Septimus Heap 4 - Queste (22 page)

Tertius Fume laughed. “It is no more than mere tradition that the Draw takes place at the end of an Apprenticeship. A Draw may be called at any time.” The ghost raised his voice and called out the password for the doors. A gasp of dismay came from the Ordinary Wizards. No one ever

shouted out the password to the Wizard Tower—it was considered highly unlucky and extremely rude. But the doors to the Wizard Tower did not have the finely turned sensibilities of the Wizards and they opened obediently to reveal—to Tertius Fume’s surprise—the Questing Pot

standing forlornly on the top step, like the last guest to arrive at a party. Suppressed giggles erupted from some of the younger Ordinary Wizards.

What, wondered the Ghost of the Vaults angrily, was the Pot doing there on its own? Where was that idiot of a scribe?

Tertius Fume jumped down from the stairs in an athletic leap he never would have dared make when Living. He strode through the Gathering

and positioned himself in the very center of the Great Hall. “You!” he bellowed to Hildegarde, who was closest to the door. “Bring in the Questing Pot!”

“Not so fast, Fume,” said Marcia. “You are forgetting something—one voice among many. Your voice may be extremely loud but it is still only one. What about the many? What does the Gathering have to say?”

Tertius Fume sighed loudly and reluctantly addressed the Hall. “All ye Ghosts Gathered here—is it your wish that the Questing Pot be brought in?”

Over seven hundred and fifty ghosts had not left their cozy haunts on a windy evening—the one kind of weather that a ghost finds difficult—for nothing. There were only twenty-one against—the nineteen ExtraOrdinary Wizards who had lost their Apprentices to the Queste, plus Alther Mella and Marcia. The resounding vote was to bring in the Pot.

A large blue circle with a Q

in the center began to appear in the illuminated floor right beneath the feet of Tertius Fume, who hastily stepped back.

With an apologetic glance at Marcia, Hildegarde placed the Pot on the circle.

The Questing Pot

was a beautiful thing. Tall and elegant, the blue lapis lazuli shone in the bright candlelight and the burnished gold bands that ran around it had a deep glow—as did the large golden stopper that sat in the top. With a shudder Marcia remembered drawing out the very same stopper on her last morning as Apprentice to Alther Mella—her whole future suddenly hanging in the balance. Marcia remembered her relief and joy as she had drawn out a plain lapis pebble with no sign of the gold Q that would have sent her away from the Castle forever.

“Now, boy,” Tertius Fume said. He fixed his gaze on Septimus. “It is time for you to make the Draw. Come hither.”

“No!” said Marcia. She put her arm protectively around Septimus’s shoulder. “I will not allow Septimus to make the Draw.”

“What you will or will not allow is of no consequence,” Tertius Fume told her. “Each of us is—as you so rightly pointed out—but one voice among many. However, as Convener I am required to put it to the Gathering if you so wish.”

Marcia did wish, although with little hope of success.

Tertius Fume addressed the Hall. “All ye Ghosts Gathered here—is it your wish that the Apprentice make the Draw?”

Again it was an overwhelming vote in favor, with, once again, the same twenty-one against. Septimus was to make the Draw.

“I’ll do it,” Septimus said to Marcia. “I probably won’t get the Questing Stone anyway. Then at least I won’t have to do it at the end of my Apprenticeship like you did.”

“No, Septimus,” said Marcia. “No. There’s something not right about this.”

“I’ll be okay.” Septimus smiled at Marcia. “Anyway, we’ll never get rid of this bunch if I don’t do it.” Without waiting for her reply, Septimus plunged into the crowd of ghosts, which parted respectfully. As Septimus drew near to the Questing Pot, a ghost with copious bloodstains running down the side of his face put his arm across his path. Septimus stopped, unwilling to Pass Through.

“Apprentice,” whispered the bloodstained ghost, “I fear you will not be able to escape this Queste. But heed this: when you have the Stone, escape the Questing Guards

and you will escape the worst of the Perils. I wish you well.” The ghost let his arm fall to allow Septimus to pass.

“Oh,” whispered Septimus, the danger of the situation beginning to dawn on him. “Um…thank you.”

“You should not have told him that, Maurice,” said a neighboring ghost as Septimus walked on, more hesitantly now, toward the Questing Pot.

Maurice McMohan—ExtraOrdinary Wizard some three hundred years ago, who had lost a much-loved Apprentice to the Queste—shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “There are too many secrets around here. I’d have told mine if I had known at the time. Give the boy a fighting chance.”

“On your own head be it,” replied his neighbor. “Oh, sorry, Maurice. I didn’t mean it like that.” For Maurice McMohan had been killed by a candlestick that had fallen from a window on the eighteenth floor of the Wizard Tower, and he had a very nasty candlestick-shaped dent on the top of his head.

As Septimus moved through the now silent ghosts, Alther appeared beside him and told him all he could about the Queste—for Alther knew what would happen if Septimus Drew the Questing Stone. There would be no time then for talking.

As Septimus and Alther moved toward the Questing Pot, the walls of the Wizard Tower, which usually showed uplifting pictures of important events in the life of the Wizard Tower, began to show scenes of previous Apprentices setting off upon the Queste. These were anything but uplifting. Sad farewells were said as the Apprentice was escorted away by Tertius Fume and seven heavily armed Questing Guards. Some Apprentices went bravely, others were in tears, and one girl—forgetting in the heat of the moment that Tertius Fume was a ghost—had tried to punch him in the nose, which gave rise to a few sniggers from the floor. But at the sight of the pictures many of the ghosts remembered the reality of an Apprentice embarking on a Queste

and began to regret their support of the Draw. However, it was too late to change their minds now.

Alther dropped back into the throng of ghosts and, to the accompaniment of excited murmers, Septimus reached the Questing Pot. The atmosphere in the Wizard Tower was electric. Septimus looked at the Pot, which was almost exactly the same height as he was, and it seemed to him that it looked back at him. He hesitated, remembering Marcia’s words.

Something was wrong—there was something Darke nearby. No—not nearby. There was something Darke inside the Pot.

Tertius Fume was losing patience. “Make the Draw,” he commanded.

Septimus did not move.

“Are you deaf, boy?” demanded Tertius Fume. “Make the Draw!”

Septimus reached out as if to pull out the stopper of the Questing Pot, but instead he raised his right hand and made a circle with his index finger and thumb—the classic symbol that accompanies a See Spell—the advanced kind that can See through precious metals and stones.

“Cheat!” cried Tertius Fume. “You are trying to See inside the Pot. Cheat!”

“I am not the cheat,” said Septimus, his voice carrying clear through the shocked silence. “It is not I who have placed a Thing inside the Pot ready to put the Questing Stone into my hand.”

Tertius Fume was almost speechless with rage. “How dare

you? I shall give you one last chance to redeem yourself. Remove the Stopper and make…the…Draw!”

“I will not.”

“You will!” Tertius Fume looked as though he was about to explode.

“He will not.” Marcia’s voice came from beside her Apprentice.

“Are you telling me that you and your Apprentice are refusing the Rule of the Gathering?” Tertius Fume asked, incredulous.

“I am telling you that my Apprentice will not make the Draw. If that also means we refuse the Rule of the Gathering, then so be it,” Marcia replied.

A loud muttering spread through the Great Hall—had this ever happened before? No one thought so. Many sympathized with Marcia but there was a core of Rule-loving ghosts who were outraged. The muttering grew into a hubbub of heated discussion.

“Silence!” shouted Tertius Fume. He glared at Septimus. “I shall give you one last chance to accept the Rule of the Gathering or there will be serious consequences,” he said. “Make…the…Draw!”

Septimus felt himself wavering. Maybe he should make the Draw. Would he be putting everyone in danger if he didn’t?

Then Marcia squeezed his shoulder and he heard her whisper, “No. Don’t.”

“No,” replied Septimus, “I will not.”

Tertius Fume’s brief look of amazement was quickly replaced by fury. “Then I shall have no option but to put the Wizard Tower under Siege until you accept the Rule of the Gathering,” he bellowed.

Marcia’s green eyes flashed with rage. “You would not dare,” she told Tertius Fume, her voice shaking with anger.

Tertius Fume mistook the shake in her voice for fear, and laughed. “I do dare,” he said. He began to chant a fast and furious torrent of words. A cry of dismay rose from the Ordinary Wizards.

“Quick, Septimus,” whispered Marcia, “you must get out of here. Out through the Ice Tunnels—you know the way. Get out of the Castle; go to Zelda’s—or to your brothers in the Forest. When it’s safe I’ll come and Find you wherever you are—I promise.”

“But—”

“Septimus—it takes only two minutes and forty-nine seconds to put us in a state of Siege. Go!”

“You must go,” said Alther, suddenly behind him. “Now!”

Marcia Extinguished

all the candles, and some of the more nervous Wizards screamed. The Hall was plunged into gloom, the only light coming from the depressing pictures flickering around the walls, but Tertius Fume did not even notice. Nearly halfway through the Siege Incantation now, his voice had an unstoppable rhythm as the ancient Magykal words filled the Wizard Tower and sent shivers down the spines of the Living and dread into some of the Dead.

“Sep!” Jenna grabbed Septimus’s hand and pulled him into the crowd of ghosts. Some stepped back to let them go, but many did not and they were Passed Through, their complaints lost in the ever-rising volume of Tertius Fume’s Incantation. Septimus was running now, behind him he could hear the heavy pad of Ullr’s paws, and behind Ullr was Beetle, he was sure of that—he could smell the lemony hair oil that Beetle had unaccountably started using recently.

They reached the line of Living Ordinary Wizards and dozens of willing hands guided them into the broom closet. The closet was packed to bursting, but a path was rapidly made for them—and even more rapidly for Ullr. With the help of the glow from his dragon ring, Septimus quickly found the catch that opened the concealed door to the Ice Tunnels. As he pushed open the door, to his surprise Hildegarde was there. She pressed something into his hand with the words,

“Take my SafeCharm.”

“Thank you,” muttered Septimus. He shoved it into his pocket and rushed through the door, closely followed by Jenna, Ullr and Beetle. As the cold air from the Ice Tunnels hit them, Tertius Fume bellowed triumphantly, “Siege!”

At once the door to the Ice Tunnels slammed shut and they heard the whirr-clunk of the door being Barred—just as at that very moment the occupants of the packed Great Hall were listening to the huge iron bars inside the doors to the Wizard Tower slide across and make them prisoners. Then, as all the Magykal lights and sounds of the Wizard Tower were Extinguished, they heard a muffled cry of dismay.

The Siege had begun.

ON THE RUN

B eetle was back on his

own territory and he knew what to do—he took out his tinderbox and lit his Ice Tunnel lamp. The blue light showed a steep flight of steps cut into the ice disappearing down into the darkness. Beetle and Septimus—who both knew the steps—started down, but Jenna and Ullr held back.

“But where—where does this go?” she asked.

Septimus had told Jenna so much about the Ice Tunnels that he had forgotten she had never actually been in them before. In fact, at first he had had a lot of trouble persuading her that they even existed, and whenever he had mentioned them to her he always got the feeling that she didn’t quite believe him. As he held out his hand for her to take, he could see the look of amazement on her face that they were real.

Jenna took the offered hand and, with Ullr padding behind, she followed Septimus down the steps, which were covered in a crisp frost and were not as slippery as she expected. At the foot of the steps they went through a tall, pointed archway where the ghost of an old ExtraOrdinary Wizard would normally sit guarding the entrance, but was now otherwise occupied in the Tower above. Glad that he did not have to explain himself to the ghost—who, to Septimus’s annoyance, had formed the opinion that he was not the brightest of Apprentices—Septimus followed Beetle through the arch and into the tunnel that led from the Wizard Tower. Beetle’s blue lamp shone down the long tunnel and lit up the glittery surfaces of the billions of ice crystals that stretched away into the distance. Septimus heard Jenna whisper,

“Wow.”

He grinned. “I told you they were really something.”

“But, not like this. I had no idea. So much ice. It’s weird. And freezing.” Their breath hung in great white clouds on the icy air and Jenna thought she had never felt so cold in her life. She had, but she did not remember it.

There was something about the Ice Tunnels that gave Jenna goose bumps and it wasn’t just the bitter cold—she was sure she could hear a faint moaning echoing somewhere far away. Her goose bumps were not helped by the blue light from Beetle’s lamp, which gave their faces a deathly hue and made their eyes look dark and scared.

“Ullr,” she whispered. “Komme, Ullr.” She ran her hand along the big cat’s warm fur, which was bristling and raised all along his back, and she could feel the watchfulness in him. “So, where’s the way out?” she asked.

“Wait a minute, Jen,” said Septimus. He took a silver whistle from his Apprentice belt, put it to his lips and blew. No sound came. He took the whistle out of his mouth, shook it and then tried again. Nothing happened.