The Drowned Tomb (The Changeling Series Book 2) (40 page)

“Blah,” Peryl said, clearly disappointed. “Nothing here but a lovelorn coward Fae who ran from the war with his tail between his legs.” She glanced up at Jackalope curiously. “Not literally – I mean, you guys don’t actually have tails, do you? Right? I never really paid much attention.”

Jackalope looked into the coffin with interest. “What is that? Is that the treasure?”

The Grimm gave him a weary look. “My, you are tiresome,” she said. “So mercenary. Talk about a one track mind. And no, this is just a worthless husk. Here.” She reached in, wrenching the box from the dead man’s grip without a second thought or a shred or respect. She handed it to her silver-eyed companion. “You hold it.”

“That’s mine,” Robin said thickly. The sight of the traitorous Fae, holding the box entrusted to Nightshade by his father for secret and safe keeping, filled him with anger. The older boy looked back to him, frowning.

“You think so?” he said. “I’d love to see you come and try to take it from me, brat. You think you’re so special just because you’re the Scion? Consider this payment for all the trouble you brought me.”

“Now now, children,” Peryl said. “There will be plenty of time for you boys to arm wrestle over spoils later. Focus please.”

She flicked a hand at the other sarcophagus, ripping open the sanctity of the coffin and sending the lid flying away. The noise echoed around the icy, underwater tomb like booms of thunder. The countless stalactites which hung from the ceiling tinkled musically, and rather dangerously, Robin thought. They were countless swords waiting to fall from the sky.

“Ahh,” Peryl breathed happily. “Here we are at last … sleeping beauty.”

The remains of the greatest Undine, Tritea, lay serenely in the coffin. She was remarkably well-preserved. Her glassy skin devoid of the flickering light Robin had seen in Flue. She was smoky and dark, like an old lightbulb, but there was no sign of decay. She was dressed in simple robes.

“Where is the Shard?” Jackalope wanted to know. “I thought this woman had a powerful Shard of the Arcania. Isn’t that what you’re here for, Grimm?”

Robin also stared. Other than the body of the Undine, the coffin was empty. There was no sign of a Shard anywhere. Robin had only ever seen one once before, hidden inside an enchanted statue on a faraway island in the sky. It had been kind of hard to miss. There was certainly nothing there. Nothing in her hands or around her neck. Just a pretty, dead Undine.

And yet something stirred in Robin. A tug inside his stomach. It was the feeling you get when an aeroplane hits turbulence and you suddenly lurch. The small, quiet voice which lived deep inside him, the same one who had been able to read the runes at the folly grave of Erlking, and had been able to see the markings on the cylinder when he had sat in the Lion Lounge with his aunt, whispered wordlessly to him now.

“Oh, it’s here alright,” Peryl said, sure of herself. She had pulled from her pocket a long silver knife, which glinted in the rippling light of the tomb. She and Jackalope leaned over the tomb, and Robin had the horrible thought that she meant to do something terrible to the remains of Tritea.

“That…” she said to Jackalope, in a friendly voice, “ … is exactly what I need you for, my little snow-rabbit.”

He looked over at her confused, and before Robin or Henry could react, as quick as a flash, Miss Peryl grabbed Jackalope by the shoulder and with one thrust, buried her knife in his stomach.

Silence echoed through the chamber.

Jackalope stumbled backwards, his hand going to his stomach and his face a white mask of confusion and shock. Peryl pulled back her blade, holding it up for inspection. It was dark and slick, red as roses.

The hornless, grey-haired boy lost his footing, falling backwards down the steps onto the icy floor in a heap, where he lay on the ice, gasping and coughing. His lips were stained bright red, his pale eyes wide as they stared up at the pointed roof above in shock.

Lying sprawled on his back, abandoned on the ice, he lifted his shaking hand from his stomach and stared at his red palm.

Miss Peryl glanced down at him with a happy smile. She twirled the knife in one hand, absently tucking a lock of purple hair behind her ear with the other.

“I promised you rubies, didn’t I?” she said to the fallen boy. “There’s your treasure, my beautiful little friend. Rubies galore. No one will bother you again, just like we said.”

Henry and Robin ran to Jackalope, Henry skidding to his knees, his face white with shock. “Oh, this is bad. Robin, this is really bad. There’s so much blood,” he stammered. Jackalope coughed faintly.

“Hey, hey, just hold on,” Henry said. “It’s … there’s something we can do, right? Right, Robin?” He looked up to Robin, his face painted with panic. Henry’s hands pressed down on Jackalope’s stomach, staining themselves red.

Robin stared at the Grimm girl. “Why?” he asked, his voice shaking.

Peryl held the knife over the open coffin. “Don’t you remember, back in the sanctuary under the city, the carvings above the doors, that only the blood of Fae would grant access? Well, there was a whole lot of research I didn’t bother telling you about. We were quite busy at the time if I recall, throwing each other about in the dark.” She shook the blade over the coffin. Robin watched as bright droplets of Jackalope’s blood fell from the blade. “Blood will bring back the Undine, for a short time at least. The blood of the Fae, or so the spell cast on this place says. I guess they didn’t want any of Eris’ folk to have easily access. I had hoped to use you, originally, but you never would have come here with me of your own accord, not after our little squabble in the snow.” She looked down at the fallen and ashen-faced figure of Jackalope. “But this one here, he was like a gift from the gods. Another Fae, all sad and lonely, easy to draw away from you all, easy to convince. And just chock-full of delicious, delicious Fae-blood. Lucky me.”

She smiled down at the boy, who didn’t hear her, Henry was cradling Jackalope’s head in his hands, looking terrified. The Fae’s eyes were glazed and unfocused.

“Rob … I think he’s dying,” Henry said quietly.

“I really can’t thank you enough, Jackalope,” Peryl told him.

There was a noise from within the coffin, a stirring. The tomb itself shook ominously, making Robin and Peryl both stumble. The drops of blood had started something.

Robin was frantic, he cast around, looking for anything he could do, any way to stop the Grimm. Lying close to Jackalope’s fallen form, Robin’s dagger, Phorbas lay, just beyond the bloodied and limp hands of the Fae. He must have stolen it, Robin realised. He was a treasure hunter after all. When Strife had attacked them in the wilds outside of Worrywart, he had seen the boy with a knife. He hadn’t realised at the time it was Phorbas. Robin dropped down and grasped it, meaning to at least defend Henry and Jackalope from the pale woman. But as soon as he gripped the handle, it twisted and buckled in his hands like a thing alive. Robin struggled to control it as another tremor thundered through the tomb, and soft light began to grow inside the coffin, lighting Miss Peryl’s wide-eyed face from below.

The blade in Robin’s hand twisted like a dowsing rod until it pointed to his own hip, it jerked forward, making Robin leap back, to avoid stabbing himself in the thigh. He felt the blade knock against the side of his jeans, and clatter against something in his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Henry stared, watching Robin and the knife.

“It’s not me,” he replied. “The knife, it’s…” The blade jabbed forward again, once, again striking Robin’s pocket. He realised suddenly. “It’s trying to show me.”

Robin dropped the blade to the floor, where it suddenly lay, quite inert, and forced his wiggling fingers in the tight side pocket of his jeans. He had forgotten he even had anything in there. His fingers closed around what felt like marbles, and he pulled out two stones.

“What are they?” Henry stared. “Robin, this guy is … it’s really bad. He can’t stay here.”

Robin stared at the stones. Small, round and smooth. Calypso had given them to him, as they had entered the Netherworlde. Boonstones, she had called them. ‘Only use them when you have no other choice. A boon from a nymph is granted only once, and never freely,’ she had said.

“Henry, catch,” Robin threw one to his friend, across Jackalope’s form. Henry caught and stared at it.

“What do we need? Robin said. “It’s a boonstone, Henry. We have one use each.”

The light from the coffin behind and above them was growing, and the air was getting colder. Something was building, a door, unlocked by silver and Fae-blood, was opening slowly somewhere.

Henry gripped the stone tightly, nodding. “I need a weapon!” he said loudly, as though making a wish to a genie from a magic lamp. He was glaring up at Peryl, his face furious.

There was a shimmer in the air, and as Henry unfurled his hand, the stone disappeared and wavering like an illusion, a long pale shape appeared.

“My … my bow,” Henry exclaimed. It was the one Robin had bought him for his birthday from the strange shop down in Barrowood village. It sat in his hands, white and elegant, and on his back, there appeared his quiver of arrows, notched with black feathers.

Robin stared in amazement.

Yet another tremor rolled through the chamber, larger this time, and several large icicles fell with a whoosh from the roof far above, slicing down through the air to shatter into countless deadly shards on the floor with cacophonous crashes.

Robin gripped the stone he had been given too, but before he could form a thought, Peryl’s spell exploded.

There was a great and deafening roar, and a vast thick column of water, blue and turbulent, erupted up out of the coffin, splintering the ice like balsa wood as it surged towards the roof above, a fluid, powerful cyclone. The powerful column of water shone from within, and Robin was almost bowled over by the waves of mana which streamed from it. In its centre, just visible through the twisting water, whipping around and around in a chaotic frenzy, there stood a figure.

Robin was rooted to the spot. Henry had sighted along his bow, still kneeling at the head of fallen Jackalope. He pulled back the string alongside his face, arrow notched, and let loose a bolt, aimed at the Grimm who stood silhouetted against the roaring waters. Her long purple hair was flying straight upwards from her head in the roaring wind caused by the motion.

The arrow struck the back of her thigh, driving deeply into her leg, and with a cry, she buckled and fell back. Tottering from the steps of the dais and landing sprawling on the icy floor. Several of the huge icicles dislodged from the roof, slicing down through the air and crashing into the ground of the great tomb. One of them narrowly missing her as it shattered into heavy chunks.

Robin began to turn to Henry, but before he could act or speak, the whirlwind of water expanded, throwing itself towards him, and he was engulfed by icy, deafening liquid, lifted off his feet and thrown into its midst.

For a second, all was confusion, the water tossed him around like a rag doll, suffocating him. It was colder than a glacial lake, prickling at his skin as it roared all around him, making his face burn. He felt his boon slip from his grasp, the tiny stone torn away and lost in the maelstrom.

And then, as suddenly as he had been lifted by it, he was unceremoniously spat from the water into the air. He landed on his hands and knees, drenched, his hair plastered over his eyes, coughing and spitting out water.

“Scion,” a voice said softly. Robin pushed his hair out of his eyes, getting unsteadily to his feet. The voice, he realised, hadn’t actually come from in front of him. It has been inside his head. A woman’s voice, speaking directly to him.

Robin got his bearings, panting. He was inside the twister of roaring water, the hollow calm in its centre. The eye of the storm. All around him, the walls of water roared and span, fast and furious, but strangely they were utterly silent from within.

Before him, at the centre of this calm space, stood a ghost.

He had seen ghosts once before. She was slightly translucent, shining softly from within, like light through the projection of old film grain. She was an Undine, tall and beautiful. She hovered slightly off the floor, arms parted as she controlled the watery tornado that engulfed the two of them. Her diaphanous skirts of billowing wings floated out around her back. She was very beautiful, solemn and sad.

“Tritea,” Robin gasped in a whisper, aware that he was dripping water copiously on the floor.

She nodded, her milky eyes fixed on his. Her mouth remained still, but in his head he heard her speak.

“You are the one they foretold,” she said, her voice was as soft as the hushed waves on a calm shore. “You really are the Scion of the Arcania.”

Robin, unable to bring himself to speak, nodded at the ghost.

“You have come seeking that which was lost. That which I have guarded all my life and beyond. To stop it falling into darkness.”

“The Shard,” Robin whispered, shivering on the spot. Through the water spinning around and around them, he was dimly aware of distant shapes moving beyond the odd shifting wall. Henry and Peryl were out there.

“There is more here than just the Shard of Water, young Fae,” Tritea’s voice said in his head. “You are truly the son of your father. I hear his blood sing in your veins. He was a magnificent man. His death broke our spirits. My love, Nightshade, never quite recovered. They were as brothers.”