is
not
weird.”

“Okay, no need to get cranky, Sep. I’m just so glad you got out of there, that’s all. You were lucky.”

“
She
wasn’t,” muttered Septimus, staring at his feet.

Jenna shot Beetle a glance as if to say,
What do
you
think?
Beetle shook his head imperceptibly. He really didn’t
know what to make of Septimus’s story—and in particular the description of the Ice Tunnel hatch. Beetle cast his mind back to the previous week in the Manuscriptorium Vaults, when Marcia had allowed him to see the Live Plan of the Ice Tunnels—or had she? He knew he hadn’t seen an Ice Tunnel going out under the sea—he would have remembered
that
. But Beetle also knew that the fact that he hadn’t seen it did not mean anything; Marcia could easily have Obscured some of the information. Everyone in the Manuscriptorium knew that the ExtraOrdinary Wizard only showed you what she wanted you to see. But, even so, he found it hard to believe.

“You sure it was an Ice Tunnel hatch, Sep?” he asked. “They’re not usually that big.”

“I know that, Beetle,” Septimus snapped. “And I also know an Ice Tunnel hatch when I see one.”

“But an Ice Tunnel out here…it’s an awful long way from the Castle,” said Jenna. “It would have to come all the way under the sea.”

“Yes, I
have
thought of that,” said Septimus. “I’m not making this up, you know.”

“No, of course you’re not,” said Beetle hastily. “But things
aren’t always what they seem.”

“Especially on an island,” added Jenna.

Septimus had had enough. He stood up, brushed the sand off his tunic and said, “I’m going back to see Spit Fyre. He’s been on his own all afternoon.”

Jenna and Beetle got up. “We’ll come too,” they said together, and then grinned at each other, much to Septimus’s irritation.

A movement out at the Pinnacle suddenly caught their attention. They ducked into the dunes once more and peered out. The
Marauder
was on the move. They lay in the sand and watched it go, but the boat did not, as they hoped, head safely out to sea. Instead it turned to the right and took a course along the island, heading around the rocks that ran from Spit Fyre’s hideout. The
Marauder
was a fine-looking boat, despite those who sailed her, and she made a lyrical picture silhouetted against the darkening sky lit with the first few stars.

“This island is such a beautiful place,” said Beetle with a sigh as he watched the
Marauder
finally disappear behind the rocks. “It’s so difficult to believe that anything bad could happen here.”

“There’s a Young Army saying,” said Septimus. “‘Beauty Lures the Stranger More Easily into Danger.’”

Night had fallen and the Light shone like a tiny, brilliant moon. As Septimus, Jenna and Beetle emerged from their hiding place and began their walk along the beach, they did not see a new arrival at the base of the Pinnacle. A long red capsule rose from the water, flipped open a hatch and disgorged three bedraggled figures. The smaller figure swarmed up the Pinnacle like a large bat and settled itself beside the Sphere of Light. If anyone had turned back and looked, he or she might have seen the tiny black shape of Miarr outlined against the glowing white ball, but no one did. The Light was something they all instinctively avoided looking at. It was achingly bright.

It was tough going on the beach. Septimus insisted that they walk in the soft sand under the cover of the sand dunes, and he also insisted that Jenna and Beetle go first.

“Can’t we walk on the sand farther down?” asked Jenna. “It would be so much easier.”

“Too exposed,” said Septimus.

“But it’s getting dark now. No one can see us.”

“They could on the beach. Figures stand out on a beach. It’s an empty space.”

“I suppose there’s a Young Army saying for that too.”

“‘A Lone Tree Is Easy to See.’”

“There were some really bad poets in the Young Army.”

“There’s no need to be so critical, Jen.”

Jenna and Beetle stumbled on, followed by Septimus, who, Beetle noticed whenever he glanced back, seemed to be walking in an oddly crablike way. “You all right?” asked Beetle.

“Fine,” Septimus replied.

They drew near to the rocks that bordered what they thought of as their bay. Jenna was about to jump onto them when Septimus stopped her.

“No,” he said. “The Syren—she’ll see us.”

Jenna was tired and snappy. “How
can
she, Sep? We can’t see the tower thingy from here, so she can’t see us.”

“Besides, with a Dwelling Possession Wraith, it’s not a problem,” said Beetle. “Unless we’re crazy enough to go
into
the tower.”

“She said she’d come and find me, Beetle,” said Septimus. “You weren’t there.”

“I know, but…well, think about it, Sep. I figure it—and it is an
‘it,’
not a ‘she’—I figure it meant it would come and get you
in the tower
. It thought you were trapped there—right? It didn’t know you knew how to get out. So it’s probably zooming around right now looking for you. Or maybe it’s given up and gone back to—”

“Just shut up, Beetle. Okay?” Septimus snapped. He couldn’t bear to think of the Syren going back to Syrah.

“Yeah, okay, Sep. It’s been a tough day, I can see that.”

Septimus knew that what Beetle said made sense, but he could not get rid of a growing sense of threat. The fact remained that he had failed to do what Syrah had asked of him. The Ice Tunnel was still UnSealed, and something told him that Syrah’s talk of the threat to the Castle meant more than just an UnSealed Ice Tunnel hatch. But he didn’t see how he could make Jenna and Beetle understand. So all he said was, “I don’t care. We are
not
going over the rocks—it is too exposed. We go into the dunes single file under battle silence—”

“Battle silence?”
Beetle sounded incredulous.

“
Shh!
This is serious—as serious as any Do-or-Die exercise in the Forest. Okay?”

“No, but I don’t suppose it matters. It looks like you’ve pretty much decided to be Chief Cadet,” Beetle observed.

“
Someone
has to be,” Septimus replied. He had never admitted it to himself while he was in the Young Army, but he had always harbored a sneaking ambition to make it to Chief Cadet. “You go first, men,” he said, getting into role.

“Men?”
Jenna objected.

“You can be a man too, Jen.”

“Oh,
great
. Thank you
so
much, Sep.” Jenna made a face at Beetle, who grimaced in return.

“But—” Beetle began.

“Shh.”

“No, you listen to me, Sep,” said Beetle. “This is important. If you’re so convinced that the Possession Wraith is going to come out and find you, I think you’ve forgotten something. All it has to do is follow our footprints and then later, when we are all asleep in our hideout…”

Jenna shuddered. “Beetle—
don’t
.”

“Sorry.” Beetle looked abashed.

“There aren’t any footprints to follow,” said Septimus. “That’s why I’m going last. To scruffle them.”

“To
what
?” asked Beetle and Jenna.

“Technical term.”

“
Scruffle
—a technical term?” said Beetle, half laughing.

But Septimus was deadly serious. “It’s a Young Army thing.”

“Thought it might be,” muttered Beetle.

“It’s the way you move your feet in the sand. Look, like this—” Septimus demonstrated his crablike shuffle. “See, you
scruffle
them. If you do it properly, it makes it impossible for anyone to pick out your footsteps, but only in soft sand. It doesn’t work in firmer sand, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Jenna and Beetle set off into the dunes with Septimus behind them. He directed them to a path that was deep and narrow, like a miniature canyon. It was fringed at the top with the coarse grass of the dunes, which arched protectively above their heads and formed a secluded tunnel. Sheltered from the brightness of the Light, Septimus’s Dragon Ring began to glow, and he pulled his purple-banded sleeves down to hide it.

Septimus was pleased with his choice. The path took them parallel to their beach, and led to a spot just before the hideout. By the time they emerged, the sky was sprinkled with
stars and the high tide was on the turn. They headed straight for Spit Fyre.

The dragon was sleeping a healthy, gently snoring, dragon sleep. Jenna patted his soft, warm nose and Beetle commented favorably on the bucket. Then, a little fearfully, everyone went to look at his tail. At once they knew it was all right; the tail no longer stuck straight out like a felled tree but now curved gently in its usual way—and it smelled fine. A faint scent of peppermint still hung in the air, which reminded Septimus of Syrah. A feeling of sadness swept over him at the thought of her.

“I’ll just sit with Spit Fyre a while,” he said to Jenna and Beetle. “Okay?”

Beetle nodded. “We’ll go and fix some
WizDri
,” he said. “You come down when you’re ready.”

Septimus sat down wearily against Spit Fyre’s neck, which was still warm from the sun. He reached into his pocket and took out the little water-stained book that Syrah had given him and he began to read. It didn’t make him feel any better.

While Beetle tended an improbable combination of
WizDri
in a pan on the FlickFyre stove, Jenna sat and watched the
tide creep slowly out. Her thoughts drifted to Nicko. She wondered if the
Cerys
had set sail. She imagined Nicko at the massive mahogany wheel, in charge of the beautiful ship, and a little twinge of regret crept into her mind. She would like to be standing on deck with Nicko, spending time with him as her big brother once more, just like it used to be, and then going below to sleep in her beautiful, comfortable, sand-free cabin. Jenna remembered the tiny gold crown that Milo had painted on her cabin door and smiled. The crown had embarrassed her at the time, but now she saw that Milo had done it because he was proud of her. Jenna sighed. She felt badly about the way she had behaved…maybe she shouldn’t have left like she did.

Beetle heard the sigh. “Missing Nicko?” he asked.

Jenna was surprised that Beetle had guessed her thoughts.

Septimus appeared. “Quiet, Beetle,” he said. “This is a silent camp.”

Beetle looked up. “A
what
?” he said.

“Silent camp. No noise. No talking. Hand signals only. Got that?”

“It’s gone to your head, Sep. You want to be careful.”

“What’s gone to my head?”

“Your Chief Cadet thing. It’s not real, you know.”