Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [134]
Tertius Fume did not notice Alther’s awakening, as he was too busy scrutinizing the newcomer. There was, he was sure, something odd about Sum—but what it was, he could not tell. The ghost gave Septimus a goaty gloat of a smile and replied, “Then, Sum, you are in the wrong place. The Apprentice of DomDaniel is doing well—surprisingly well, I hear—above.”
Septimus bowed and smiled in reply.
Tertius Fume mockingly returned the bow and drifted away.
Septimus sat down beside Alther. He knew Tertius Fume was suspicious and he had to work fast. He got straight to the point. “Marcia has given me the Revoke for the Banish. I have come to deliver it.” He glanced at the ghost. To any onlooker, Alther looked the same. He was sitting stone still with his eyes closed. But Septimus could tell that the ghost was poised like a cat waiting to pounce. He was ready to go.
Septimus took a deep breath and in a low monotone, he began the Revoke. He longed to rush through the words and get it over with before Tertius Fume noticed what was happening, but he knew he could not. The Revoke must mirror the original form of the Banish. It must last, to the microsecond, the same amount of time. It must begin at the end of the Banish and end at the beginning.
Five and a half seconds before the end of the Revoke, Tertius Fume finally put two and two together. From a shortlist of seven, he had worked out who Septimus was. He was across the antechamber in a flash, Passing Through any ghost that got in his way. If it hadn’t been for a particularly grumpy ghost—an unlucky bricklayer who had fallen into Dungeon Number One while repairing the wall—Tertius Fume would have been at Septimus’s side in time to disrupt the Revoke. But thanks to the bricklayer, he arrived at the very moment the last words—“Overstrand Marcia I”—were being spoken.
Like a coiled spring, Alther leaped to his feet. In a most unghostly fashion, he grabbed Septimus by the hand and headed for the Darke vortex that spun in the very center of the antechamber. Tertius Fume raced after them but he was too late. Septimus and Alther were sucked into the vortex, but the still-Banished Tertius Fume was thrown clear and sent spinning across the antechamber like any new ghost hurled from Dungeon Number One.
Septimus and Alther were free. Together they crashed up through the layers of bones and despair, burst out through the sludge and slime, and hurtled into the chimney of Dungeon Number One. Septimus was propeled upward with the force. High above him he saw the iron rungs of the ladder that he must reach. Up, up he went, but just as he was within an arm’s length of the lowest rung he felt his momentum fade and Septimus knew that he would not reach it. Soon he would drop back into the mire at the bottom of the dungeon—the mire from which few escaped. Dismayed, Alther saw gravity begin to take its hold on Septimus.
“Flyte, Septimus! Think Flyte!” the ghost urged, hovering beside Septimus. “Think it, be it, do it. Flyte!”
And so, remembering a time on the edge of an icy cliff beside an abyss, Septimus thought of his ancient Flyte Charm—now languishing in the bottom of a pot in the Manuscriptorium Vaults—and he felt gravity loose its hold and allow the momentum to continue. The next moment his hand had clutched the icy iron rung at the foot of the ladder and Septimus knew he was safe.
Alther kept pace with Septimus as he climbed the rungs. Far below the howl of the vortex grew ever fainter as he struggled upward and now, at last, he could see the thick iron door at the top, streaked with rust. On the very top rung Septimus halted and, clinging on with one hand, he fumbled in his buttoned pocket for the precious key. It took him many long, tired minutes to undo the buttons, but finally he took out the key, looped its cord around his wrist for safety, pushed it into the lock and turned it.
The door swung open and the Darke Fog tumbled in fast, taking Septimus