Fyre (21 page)

Simon had not even reached the end of Snake Slipway when he saw the unmistakable figure of Marcia striding toward him.

“Simon! Oh, good, I see you are on your way to tell me. Thank goodness they’re back. Whatever was Marcellus thinking of? It really is too bad. Septimus must be exhausted and—”

Simon interrupted as soon as he could. “No, Marcia—they’re not back.”

Marcia stopped. She looked shocked. “
Not
back?”

“No.”

“Simon, are you
sure
?”

“Yes. I’ve been watching all evening. The house is still in darkness. That’s what I was coming to tell you.”

Even in the moonlight, Simon could see that Marcia had gone pale. “Something’s happened,” she muttered. “Something in that awful underground pit has gone wrong.” She shook her head. “I should never have agreed to this.
Never
.”

Sixty seconds later Simon was standing alone on the Snake Slipway ice, feeling very odd. He had just witnessed Marcia’s
Transport
to the Great Chamber of Alchemie and he’d forgotten how exciting
Magyk
could be. With the feeling of
Magyk
still buzzing in his head, Simon walked slowly back to the only house with a lighted downstairs window and went inside. Lucy met him anxiously.

“What’s going on, Si?” she asked.

Simon shook his head. “I dunno, Lu. But it doesn’t look good.”

Marcia’s fizzing purple
Magyk
was the first light the Great Chamber of Alchemie had seen all day. She waited for the last vestiges of the
Transport
to wear off, then she pulled a
FlashLight
from her pocket and swung its beam around to check if anyone was there—perhaps they were lying overcome by noxious fumes or victim of a bizarre Alchemical accident. Marcia wasn’t quite sure what an Alchemical accident would look like but she figured she would know one if she saw one. However, it was soon clear that nothing untoward had occurred and that the place was deserted. She headed out of the Chamber and into the Labyrinth, walking quickly, the tippy-tapping of her python shoes echoing through its deep blue coils.

Although Marcia knew that there were tunnels running off the Labyrinth she had never actually been along them and she decided to explore what she knew first. Marcia knew all about the planning of Labyrinths—it had been a hobby of hers when she was a girl—so finding the way to Alchemie Quay was no problem. She emerged through the left-hand tunnel and stood a moment surveying the deserted Quay. Marcia was beginning to think that maybe Marcellus and Septimus had done something completely stupid like running away, when she saw a flash of color and movement against the stone of the Quay—the gently bobbing pink paddleboat.

Marcia rushed over and looked down at the paddleboat—its chubby, childish shape and its vibrant pink sitting incongruously on the deep, dark waters of the UnderFlow Pool.

“So they
are
here,” she muttered to herself. The worm of worry that had been niggling Marcia since Septimus’s nonarrival at the Wizard Warming Supper turned into a fat snake of fear. Something was wrong. She
knew
it. She peered into the inscrutable black waters below her and a horrible conviction came over her. Septimus was somewhere below—somewhere
deep
. Marcia gave a gasp and sat down on the steps, trembling.

They had fallen in and drowned. It explained everything.

No doubt it was Marcellus in those ridiculous shoes who had lost his footing and dear, darling, brave Septimus had dived in to save Marcellus—who had surely grabbed on to him with those long bony fingers and pulled him down with him. Marcia stifled a sob and sat staring into the water for some minutes.

When she’d calmed down a little, Marcia—who was a naturally optimistic person—began to wonder if there might be another explanation. She got to her feet and paced the Quay, trying to empty her mind of panic. There were, she told herself, other possibilities: they could be trapped somewhere, or even lost in one of the old tunnels off the labyrinth. The most sensible thing was to go back to the Wizard Tower and do a
Search
from the
Search
and Rescue Center. Marcia walked quietly along the edge of the Quay, her purple pythons no longer tippy-tapping in their usual exuberant way. She was loath to leave, which was odd, she thought, as the Alchemie Quay gave her the creeps. And then Marcia realized why she didn’t want to go; it was because she
Felt
that Septimus was still here. And that meant that he was still alive. Close by.

The art of
Feeling
that someone you love is near (and it only works if you really do love them) is easy to learn with a good teacher, and Marcia had been taught by one of the best—Alther Mella. But it was what he had called a Fugitive Art, which meant that the more you thought about it, the less certain you were. So as soon as Marcia realized she
Felt
that Septimus was close by, she no longer
Felt
it. And then she began to wonder if she ever had.

“Don’t be silly, Marcia,” she muttered. “You
Felt
it. You know you did.”

Marcia decided to check out the other two arches even though she knew that they were both bricked up. She shone her
FlashLight
across the central arch and gave it a tentative shove, remembering something she had once read about Alchemists’ Mortar. It was solid and—
eurgh
—still greasily sooty. Marcia wiped her hand on her handkerchief and moved on to the right-hand arch, shining her
FlashLight
into the darkness.

To her shock, Marcia saw that there was a gaping hole in the brickwork below the archway. She felt a huge feeling of relief—so
this
was where they were. Marcellus had opened up an old tunnel and presumably they had got lost. She hurried into the opening and suddenly the ground disappeared below her right pointy python. Marcia toppled forward. A cold gust of air came up to meet her as she teetered, arms flailing, on the brink. She grabbed hold of the wall beside her but it gave way, sending bricks hurtling down into the dark. Some seconds later she heard the clang as they hit something far below.

Panic shot through Marcia. She knew that she was balanced on the edge of a precipice.

17

F
ALLING

A
sudden
boom
woke Septimus
from an uncomfortable doze. He jumped up.

Marcellus groaned. “What was what?”

“Something landed on the roof!”

“You were dreaming, Apprentice,” said Marcellus.

“No. No, I’m sure I heard—”

Booooooomboomboombooooooom!

Suddenly the chamber reverberated to a hail of objects slamming onto its roof, ending with a huge
whuuump
of something heavy and soft, which sent shudders through to their feet. Marcellus and Septimus felt the chamber tilt, and then the brief but sickening sensation of free fall.

What Marcellus and Septimus did not know was the moving chamber had become lodged just above the top of the exit door where, over the centuries, a fat helictite had formed so that it obstructed its path. The falling objects had provided enough force for the chamber to snap the helictite and continue on its way. Fast.

Luckily it was only a ten-foot drop.

There was a bone-jarring
crump
. Marcellus and Septimus picked themselves up from the floor. They looked at each other in the darkness but saw nothing but the total absence of light that had oppressed them for almost fifteen hours.

“It’s not tilting anymore,” said Septimus. “That must be a good sign.”

“Let us hope so,” muttered Marcellus.

“I’m going to try again and see if the door will open,” said Septimus.

“It won’t,” Marcellus said flatly. “There’s no orange arrow. That means no power.”

“We may as well try,” said Septimus. “Unless there’s anything else exciting you had in mind?”

“There is no need to get tetchy, Apprentice.”

“I am
not
tetchy.”

“No. Of course not. Well, you take one side and I’ll take the other.”

They had already done this countless times before the chamber fell for the second time—desperately pressing their palms over the cold, smooth surface of the chamber with absolutely no response—but now they began again. Septimus took one side of the chamber and Marcellus the other. Suddenly the darkness took on a faint orange hue. Marcellus gasped.

“The arrow—it flickered! Quick, quick, Apprentice. The door’s on your side. We may have a chance. Press it now! Now!”

The problem was that without being able to see the telltale worn patch—the dim orange glow did not give out much light—Septimus could not know whether his hand was in the right place or not. Marcellus joined him and frantically they pushed their palms onto the glasslike surface in increasingly wildly improbable places, desperately seeking the spot that might—just might if they were lucky—open the door. And all the time the orange arrow flickered, reminding Septimus of the distress lights on the Wizard Tower.

“It’s going! It’s fading!” Marcellus sounded desperate as his hands slapped frantically against the wall.

Septimus knew they were never going to find the right spot by panicking. “Stop,” he said. “I want to find it a different way.”

“I told you, Apprentice,
Magyk
does not work in here.”

“But my mind still works,” said Septimus. “Marcellus, please. Stop and be quiet a moment. Let me . . . let me
Find
it.”

The orange arrow was fading away and Marcellus knew they were getting nowhere. He let his hands drop to his sides. “Very well, Apprentice. Over to you.”

Septimus closed his eyes. It made no difference as to what he could see, but it sent him back inside his head—deep into another place. He held out his right hand and remembered how he had once opened a similar door far below the Isles of Syren. He remembered how the smooth, cold material of the chamber had felt beneath his hand; he imagined that he was there now, in its bright blue light, and he allowed his hand to guide itself where it wanted to go. Then he pressed his palm down hard, throwing all his weight behind it. He heard a soft swish and Marcellus’s gasp.

“It’s open! Apprentice, you’ve done it.
You’ve done it!
” Terrified that the door would suddenly close, Marcellus pulled Septimus out of the chamber. As soon as they were safely across the threshold, Marcellus sat down very fast and put his head between his knees.

Septimus collapsed, giddy with relief, on a wobbly metal platform that felt dizzyingly high up. But for once he didn’t care how high he was—he was free. He was not going to finish his life trapped in a box hundreds of feet below the ground. Slowly, he began to take in his surroundings. He could feel a vast arena all around him; it was hot, and suffused with a deep red glow that shone up from below. His overwhelming impression was of a heavy sense of stillness where a quiet and purposeful process was slowly unfolding.

Septimus walked carefully along what felt like a very rickety platform to a line of
Fyre
Globes placed below a guardrail, and gingerly looked over. His head swam. Far, far below, a huge red circle stared up at him, as bright and intense as a sun. Across the top of the red ran tiny, vibrant flames of blue, licking and jumping up into the air. Septimus felt overawed. So
this
was the real
Fyre
. He looked away and saw a perfect green afterimage in front of his eyes. It was then Septimus realized that he was standing on a perforated metal platform as flimsy as a sieve. The bones in his legs felt as if they had turned to water and he retreated back to Marcellus.

“Wow,” he said. “That is so . . . beautiful.”

“It is,” agreed Marcellus.

“And
Magykal
. So alive and delicate . . .” Septimus was lost for words.

Marcellus smiled. “You understand,” he said. “I thought you would, even though most Wizards don’t understand the
Magyk
of
Fyre
.”

Septimus was overwhelmed. “I wish you had shown me before.”

Marcellus was silent for a while. “I should have done. So I cannot tempt you to change your mind and become my Apprentice. Forever?”

Septimus so much wanted to say yes. And yet, the thought of what he would have to give up was too much. “I . . . I really want to.”

“Wonderful!”

“But . . .”

“Ah, a ‘but.’” Marcellus smiled ruefully. “I thought there might be.”

“But I can’t. I have promised Marcia.”

“Oh, well,” Marcellus said sadly.

“But . . .”

“Yes?”

“Will you let me come back here sometimes?” Septimus asked.

“Of course, Apprentice. I want no more secrets—not after next month, anyway. Both you and Marcia will be here when I
DeNature
the Two-Faced Ring.” Marcellus began to get to his feet, then he swayed and sat back down. He looked very pale.