The Island House (63 page)

“What?” Freya blinked sweat from her eyes. She’d got over being exhausted hours ago.

Dan pointed at the opening—it was big enough to squeeze through now. He glanced at Katherine. They were all so covered with dust-bloom they might have been stone themselves. “Once we enter, there’s no going back.”

Freya stared into the passage. “What time is it?”

“Past midnight.”

“Give me a minute before we go through.” She picked up the camera. “Just a bit more documentation.”

Without proper lights, she had to improvise. “Dan, can you shine your lamp from over there, please?” She pointed to the top of the opening. “And, Katherine, from the other side? Thanks.” Minutes slid by as Freya shot angle after angle.

Dan said, “It’s moments like this I wish I smoked.”

Adrenaline kept Freya moving. “Nearly there.” She took a last photo and put the camera down very carefully. She wasn’t frightened anymore. “Ready?”

“After you.” Dan swept the girl a bow. The atmosphere was lighter—perhaps they’d reached the silly side of tired.

Freya pointed a flashlight, and the beam played over the edges of the opening before she ducked and disappeared into the dark. Her footsteps become fainter until they stopped.

“I don’t believe it.”

Dan and Katherine shared a look. She said, “You go.”

The opening was tight. Energetic wriggling, and Dan was through.

Reverse birth,
thought Katherine,
that’s what it looks like.

As Dan limped toward Freya, he took in the massive structure of this passageway, so wide his hands could not touch either side. So high . . .

He stopped. His face dropped. “No.”

Freya nodded. “Yes. Katherine, bring the picks!”

In front of them, blocking the way, was another wall.

Time evaporated. Freya blinked away the grit—her eyes felt raw. “Maybe we should stop, get some sleep. We’re working like slaves.” Part of her so, so wanted to give up and just lie down.

Katherine was breathing hard, but she mustered a smile. “Slaves don’t have a choice.”

Dan leaned on his pick. “We’re closer than you think. We can do it.”

“You wild, crazy, optimistic kid. I love you for that.”

He grinned, white face, white teeth. “Promise?”

They’d started at the top of the wall this time. Though the blocks had been laid without mortar, rubble had been rammed in against the ceiling; it wasn’t hard to shift, but there was a lot of it, and the wall proper was proving stubborn.

Dan tapped against a big block of stone a little above his head. The sound was dead. “But listen here . . .” He knocked the pick head close by. “It’s not all uniformly thick. Thrown up in haste, is what I think.”

Freya straightened her back. She stretched like a bow. “Similar to the other wall. Okay. Another half hour—that’s it.”

Dan nodded. “One last go?”

She nodded, hefting the pick. “Yep.”

The two picks swung, almost in unison. And again. Toward
the top, a gap began to open as rubble came down, more and more of it.

Freya stood back. “Careful, Dan. Don’t want to do more damage than we have to.”

Dan offered a crowbar. “Your turn, then.” Eyes dark in a white face.

For one last time, adrenaline obliterated exhaustion. Freya chipped away with the point of the metal bar, opening the gap, making it wider, deeper. It was exhausting work, and she spat grit as she dug, her biceps aching fiercely.

“I’m through!” She pulled back the bar. “It’s another void. Truly.”

Time became water, dripping slow. They worked in careful relays. Chipping, levering, chipping again. Soon, Freya knew, only will would keep them upright.

“Let me.” Dan took over. “I’ll try to hook the block out.” He inserted the head of the pick and pulled with both hands.

The block came out, and brought the wall with it.

Dan launched himself, pushing Freya backward, landing on her chest so hard, breath was driven from her lungs.

“Freya!” Katherine rushed forward; she stumbled and nearly fell on the rubble. Dan had protected Freya’s head, but a falling block had caught him on the shoulder, and there was blood on his shirt.

Gasping, Freya wriggled from underneath. “Are you all right?”

She touched him, and her hand came away wet and red.

Dan coughed. He tried to sit up and winced.

Freya was shaking, hands over her eyes. Katherine pulled the girl into her arms and held her tight. “There, hush. Dan’s okay. You are too.”

“Thank you, Katherine. I mean that.”

The librarian nodded. Brushing dust from her face, she noticed Dan. He stared through the hole transfixed.

Katherine touched Freya. Still dazed, she swiveled—and stared.

The women helped one another to stand. In the breathing silence, Dan’s flashlight slowly showed them wonders.

The ship was entire, almost as she had been when first brought to this place, though the stones placed under her keel had formed a cradle as the oak planks slumped. But her shape was clear, and the dragon’s head reared proudly, just as it had on the sea that still washed Findnar’s shores.

The chamber of the tomb was large and so high, the corbeled roof was twice a tall man’s height and more above that snarling mask. Off to each side there were other openings—a series of smaller caverns half-glimpsed as light splashed like water over the walls.

“It’s a tomb complex.” Freya’s voice shook.

They went forward through the opening, one by one. The beam of the flashlight caressed the hull. It lingered on the oak of its planked sides, the round shields still resting against the flanks of the ship. The desiccated air had preserved the wood, but boiled leather, the covering of the shields, had rotted long ago.

Freya stood on her toes. “I can’t see inside!” The sides of the vessel were too high.

“Easy fixed.” Dan limped away and returned, clasping a block of stone. He put it down, trying not to wince.

Freya was immediately worried. “Dan, I’m so sorry. You’re in pain; we should go upstairs and—”

He put a finger to her lips. “Step up, Miss Dane.”

She took his hand and gently kissed his fingers. “Katherine, you go first,” she said. But she was staring at Dan, and he at her.

“No.” Katherine’s voice was firm. “Though I am grateful for the invitation.” Dignified. Holding up.

Freya stretched out her hand. “Come on. You, too, Dan; all of us together.”

Dan pulled another block forward. “Ready?”

Freya nodded. At first, she could not make sense of what she saw; then, from beneath the bloom and felt of dust, color seeped from the deep past.

“It’s cloth. There’s actual cloth! I think it’s a pall.” Freya was almost whispering; this was a holy moment.

Dan held the flashlight steady. “There are bones underneath.” The light dimmed. “Come on.” He shook the flashlight—the glow flickered and intensified. “The battery’s giving out; we won’t have much time.”

Freya leaned forward, trying not to touch the sides of the ship, trying not to breathe moisture into the air. “Two skeletons?”

Katherine was finding it hard to speak. “Look. They’re still wearing clothes.”

Freya’s voice cracked. “I wish Dad was here.”

Katherine’s glance was fond. “He
is
here because you are.”

Light, ever fainter, traveled on over occluded shapes—the hills and valleys of a secret landscape. Something glimmered. Dan pointed silently—a wide collar of gold lay beneath one of the skulls where bones had collapsed.

“And the platter—look at the platter. It’s enormous, bigger than the Mildenhall find.” Katherine’s face was alight with joy and awe.

“And what about that bowl? Has to be bronze.” Freya was lost in contemplation. The frieze of horses, nose to tail, had run in the dark for a thousand years with no one to see them.

An enameled pommel glimmered. “Is that a sword?” Dan pointed.

Taking the flashlight, Freya leaned closer. “My God—weapons, and they’re still absolutely recognizable.” The pommel had a sword blade attached, and there was an ax, two axes, and at least one battle helm.

“I can’t wrap my head around this. Bronze I can understand, but for forged iron to have survived as anything more than rust, the air must have stayed dry. We must be deep under the hill behind the house.”

The hit of terror was like deep, cold water. Freya couldn’t breathe; she was far beneath the surface of the earth.

“What’s wrong?” Dan grabbed her hand.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just . . .”

“Claustrophobia—that’s what you called it last time.”

The flashlight beam veered wildly.

Simon Fettler. Dust danced like snow as a pallid line cut his body from the dark; outside the tunnel, light was rising. Dawn was close.

Their visitor sauntered forward. “This looks interesting.”

Dan tensed. “What brought you back, Fettler?”

Simon smiled apologetically. “Oh, I just don’t like being left out.”

Katherine’s eyes fired. “Told you he was nosy.” This was addressed to Dan, and not in a whisper.

Freya said hastily, “Come and have a look if you like, Simon. Just, please, cover your mouth.”

Standing beside Dan, the curve of Freya’s waist was a neat fit for his good hip. She felt his arm edge around her. “We need to seal the entrance very soon—the moisture in our breath is dangerous. And please don’t touch anything.”

Simon asked politely. “Find something else?”

Freya was nonplussed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Unseen, a long finger of sunlight crept along the tunnel behind them, gilding their backs and spilling along the walls of the tomb.

Freya turned. She yelled, “Look! Look at the light!”

The flare was intense as the heart of the sun beat into the burial chamber—brilliant, molten gold.

Dazzled, the three did not notice what the fourth was doing.

Simon Fettler was taking pictures.

CHAPTER 47

S
OLWAER WAS
angry, righteously angry. The girl was the cause.

“Idorn!”

Solwaer’s new chief carl—announced after the burial ceremony last night—had been waiting outside the tent because dawn was near. Relieved, he lifted the entry flap. He had not wanted to wake Solwaer, but they must be at the cliff top before light entered the passageway in the tomb, so there was little time. Stepping forward, the cheerful greeting died in his mouth. By rushlight he saw Signy crouched in a corner. Her shift had been torn from one shoulder and the pretty dress flung to the floor. There were bruises on her face, but a knife glittered in her fist. Bear’s knife.

Solwaer glowered. “Dress me.”

Idorn said nothing. What was there to say? Offering a clean linen shirt, he winced.

There were slash marks scored across Solwaer’s trunk; they had bled, and his undershirt was stuck to the skin.

“Do you want me to . . . ?” Idorn couldn’t bring himself to say,
Should I wash the blood off?

“No.” With one brutal movement, Solwaer ripped the garment over his head. Some of the surface cuts bled. He roared, rounding on the girl. “You did this!”

And then something remarkable happened.

Signy jumped up and spat directly into Solwaer’s eyes. “I curse you. My father curses you. My ancestors curse you.” Her eyes flamed with rage to match his.

Solwaer, Lord of Portsol, shied back as if she’d hit him.

Never was a man dressed so quickly.

Idorn, nearly gibbering with what he’d seen—Solwaer would not forgive him for witnessing this humiliation—pulled the shirt, the tunic, the trews, the leggings, and the shoes onto his master as if by magic.

Portsol’s Lord stalked to the tent’s opening. As he lifted the blanket, he turned. “Bind her. And a gag.” Perhaps he saw Idorn’s reluctance, so quickly suppressed, because he yelled, “Do it.”

Only then did he look at Signy and smile. “Perhaps you will be a bride today, the bride of a dead man. But you already know what that’s like. A cold bed will be yours, Signy.” He’d forgotten that slaves had no names.

She swallowed. “I will lie gladly with Bear in the tomb of my ancestors.”