Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [131]
Septimus stepped through the left-hand entrance.
Another empty space full of wailing and fear met him. Imagining Nicko by his side, Septimus walked quickly on and before long he came to two more porticos standing side by side. Once again he took the left one. It led him into a long, winding passageway down which a foul wind funneled. It screamed at him, buffeting him and at times throwing him against the walls, but Septimus pushed on, and at last he stepped out of the passageway and into yet another empty cavernous space where, once again, he turned left.
Another tedious hour of walking followed. By now Septimus was footsore and weary, and the Darke Disguise felt as though it was wearing thin. The chill of the air was striking deep into him, and he could not stop shivering. The wailing was at times so loud that he felt he was losing touch not just with his own thoughts but with who he was—with himself. A deep, dark fear began to seep into him, a fear that even the imaginary Nicko could not keep out. But Septimus struggled on. It was either that, he told himself, or sit down and become another pile of bones.
Eventually he was rewarded by the sight of a distant portico. As he drew nearer his spirits rose cautiously. Surely this was the entrance to the antechamber—it fitted the description exactly. He picked up speed, but as he came closer he saw something that sent him very nearly over the edge of despair. He saw a small skeleton propped up against the side of the lapis pillar.
Septimus stopped dead. He felt sick. What were the chances of two skeletons sitting beside two identical porticos? He walked slowly forward until he was standing in front of the skeleton. It was small, delicate, and its skull nodded jauntily at the pillar. Septimus forced himself to look at its left hand. On the little finger was a cheap brass ring with a red stone.
Septimus sank to the ground—he had come full circle. He leaned back against the cold lapis and stared into the darkness in despair. Simon had deceived him. Marcellus was a fool. He would never find Dungeon Number One. He would never find Alther. He would be here forever, and one day some unfortunate traveler would find two sets of bones propped up beside the arch. Now he understood why the skeleton was there. Whoever it had once been had also gone around in circles—how many times? Septimus looked up and found that he was eye to eye with the skull. Its teeth seemed to smile at him conspiratorially, the empty eye sockets to wink, but after the vast desert of empty spaces the bones felt like company.
“I’m sorry you didn’t make it,” he said to the bones.
“No one makes it on their own,” came a whispering reply.
Septimus thought he was hearing his own thoughts. It was not a good sign. But even so, just to hear the sound of a human voice, he said, “Who’s there?”
He thought he heard a faint reply that blended into the wail of the wind. “Me.”
“Me,” Septimus muttered to himself. “I am hearing myself.”
“No. You hear me,” said the whisper.
Septimus looked at the skull beside him, which returned his gaze mockingly. “Is it you?”
“It was me,” came the reply. “Now it is not. Now it is bones. This is me.”
And then something made Septimus smile for the first time since he had left Annie. A small figure began to materialize— the ghost of a girl aged no more than ten, he guessed. She looked like a miniature version of Jannit Maarten. She had the same wiriness about her and wore a child’s version of Jannit’s work clothes—a rough sailor’s smock, cutoff trousers and her hair in a small, tight plait down her back. Septimus was almost as pleased to see her as he would have been to see Alther.
“Now you see me?” she asked, her head tilted to one side in an echo of her skull.
“Yes, I see you.”
“Now I see you. But I could not before you spoke. You look . . . funny.” The ghost extended what Septimus could see had once been a very grubby hand. “You must get up,” she told him.