by What lay on the other side was not a room at all, but an expansive cave. Whether this, too, was some kind of magickal manifestation created by the Yllanfalen, or whether it had always been there, I had no way to determine. If the latter, it had been co-opted into service as some kind of sacred site, by the looks of it, for it had a hushed, hallowed air. Stone worn smooth by time stretched before us, the ground sloping gently into the centre. The walls of the cavern swooped up into a kind of natural vaulted ceiling, far over our heads. They were empty of things one might expect to see in a cave system, like stalagmites and stalactites. Instead, they bore extensive carvings depicting scenes of Yllanfalen life. Many featured an unusually tall fellow with a crown, a lyre in hand, and pipes hanging around his neck, so, no prizes for guessing who was revered here.
They liked their jewels, the Yllanfalen. Quartz and beryl and spinel and a hundred other gems adorned everything, and I could see that because they were all lit up with the same clear fire that had emblazoned the portal through which we’d entered (I’m giving up terming it merely a door. No word but portal could befit such absurd— I mean, such wondrous grandeur).
The fountain occupied the central position in the middle, where the ground arrived at its lowest point. It rose to the height of three Baron-Albans, composed of five tiers, and as far as I could tell from this distance it was made out of clear glass radiating moonlight. Lovely.
All the cavern around it would fill up with water, I supposed, to form that mythical lake we were looking for. Which presented one immediate problem: if we managed to switch on the Magick Fountain of Dreams, how were we to avoid promptly drowning in the Faerie Lake of Bespelled Waters?
One problem at a time, Ves, hm?
My wonderfully prosaic mother stood taking in all this magickal magnificence with an expression profoundly unimpressed. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘And how do we persuade that frippery thing to start spewing water?’
Ayllin looked pained at my mother’s soulless choice of words, as well she might. She made no answer, however. Instead she took up her own syrinx pipes and began to play a tune I can only term ethereal. The melody echoed around the cavern, swelling in volume and richness with every note. That softly-glimmering moonlight centred upon the fountain grew stronger, and clear water began to pour from its spout.
The melody was not a complicated one; I soon had its measure. I joined in, playing a low counterpart, and to my surprise the water flow promptly tripled. The skysilver really did give these things a bit more oomph, huh?
The fountain might be pumping away merrily, but it still seemed to me that the wide cavern would take weeks to fill. Soon, though, water was lapping at our toes, and then we were soaked to our ankles. ‘Er,’ said Jay. ‘Got a boat, or something?’
No sooner had he spoken than a boat appeared, drifting up to us with the serenity of a construct whose existence is in no way impossible. Never mind that it, too, appeared to be made of glass, and it shone with the same pale moonglow as the fountain. It had one of those fanciful swan’s head arrangements, too, and a slender set of oars. I eyed it with misgiving, but Jay got straight in and picked up the oars. Since he didn’t disappear through the bottom of the boat, I followed suit. As did Mother.
Ayllin, though, did not. She had levitated herself — standing, incomprehensibly, on some kind of a giant silvery leaf, and where had that come from, hm? Is the entirety of Yllanfalen made out of magick or something? She did not cease to play, even as her leaf rose smoothly to the ceiling, taking her with it.
My mother looked as though she’d like to take the boat’s pretty oars off Jay, but remembered her missing hand with chagrin. She sat scowling at him instead. ‘Don’t tickle the water. Row!’
‘To where?’ protested Jay, most reasonably.
But Mother lifted an arm — the one without the hand — and pointed her stump imperiously at the centre of the lake. The water had risen high enough now to engulf the fountain, as tall as it was, and a thick mist had collected where it once stood. Through the silvery-white fog I could just make out the outlines of a tiny spit of land.
The island-vault had checked in.
Jay rowed. The lake was not all that large, and there were no currents to fight with; we made rapid progress, and soon drew near to the island. I had time enough to note, with fascination, that the waters were full of lithe fish with twilight-blue scales, and that the bottom had developed a vibrant crop of pond weed, lake mosses and other vegetation — and then Jay had the boat up against the island and had jumped out. He stood holding a hand in my mother’s direction, but I could have told him that was a waste of time. She made a point of reaching the bank unaided, earning herself a sardonic flicker of Jay’s brow.
I accepted his help with gratitude, largely because it is quite tricky to navigate such a manoeuvre while also playing the syrinx pipes. Once my feet hit solid, quartzy ground, however, Ayllin ceased to play, so I let my song die away too. The sudden silence echoed.
‘Lyllora Var welcomes you,’ she said mysteriously, with a smile I did not much like. It had too much smug mischief in it.
‘How nice,’ said mother, folding her arms. She stared coolly at Ayllin. ‘You’re keeping a comfy distance, I note.’
Ayllin’s only response was a graceful wave, like a queen, and then she stepped off her leaf and — disappeared.
‘Do they have some kind of magick school here?’ I breathed. ‘I’d enrol like a shot.’
‘More importantly,’ said Jay. ‘We appear to be stranded.’
He was right. The boat had dematerialised as thoroughly as Ayllin, and the door through which we had entered must now lie several feet under water.
Mother snickered. ‘She got rid of us very neatly.’
She had, at that. If I had wondered at any point why she was so helpful, when the rest of Yllanfalen had been broadly evasive, here was my answer.
‘Well,’ I said, turning my back to the problem of the disappearing boat and the submerged door. ‘Let’s get what we came for. Then we can worry about how to get out.’
‘Right.’ Jay joined me. The swirling mists were so pervasive, they cloaked almost every inch of the island in an opaque shroud we could scarcely see through. It was pretty mist, I noted, like everything else in this absurd place: it shone as though under moonlight, and there were traces of something that glittered.
The ground was uneven and very hard. It, too, sparkled, so I observed that Ayllin had not exaggerated when she’d said the place was made out of quartz-rock. Nothing much seemed to be growing on it, save an occasional, blithely impossible patch of velvety moss. I linked arms with Jay on my left and Mother on my right, unwilling to lose either of them in the fog, and we walked slowly forward. The lights I’d sent up with a flick of my Wand did not help much, but at least they could prevent us from walking into anything.
Not that there proved to be anything to walk into. We walked from one side of the island to the other in the space of a few minutes, and encountered nothing at all.
‘There was something about a bubble of ligh—’ I began, and suddenly I saw it: a bubble indeed, pearly with moonglow, and floating about eight feet over our heads.
It was empty.
‘So the lyre’s really gone,’ Mother mused.
‘You thought they might be lying?’ I asked.
‘Yes. We got the same story from too many people, and promptly, too. Very consistent. Very like a collective lie.’
‘Why would they lie about its absence?’
‘To protect it from treasure-hunters like us,’ said Mother with her wolfish grin.
‘Fair,’ I said. ‘You might still be right. Ayllin’s cordially conducting us down here only to leave us stranded seems rather to support the idea.’
‘A decoy vault?’ said Jay. ‘A complicated solution, but I like it.’
‘It might explain why everything’s so sodding elaborate,’ I muttered.
‘Enough theorising,’ said Mother crisply. ‘Time for some facts.’ And, to my puzzlement, she sat cross-legged upon the ground where she stood and laid her hands — er, hand — against the rocky ground.
Nobody spoke for a bit.
‘Mum,’ I said after a while. ‘What are you doing?’
She’d shut her eyes, but now they snapped open again. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’
‘No idea.’
She blinked. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
Her frown appeared. ‘I’m looking for traces of past magick performed here.’
‘You can do that?’ I was startled. It wasn’t so much that it was a rare ability, as that few people thought it worth the trouble of developing it. The Hidden Ministry had a team of magickal forensics experts, if you will, attached to their Forbidden Magicks department; other than that, it was mostly popular with archaeolo—
‘Why do you think I became an archaeologist?’ Mother said, forestalling my thought. ‘It’s my best talent.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it.’
‘We’ve discussed this before.’
‘No,’ I said steadily. ‘We haven’t.’
The frown deepened. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Mum. We pretty much haven’t discussed anything before.’
She had no response to make to that, apparently, for her eyes shut again and she fell silent.
Jay and I waited, he trying not to signal a thousand disapproving thoughts with his eyes, and largely failing. At least they were directed at Mother this time, rather than me.
‘Right,’ said Mother after a while. ‘It’s trickier than usual down here, because the whole damned place is soaked in magick. Everything we’re sitting on is the product of it. But there are traces of something that feels like music-magick still lingering here. Rather faded. Probably from at least a couple of decades ago. Might be the lyre? And there’s something else, too, something much bigger.’
‘Bigger?’ I prompted.
‘More powerful. And unusual. I’d say it’s a spell that was cast only the once, also some time ago, but it’s left a stronger residue for all that.’
‘And what was it?’
‘I think someone opened some kind of a gate.’ She stood up, dusting off her hand on her ragged trousers. ‘Much like the one we came through.’
‘You mean…’ I thought for a second. ‘You mean back into Britain proper?’
‘Most likely, yes.’
See, magickal gates aren’t exactly portals. They don’t transport you over large distances. They’re just doors that lead from regular Britain into the hidden magickal pockets like the Dells and Troll Enclaves — and, of course, the kingdoms of Yllanfalen.
However ordinary that makes them, however, it’s no easy matter to open one. No easy matter at all.
‘That sounds like the work of a thief, doesn’t it?’ said Jay. ‘Got down here somehow, snatched the lyre, and escaped into Britain with it.’
‘Could be,’ said Mother. ‘Though it isn’t so easy to open such a gate as all that.’
And that’s the truth. If it were easy, we’d spend a lot less time searching for existing gates when we wanted to cross realms. But this was an existing gate, near enough. ‘Next question,’ said I. ‘How far faded is it? Could it be revived?’
Mum looked at me. ‘You want to follow?’
‘Why not? We need a way out anyway.’
She nodded. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’
