Syren (28 page)

For the next hour, Jenna and Beetle watched, through half-closed eyes, a bizarre operation from behind their sand dune.
They saw a ball of brilliant light being laboriously winched up the Pinnacle until finally, secured by a web of ropes, it balanced precariously on the flat top.

“What are they doing?” said Jenna.

“I think they’re wrecking,” said Beetle.

“Wrecking—you mean like they used to do on Wild Rocks in the old days?”

“Yep,” said Beetle, who like all Castle children had grown up with tales of the terrifying rocky coast beyond the Forest and the wild people there who lived by luring ships to their doom. “But the really strange thing is, they’re using what looks like an ancient Sphere of Light. Where could they possibly have gotten that?”

“The lighthouse,” said Jenna. “Remember how we couldn’t see the Light this morning? They’ve stolen it from the lighthouse.”

“Of
course
,” said Beetle. “Wow, that lighthouse must be incredibly old. This is such a weird place.”

“And getting weirder all the time,” said Jenna. “Look at
that
.” She pointed out to sea, where, to the right of the Pinnacle, a long red pipe with a bend at the top was rising from the water. Beetle and Jenna watched as the pipe swiveled
around until it was pointing at the Pinnacle and stopped. It then stayed motionless. The only movement was from the white tops of tiny waves breaking over a red rock below the pipe.

“That’s a Looking Tube,” said Beetle. “We’ve got—I mean,
they’ve
got—one like that in the Manuscriptorium. It goes down into the UnStable Spell room so that we—they—can keep an eye on what’s going on.”

“So there’s someone watching from
under the sea
?” said Jenna.

“Looks like it,” said Beetle. “Like you said, it’s getting weirder all the time.”

S
eptimus and Syrah were walking
across the springy turf of the cliff top toward the Peepe. A stiff breeze blew, bringing with it the smell of the sea.

“Septimus,” murmured Syrah, “there are some things I must tell you, but I will look at the ground while I speak. The Syren can read what you say by looking at your lips.”

“She can see us?” asked Septimus, a shiver running through him.

“She Watches through the windows at the top—
do not look up
. I need
to tell you this in case things go wrong—”

“Don’t even think like that,” Septimus warned.

“But for your sake, I must. I want to tell you how to escape.”

“I won’t need to,” said Septimus. “We will walk back out together. Like this.” He took hold of Syrah’s hand. Syrah smiled.

“But, just in case,” she insisted. “You need to know that once you are inside the Peepe, the entrance will disappear—though it is still there. Make a mark on the floor as we go in. Also, in the Deeps—”

“The Deeps?”

“Yes, this is where we must go. You will see why when we are there. You have the Keye hidden under your tunic?”

Septimus nodded.

“Good. Now, if you need to escape from the Deeps, there are some steps that go back up to the Peepe, but do not take them unless you absolutely have to. They are bedded deep inside the rock, and the air is unsafe. There are steps from the Lookout, which is a line of windows in the cliff, and those are fine. You will find them opposite the middle window. All right?”

Septimus nodded, even though he felt far from all right.

They had reached the shadow of the Peepe. “Turn around and look at the sea,” said Syrah. “Is it not beautiful?”

Septimus glanced at Syrah, puzzled. It seemed odd to be admiring the sea at such a moment—but then he realized what Syrah was doing, and he turned away from the Watching windows of the Peepe.

They looked out across the shimmering heat haze, and Septimus saw yet another island—a rounded green hillock with a tiny strip of white beach—set in the sparkling azure sea. The sun shone warm on the breezy cliff top, and he breathed in the salt air, savoring it as if he were taking his last breaths.

“Septimus,” whispered Syrah, “I must warn you that when we go into the Peepe, there will be a few horrible moments while, um, things happen to me. At first I will not be in control of my body, but do not be alarmed. Count
slowly
to one hundred and by then I will—unless something goes wrong—be able to do what I want. I shall not, however, be able to say what I want—the Syren has a way with words. So remember this:
Trust only my actions, not my words
. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, what I don’t understand is, surely the Syren will wonder why I am there—I mean, I don’t suppose you often bring your friends home?” Septimus attempted a smile.

Syrah stared at the brilliant blue. “No, I don’t,” she murmured. “But the Syren will welcome you. She has said that she wishes for others, that she is tired of me. You do appreciate what I am saying?” Syrah asked. “This is a dangerous thing for you to do. You can still walk away, back into the sunshine.”

“I know I can,” Septimus said, “but I am not going to.”

Syrah gave him a relieved smile. She turned, and together they walked the last few yards to the Peepe. They stopped in front of the ancient rounded archway, which was filled with a shifting darkness that Septimus recognized from the description in the young ExtraOrdinary Wizard’s will.

Syrah turned to him, her eyes anxious.
MindScreen
, she mouthed. Septimus nodded and squeezed Syrah’s hand. Together they stepped through the shadows—and into the surprising brightness of the Peepe. Syrah dropped Septimus’s hand as though it had suddenly burned her and ran to the far wall of the tower, putting as much distance
between them as possible.

Septimus was on his own.

Quickly he marked an X in the earthen floor with the heel of his boot. With his MindScreen running comforting memories of an afternoon at the Spring Equinox fair with Jenna and Beetle, he glanced at Syrah on the opposite side of the tower. She was pressed against the wall wearing the expression of a hunted rabbit. Septimus felt sick. He looked away and began to systematically examine the inside of the Peepe, noting everything as carefully as if he were doing a homework project for Marcia.

The inside walls of the Peepe were covered in rough white plaster. Light streamed through the line of tiny windows that ran around the top, throwing long, bright strips of sunlight on the pressed earthen floor, in the middle of which Septimus saw a bright circle of light, edged with stone. The only item of furniture was a rusty metal library ladder on wheels, which was suspended from a circular rail running just below the lookout slits. A tiny metal chair was perched on top of it and—yes, now he saw it—in the chair was the faint blue shape of a woman. This, Septimus guessed, was the Possession Wraith of the Syren.

Extremely ancient ghosts can sometimes look like Possession Wraiths, especially if they lose interest in being ghosts, as some do after many thousands of years, but Septimus knew how to tell the difference between a Wraith and a ghost. You wait until it moves—a ghost will keep its form, while a Wraith will not. Septimus did not have to wait long. The shape stretched into a long ribbon of ice-blue particles that began to spin like a tiny tornado. It streamed out of the chair, flew around the line of windows three times, gathering speed as it went, before diving down and heading straight for Syrah.

From across the tower, Syrah cast a panicky glance at Septimus.
Trust me,
she mouthed—and then she was gone. The swirl of blue spiraled over her head and enveloped her in a glowing blue outline. Syrah was Possessed.

Septimus shuddered. He took a deep breath and began to count to one hundred. Marcia had once told Septimus that it was a truly terrible thing to see a human being Taken by a Possession Wraith. He now understood why—the new Syrah was a travesty. She came pirouetting toward him, spinning like a dancing child—pointing her toes, waving her hands, grinning an empty smile. Septimus could hardly bear to look.
She reminded him of the life-size puppets he had seen at the Little Theatre in the Ramblings not long ago. He had found them extremely creepy—and so had Marcia, whom he had dragged along with him. “Like skeletons on strings,” Marcia had said.

Syrah-on-a-string reached Septimus and, still twirling and prancing, began to speak, but not in her own voice. “She has betrayed you, Septimus,” the Syren’s deep, resonant voice taunted while Syrah did a little clockwork dance. “She has brought you here at my command. And hasn’t she done it so very cleverly? Good girl, oh, I
am
a good girl. He will do well, and he is more Magykal than you, Syrah. And how I shall enjoy singing in a boy’s voice—so much purer than that of a girl.”

Septimus was suddenly convinced that Syrah had indeed betrayed him. He looked into her eyes to try to see the truth, and looked away in horror—they were covered in a milky white film. It was then that a thought came to him, safely hidden below his MindScreen. If Syrah had brought him to the Peepe at the Syren’s command, why had she told him how to escape? He glanced behind him to check whether the entrance to the tower had indeed disappeared.
It had—but his X was still there.

Syrah caught his panicky glance. “There is no escape,” she said, laughing. “She didn’t tell you that.”

Septimus ran a series of decoy thoughts about how much he hated Syrah for what she had done, but underneath them he began to have some hope. If the Syren really did think that Syrah had not told him about the disappearing entrance, then that must mean Syrah was successfully running her own MindScreen—unless, of course, the Syren was double bluffing. Septimus’s head spun with the effort of keeping his MindScreen going—now creating a full panic about the Syren—and below it trying to keep calm and work things out.

The puppet Syrah pranced around him, picking at his hair, pulling at his tunic, and it was all Septimus could do to stand his ground and continue his slow count to one hundred. He reached the nineties with Syrah skipping around him in circles, giggling like a banshee, and he began to fear that Syrah could not get control. Doggedly Septimus continued his count and, to his relief, as he reached ninety-seven, Syrah abruptly stopped, shook her head and took a long, shuddering breath. The macabre dancing doll was no more.

Syrah turned to Septimus, gave him a crooked smile and, very slowly, as though she were getting used to her body again, she pointed at the bright circle in the middle of the floor. She nodded, ran toward it and, to Septimus’s amazement, leaped in and disappeared. A gentle
thump
followed, and a few feathers drifted up.

Septimus ran to the edge of the hole and looked in, but all he could see was feathers. It was decision time. Right now he could just walk out through the wall where his X was marked and never see Syrah again. Thanks to Syrah, Spit Fyre would soon be well. He, Jenna and Beetle could leave the island, and he could forget all about her. But Septimus knew that he would never be able to forget Syrah. He closed his eyes and jumped.

He landed in a blizzard of gulls’ down. Coughing and spluttering, he staggered to his feet. As the feathers settled, he saw Syrah waiting for him in a narrow archway at the top of a ladder. She beckoned to him. Septimus waded across the chamber, climbed the ladder and they set off along a narrow white passageway hewn through the rock. Syrah set a brisk pace, the padding of her bare feet drowned by the sound of Septimus’s boots as he followed. The passage took them
past a long line of windows that Septimus recognized as the Lookout, and as they went by the middle window, he saw the entrance to the escape stairs. He began to feel a little more confident.

Septimus followed Syrah around two more bends to a dead end—the passageway was blocked by a wall of a shiny and incredibly smooth substance. Syrah placed her palm on a worn spot on the right-hand side of the wall. A green light glowed beneath her hand and then a concealed oval door slid open so silently that he jumped back in surprise.

Septimus stepped over the threshold and followed Syrah into a small, round chamber with walls, floor and ceiling made of the same shiny black material. Syrah pressed her hand against another worn spot beside the door, a red light glowed, and the door slid closed. Very deliberately, Syrah walked over to a faint orange arrow that looked, thought Septimus, as though it was floating just below the surface of the wall—like a swimmer trapped below ice. He shivered, knowing that now he too was trapped. Syrah pressed the arrow, which pointed toward the floor, and Septimus suddenly had a terrifying sensation of falling.

Septimus leaned against the wall. He felt sick, and his
stomach seemed to have shot up to his ears. He checked the floor—it was still there—so why did he feel as though he were falling at breakneck speed?

“Because we are,” said Syrah in the rich, resonant voice of the Syren.

With a stab of fear, Septimus realized that his MindScreen had slipped. Quickly he reinstated it with some decoy thoughts of his meeting with Wolf Boy on the Causeway—a meeting that felt like years rather than days ago. He glanced at Syrah, but she was staring at the orange arrow, which was slowly moving downward. Septimus decided that the safest option was to react as normally as he could.

“How can we be falling and yet still be in the same place?” he asked.

“We can be many things at the same time,” Syrah replied. “Especially in an ancient place like this.”

“Ancient?” Septimus asked politely, changing his MindScreen to a mild interest in what Syrah was saying.

“I have known this place since the Days of Beyond,” she said.

“But that’s not possible,” said Septimus, shocked. “
Nothing
goes back to the Days of Beyond. There is nothing left from that Time.”

“Except this,” replied Syrah, waving her hand around the chamber. She ran her finger along the wall, and a dull orange light followed its path, fading as she took her finger away.

Septimus was so intrigued that for a moment he forgot who he was talking to. “Is it Magyk?” he asked.

“It is Beyond Magyk,” was the reply.

Suddenly Septimus’s stomach dropped to his feet.

“We are here,” announced Syrah.

With his MindScreen busy wondering about the Days of Beyond, Septimus noted that the orange arrow now pointed up. Syrah walked across the chamber, and Septimus watched how she once again put her hand on a small area where the shine was dulled from use. A green light briefly glowed under her hand, and an oval door on the opposite side of the chamber slid open. A waft of dank air came through.

Syrah’s resonant tones filled the chamber. “Welcome to the Deeps,” she said.