Fyre

  Beetle, Milo and the Wizards walked the Dragon Boat along the narrow confines of the Cut and guided her out into the Moat. Jenna, Nicko and Septimus looked at one another, remembering the night—so long ago now—that they had brought her there, wounded and dying.

  “I never thought we’d all be here again. Like this,” said Nicko.

  “I did,” said Jenna. “I knew we would. One day.”

  While the Wizard escort made their way out of the boatyard, the Dragon Boat floated out into the middle of the Moat. She was watched in awe not only by Beetle, Milo and Eustace Bott, but also by a small boy in an attic window above the Castle Wall. Even Jannit Maarten looked mildly impressed as the dragon’s magnificent wings—neatly folded along the hull—began to move slowly upward and unfurl until they were spread so wide the wing tips touched both banks of the Moat.

  “Ready?” Septimus called down to his crew.

  “Aye,” said Nicko, lapsing into sailor-speak.

  “Ready!” called Jenna.

  “Septimus! Septimus!” a shout came from the boatyard.

  “Wait,” said Septimus. “There’s Rose.”

  Breathless, Rose reached the edge of the Cut. “I’ve”—puff, puff—“got something for you. From Marcia. Here!” She waved her arm.

  “Chuck it over, then,” said Nicko.

  Rose shook her head. “I’m a really bad shot,” she called. “It might fall in the water.”

  “I can row you out,” Eustace offered. “I got my boat.” He pointed to a small rowboat tied up to the bank.

  “Oh Eustace, you’re a star!” said Rose.

  Eustace blushed. No one had ever called him a star before. A few minutes later Rose was standing on tiptoe, leaning against the smooth, burnished gold of the Dragon Boat’s hull, and Septimus was stretching down to take a small velvet Charm bag, in which he knew was the Flyte Charm.

  “She’s such a beautiful boat,” said Rose shyly. “Does she really fly too?”

  “Like a bird,” said Septimus.

  “Wow . . .” Rose breathed. “That is just so . . . wow.”

  “Are we going or what?” demanded Nicko.

  “Oh, sorry, I’ll get out of your way,” said Rose.

  “You’re not in our way,” said Septimus, reluctant to see Rose go.

  “Oh, but I am. Good luck. I’ll be thinking of you.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Nicko. “Get the girl on board and stop fussing.”

  “Gosh!” said Rose. “I wish. But . . .”

  “Marcia would have a fit,” Septimus finished for her.

  “Yes, she would.” Rose smiled. “Well, safe journey.”

  The Dragon Boat got ready for takeoff. She pushed down the tip of her tail and stretched out her neck as though reaching for something far away, and then with a loud thwoosh her wings came down, sending water splashing onto the banks and Eustace Bott’s boat rocking. She began to move down the long, straight section of the Moat in front of the boatyard, slow at first but soon picking up speed. Seven wingbeats later Nicko felt the thrum of the water running below the hull disappear and he suddenly remembered how disturbing it felt to be in a boat that flew.

  Septimus, however, felt utterly at home. He was surprised how much flying the Dragon Boat felt like flying Spit Fyre. Confidently, he pushed the tiller away from him, wheeling the creature up above the Castle walls. A continuing gentle pressure on the tiller brought the Dragon Boat around once more above the boatyard where Beetle, Milo and Eustace Bott waved. Jannit, however, stood impassive, arms folded, not at all pleased to see her Senior Apprentice going absent without leave—although she was more than pleased to see that that wretched dragon was going too.

  As the Dragon Boat flew high up above the Castle, Spit Fyre—like the dutiful son he was—followed her. But Septimus had yet to realize that Spit Fyre was coming too. All the Dragon Boat’s passengers had eyes for was what they could see far below: the Wizard escort now gathered outside the Manuscriptorium around the bodies of Ernold and Edmund Heap.

  39

  INTRUDERS

  Simon was home for an early lunch when he and Lucy—like the rest of the Castle—had received the Alert. Every house that had accepted the Alert system now possessed a small luminescent box beside their front door, which normally glowed a dull green. When this was Activated by the Wizard Tower, the box turned a brilliant red (or yellow for practice drills). The door of the box then flew open and released the Lert—which looked like a large red hornet—which proceeded to buzz noisily through the house and Alert everyone there. Lucy hated the Lert.

  “Argh, get it off me!” she yelled, batting it away as it circled her head.

  “Just keep still, Lu,” said Simon. “It will go away in a minute and look for someone else.” Sure enough, the Lert suddenly switched its attentions to Simon, sending him running back to the door to thump the Alert Off button. The Lert zoomed back into its box, Simon clicked the little door shut and raced back to the kitchen.

  “It’s a bit much doing another drill so soon after last night,” Lucy grumbled as she fished two boiled eggs out of a pan. Then she noticed Simon’s expression. “Si . . . what’s the matter?”

  “Lu, it’s not a drill.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Nope. The panel isn’t yellow—it’s red.”

  Lucy jumped to her feet. “What’s going on?”

  “I dunno, Lu. But I have to go and warn Marcellus. He won’t know a thing about this.”

  Lucy was horrified. “Simon, no!”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m quite good at looking after myself, you know.”

  Lucy sighed. One look at Simon told her she could not stop him. “Oh, Si, be careful.”

  Simon took a heavy gold SafeCharm from his pocket—the strongest one he possessed. “Lu, keep hold of this all the time. I will put a Bar on the house when I go. Love you.” Simon gave Lucy a quick kiss and hurried off before she could make him change his mind.

  Marcellus was blissfully untroubled by any Lerts. Now that the Fyre was at full strength, he was terrified that it might reveal a new weakness in the Cauldron so, in addition to his regular tapping, he had begun to do visual inspections. In the old days his Drummins had done this, running across the Cauldron like lizards on a hot rock, their suckered fingers and toes taking them wherever they wanted to go, their sharp eyes seeing every detail. But Marcellus had to do it the slow, human way—with spectacles, a ladder and a Fyre Globe.

  This morning, Marcellus had dispensed with the ladder and was inspecting underneath the Cauldron. Spectacles firmly clamped onto his nose, he looked up at the circle of light that the Fyre Globe cast onto the Cauldron’s smooth iron surface. Suddenly something caught his eye—a small, lighter-colored circle of metal from which a starburst of skillfully repaired cracks radiated out. Marcellus peered through his Enlarging Glass at the tiny circle. He smiled; it was a typical Drummin repair: a little plug of iron surrounded by a ring of brass solder that glinted red in the light. He ran his fingers lightly over its surface but felt nothing—it was smoothed flat, blended in perfectly with the surrounding darker metal. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. But Marcellus was puzzled. He peered again at the little circle at the center of its web, wondering what could have caused it. It looked almost like a bullet hole, he thought. It was very odd. And then it struck Marcellus—this was the damage that had caused the Great Alchemie Disaster. The sudden certainty took his breath away, and a thousand questions raced through his mind with no hope of an answer. How he would love to be able to ask old Duglius Drummin what had happened. A great wave of sadness washed over Marcellus and he leaned against the rock, taken aback by how very alone he felt without the Drummins.

  Suddenly, Marcellus heard the claaaang of the lower Fyre hatch closing and the distinct sound of two sets of heavy footsteps on the top platform. Marcellus was not particularly sensitive to atmosphere, but in his Fyre Chamber his instincts were heightened. An
d right then his instincts were telling him keep out of the way. Marcellus shrank back into the shadows beneath the Cauldron, wondering who was it? He supposed it was possible that in some kind of emergency Simon had brought Septimus with him. Or even Marcia. But there was something about the footsteps that did not sound like Simon or Septimus—and they certainly did not sound like Marcia. Marcellus realized that for the first time in his life he actually wanted to hear the tippy-tappy sound of Marcia Overstrand’s pointy purple pythons. Things, he thought, must be bad.

  Marcellus listened to the protesting squeaks of the ladder as the intruders began to climb down. After what felt like an eternity listening to each step getting closer, a clang reverberating above his head told Marcellus that the intruders had reached the Viewing Station.

  Marcellus decided to risk a quick look. Silently, he slipped out from the protection of the Cauldron and looked up. Some thirty feet above, silhouetted against the red light, Marcellus saw a nightmare—two impossibly tall figures wearing cloaks of what he could only describe as dark light, moving and shifting, so that it was impossible to see any boundaries in their form. And beneath the cloaks Marcellus caught a glimpse of iridescent green armor, segmented like the carapace of a giant insect. Like two passengers on a ship, gazing at the sunset, the figures stared down at the brilliant circle of Fyre.

  Marcellus experienced another Time Slip. Back to a time a few weeks before the Great Alchemie Disaster, when Julius Pike had brought a visiting Wizard to see the Fyre without asking his permission, and he had spotted them from pretty much where he was standing now. It was such a strong feeling that Marcellus was on the verge of yelling, Julius—what do you think you are doing, just as he had done before, when one of the figures stepped back and Marcellus saw the green glow of his face and the searing glance of his brilliant green eyes.

  The Time Slip vanished.

  Up until that moment, Marcellus had not believed in evil. During his long life he had come across many variations of being bad: lies, treachery, deceit, violence and just plain nastiness, and he would be the first to admit that he had probably been guilty of a few himself. But “evil” had undertones of the supernatural that Marcellus found hard to accept. But no longer. He knew he was in the presence of evil. And he knew why—these were the Ring Wizards.

  Marcellus sank to the ground, and there he sat on the dusty earth, trying to figure out what had happened, while all kinds of terrible thoughts went through his mind. Marcellus put his head in his hands. It was all over now. Everything he had worked for was finished. He slumped down in despair and something tapped him on the top of his head.

  How Marcellus managed not to scream was a mystery to him. Maybe, he thought later, he had recognized the soft, slightly apologetic touch. Whatever the reason, Marcellus leaped up and swung around to find himself face-to-face—with Duglius Drummin.

  40

  KEEPERS

  Head held high, the Dragon Boat flew quickly away from the Castle, the gilding on her hull shimmering in the sunlight. As her huge, leathery wings beat slowly up-and-down-and-up-and-down, creaking a little with the unaccustomed effort, she took a direct path out across the river and over the orchards of the lower Farmlands, pink with late apple blossoms. She was followed by a smaller, greener, leaner dragon who was flying his fastest to keep pace with her.

  “Spit Fyre, go home!” Septimus yelled.

  Keeping his hand on the tiller, Septimus looked back, past the great scaly tail of the Dragon Boat and its golden tip to his dragon, who followed like a faithful dog.

  “Spit Fyre coming too?” asked Nicko.

  “No,” said Septimus. “He’s not.”

  “That’s not what he seems to think,” Nicko observed.

  Septimus was not pleased. “Spit Fyre! Go home!” he shouted again.

  But Spit Fyre appeared to hear nothing—although Septimus suspected he heard perfectly well. His dragon wore the smug look that showed that he knew had gotten the better of his Master.

  “Bother,” said Septimus. “He can’t come with us. He won’t be able to keep up.”

  Jenna had not noticed Spit Fyre. She sat in the prow of the Dragon Boat, looking back at the Castle—a perfect golden circle surrounded by blue and green—and tried to shake off the feeling that she was deserting the Castle just when it needed her.

  Septimus caught Jenna’s eye and smiled encouragingly. He remembered the last time they had flown together, when they were being pursued by Simon, and he thought of how different everything was now—and yet not completely different. The Two-Faced Ring was the last link of the chain of Darkenesse that led back to DomDaniel, and Septimus was determined to break it. Jenna returned Septimus’s smile and leaned against the Dragon Boat’s neck. The sunlight glinted off her gold circlet and her long dark hair streamed out behind her. Septimus had a sudden sense that he would remember this moment forever.

  Nicko, however, was less inclined to remember the moment. To his embarrassment, he was feeling sick. He couldn’t believe it—he was never seasick. But there was something very unsettling about the constant up-and-down-and-up-and-down motion of the Dragon Boat that bore no relation to anything sensible like waves. Queasily, Nicko stared over the side and concentrated on the world in miniature as it passed far below, hoping that would make the sickness go. Soon he saw the fine silver line of Deppen Ditch and the hazy green flatness of the Marram Marshes beyond, peppered with little round islets rising out of the mist.

  Jenna made her way along the deck toward Septimus. “Sep . . . you know . . . Uncle Eddie and Uncle Ern . . .”

  “Yes,” Septimus said quietly.

  “Well, do you remember how Aunt Zelda got Merrin back from being Consumed?”

  “Pity she ever did,” growled Nicko.

  “Yes . . . well, maybe she could do the same for them.”

  “Maybe.” Septimus looked down at the Marshes below. Somewhere among the mist lay Aunt Zelda’s island—but where?

  “The Dragon Boat knows how to find Aunt Zelda,” said Jenna. “It wouldn’t take long. And it’s their only chance.”

  “You’re right,” said Septimus. He looked back at Spit Fyre. “Besides, I have a package to drop off. A great big green one.”

  Wolf Boy was standing by a large and very gloopy patch of mud, trying to persuade the Boggart to collect some Marsh Bane.

  “I don’t go out fer Marsh Bane in the day,” the Boggart was saying. “Not anymore. If yer so set on it, you can come back an’ ask at midnight.”

  “But you’re never here at midnight,” Wolf Boy was saying.

  “I is.”

  “Not when I come to see you, you’re not—hey!”

  “No need ter shout,” complained the Boggart—but to thin air.

  Wolf Boy was running back to the cottage, yelling, “Zelda! Zelda! The Dragon Boat—the Dragon Boat is coming!”

  Aunt Zelda came to the door, her face flushed from boiling a mixture of eels and a fresh crop of Bogle Bugs. Stunned, she watched the Dragon Boat and her faithful follower cruise low over the island, circle twice and swoop in to land on the Mott—the wide Marsh ditch that encircled the cottage.

  Aunt Zelda was so shocked that she could do no more than shake her head in disbelief and stare at the great plumes of muddy water that arched into the air as the Dragon Boat hit the Mott. When Aunt Zelda wiped the spray from her eyes, she saw her beautiful Dragon Boat furl her wings and settle into the Mott, and it seemed to her as though the Dragon Boat had never been away. There was a sudden flash of red against the gold of the hull, and Aunt Zelda saw Jenna leap down and run up the path toward her.

  “Aunt Zelda!” yelled Jenna.

  “Hmm?” said Aunt Zelda, still transfixed by the sight of the Dragon Boat.

  “Aunt Zelda,” Jenna said urgently, grabbing both of Aunt Zelda’s somewhat sticky hands. “Please, listen. Please. This is very important.”

  Aunt Zelda did not react.

  “Give Zelda a moment,” said Wolf Boy. “She’s h
ad a shock.”

  Jenna waited impatiently while Aunt Zelda, her eyes full of tears, gazed at the Dragon Boat. Suddenly Aunt Zelda shook her head, wiped her hands on her dress and turned to look at Jenna. “Yes, dear?”

  Quickly, Jenna launched into her story before Aunt Zelda’s attention wandered. She made it fast and simple and soon came to the end. “So you see, Aunt Zelda, your nephews, Ern and Eddie. They so need your help.”

  Aunt Zelda said nothing.

  Wolf Boy prompted her, “You’ll need Drastic Drops, Urgent Unguent and your modified Vigour Volts. Won’t you, Zelda?”

  Aunt Zelda sighed.

  Jenna was beginning to despair when suddenly Aunt Zelda looked at her with the old, wise gaze that Jenna had missed so much. “Jenna dear. My memory is going. My powers are weakening. I know that I would not be able to bring my very silly but—by the sound of it—brave nephews back to this world.”

  “Aunt Zelda, you can. Please.”

  Aunt Zelda shook her head. “I can’t.” She turned to Wolf Boy. “But I know someone who can.”

  It was Wolf Boy’s turn to shake his head. “No, Zelda. That’s a Keeper’s skill.”

  “It is indeed a Keeper’s skill. Which is why, Wolf Boy—or I think I should call you Marwick now—I am giving you this.” From her pocket, Aunt Zelda took a small silver chain, made with delicate triple links. “It’s the Keeper’s chain. It got a little tight for me last year and I took it off. I knew then that my Keeping Time was drawing to a close. But it will fit you perfectly, Marwick dear.”

  Wolf Boy was shocked. “No, Zelda!”

  “Yes, Marwick. Soon I will forget where the Keeper’s chain is and then I will forget even what it is. You must take the chain now, while I still understand what it is I am giving you.” Aunt Zelda smiled at Septimus and Nicko, who had come up the path to join them, leaving Spit Fyre sitting beside the Dragon Boat. “You see, now we have everyone we need for a handover. We have the Queen—well, as near as makes no difference—and the representative of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard as witnesses. All I need now is the permission of the Queen.”