The Bell Between Worlds (26 page)

“As… we… leave… the… light… we… enter… darkness… as we… pass from… warmth the… cold creeps about us...”

He looked up at Fathray in utter bewilderment. “I understand them – all of them!”

“Yes!” cried Fathray, clapping his hands with excitement. “When you recognised the runes on the wall, I dared to think that you might know the Ravel Runes as well – you just needed to believe it! Oh, how marvellous!” He reached across and turned at random to another page.

“Here, try something else!” he cried, then rushed off, returning only moments later with a group of narrow-eyed Scribes.

“Watch!” he demanded. “Watch! It’s a miracle! Right here – in our den!”

Sylas looked dubiously at the gathering, far from sure that he would be able to concentrate with such an audience, but he turned back to the page and tried to clear his mind. The runes were written in a jagged, untidy hand and were arranged into short lines, as though in verse. He fixed his eyes on the first word and began to read.

“
What… rule… is there… what law,
But… gnashing teeth… and… grasping claw…

But… gnashing teeth… and… grasping claw…
”

There were several gasps from those gathered round and they all leaned in, chattering excitedly among themselves.

“He’s a Runereader!” gasped an old hook-nosed woman.

Fathray smiled broadly. “And all he needed to do was believe that he could! That’s all this was for!” he said, waving the piece of paper in front of them. When they had all seen it, he drew it up to his beady eyes and pored over it with new-found respect.

Meanwhile Sylas was leafing excitedly through the Samarok, wishing that he could read it all at once. He finally settled on one of the last pages.

“
A path that... ends... ends not, but… leads back from...
wh-whence it came
And thus at this our... journey’s end is another... just beginning.

A Scribe with yellowish-brown skin and dishevelled grey hair pushed forward. He was so extraordinarily stooped that he had to peer round someone’s elbow.

“All very impressive,” squawked the Scribe in an aged, dry voice. “But what I really want to know is, can you
un
ravel the runes?”

Sylas shrugged and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Fathray looked up from Mr Zhi’s paper and smiled, pleased that his colleague had asked this question. “Listen well, Sylas,” he whispered. “Galfinch here is our finest Scribe.”

Galfinch was pushing at the others to let him through and he soon appeared next to Sylas, flicking his black eyes over the boy’s features.

“You see, the most amazing thing about Ravel Runes,” he barked, “is that they
un
ravel. Their coils and loops are so beautifully complex that they act like tiny nets, trapping the very meaning of a word. They hold it within their grasp until you allow them to let it loose. And when you do, when they release that meaning to the rest of the text, any other runes holding the same meaning themselves begin to unravel.” He peered down at the Samarok with unbridled admiration. “Soon the whole text is reacting to that meaning, forging connections, one upon the other, to reveal an entirely new reading – a new way to see the same book…”

“Let him
try
, Galfinch,” interjected Fathray. “It will make much more sense when he sees it for himself.”

Galfinch huffed at being interrupted. He turned back to the book and rifled hurriedly through the pages, searching for something. Finally he stopped at a page that Sylas had already read and pointed his ink-stained finger at the same verse.

“There, this piece you read – what was it about?” he asked.

Sylas looked down at the words under his finger. “‘Gnashing teeth and grasping claw’… Well, I suppose it’s about the Ghor.”

“Yes, yes – of course,” said Galfinch. “But now focus your mind on this section of the text, and open your mind to what it means. Think of the Ghor, picture them: how they move, their muzzles, their claws, the way they speak… their battle cry...”

Sylas turned his eyes to the page and looked carefully at the short piece of text, at the same time remembering the Ghor as they stalked past the Mutable Inn, prowling in formation along the street. As the picture in his mind became more and more vivid, so the runes started to change. At first it was almost imperceptible
– one tiny line moving round another or a loop slowly coming undone – but moments later the runes slowly unravelled on the page, the curves straightening, their loops and turns uncoiling. Then, to gasps from the small crowd round him, the rest of the page started to change: all of the runes twisting and shifting until the whole text writhed under Sylas’s gaze. They began to find a new shape: their lines slowly turning in upon themselves until they had settled into a new arrangement of words. Finally the page became still.

There was a long silence before anyone spoke.

“I’ve – I’ve never seen them work that quickly before,” muttered Galfinch.

The others glanced from one to the other, apparently dumbfounded.

“He’s not just any Runereader,” whispered a balding man at the back of the gathering of Scribes, “he’s 
the 
Runereader!”

Fathray put a trembling hand on Sylas’s shoulder. “Read it, Sylas, from where you were before.”

Sylas moved his eyes back to the same section of the page. Sure enough, the words had changed. He read aloud:

“Of… beasts they spoke… of feral servants chained;

Born to the… yoke of... man… yet sent forth… untamed.”

And as he read, he understood. The Ravel Runes had changed to take him to another passage about the Ghor.

Galfinch snorted and giggled with excitement.

“That’s right! That’s how the whole Samarok is knitted together – and it’s huge! Immense! Imagine the amount that has been written by the Bringers over the centuries – it’s all there! An entire library of it, there to be unravelled!” He leaned in so that Sylas had to look at him. “It’s all about the
connections
– Essenfayle at its most glorious! Isn’t it, Fathray?”

Fathray nodded. “And I believe we have found its greatest reader yet. Perhaps the reader for whom it was truly written.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the assembled Scribes.

Fathray tapped the page in the Samarok.

“And
everything
is connected: just read the name at the bottom of that passage.”

Sylas looked down the page to the very bottom, where three words had been penned in impossibly small letters. “Franz Jacob
… Veeglum
,” he read. He looked up in astonishment.

Fathray nodded excitedly. “We all recognised his name when you said it at the Say-So!”

“Herr Veeglum? The undertaker? A
Bringer
?”

“Very much so!”

Sylas shook his head, struggling to believe it, but all the while his eyes were on the page. Something was nagging at him. He frowned at the signature. The barely legible jagged lines, the flamboyant V, the long, looped tail on the end of ‘Veeglum’: it looked familiar... He had no idea why, but he was sure he had seen it before.

And then something rushed into his mind. He reached into his bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. The Order of Committal – the one that had sent his mother to hospital. His eyes travelled straight to the bottom of the sheet, to the signatures. The first was his uncle’s, the second...

He held the paper up against the Samarok.

The two scribbled signatures were the same.
Franz Jacob Veeglum.

Herr Veeglum, Bringer of the Merisi.

“Why?” murmured Sylas, feeling sick. “If the Merisi are on our side, why would they have my mother taken away to a mental hospital?”

Fathray was still distracted by Mr Zhi’s piece of paper, but he drew his eyes away from it and spread his palms. “Perhaps they knew that your mother needed their help. Do you know this Winterfern Hospital? Perhaps it is a place known to the Merisi.”

Sylas shook his head. “Even if they have taken her somewhere good for her, why didn’t they tell me? Why did they let me think she was dead?”

“I really don’t know, Sylas.” Fathray placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “There are some things that books will not tell us. But now we know that your mother shares your connection to the Merisi and so to this world. And if that is the case, your journey to the Magruman and your journey to find your mother are one and the same.”

Suddenly there was a commotion at the end of the hall. A large figure scrambled down the steps at a frantic run and Sylas immediately recognised Bowe’s powerful build and glistening bald head, which dripped with perspiration as he reached the bottom of the staircase.

“They’re coming!” he cried. “We have to go!
Now!
”

There were cries of despair from around the chamber. Fathray’s face fell.

“Gather what you can!” he cried with a note of panic.

Instantly everyone was in motion, running for different parts of the room as they sought to gather up whatever documents and books they thought to be most important.

“Take what you can carry, but save yourselves! Use the tunnel!”

Fathray directed things from where he stood. He watched as his dear library was ransacked for what little it might yield in a few seconds: beloved volumes were pulled down from shelves, hurled hastily into sacks and swept from tabletops.

The first of the Scribes staggered with a mountain of paper to one of the shelves and pulled on a single volume, which released a concealed door in the wall at the end of the room. He disappeared into the darkness beyond, dropping parchments as he went. The sight of them being trodden into the dirt seemed too much for Fathray to bear and he turned away. For a moment he cast his eyes down, crestfallen, but then his gaze travelled once again to Mr Zhi’s piece of paper. He took a long, deep breath as his eyes moved swiftly over the scrawl.

Suddenly he stopped. He stared at it with widening eyes, as though struggling to believe what he was seeing. Then he lifted his gaze from the paper and looked directly at Sylas.

His face was filled with wonder.

“What is it...?” asked Sylas.

Fathray turned away and grasped the Samarok. He leafed through to a particular page, then slid the piece of paper inside and closed it.

“Master Tate, you must take this,” he said, his voice breaking. “Show the note and the page I’ve marked to the Magruman – it may explain…” he hesitated, struggling to find the words, “…it may explain everything!”

He passed Sylas the book and looked at him earnestly. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Sylas Tate.” He looked as though he wished to say more, but instead he pointed at the tunnel. “Into the tunnel! Scurry as fast as you can, like a good tunnel rat! They’ll meet you at the other end. Run now, my boy! Save yourself!”

The old Scribe watched Sylas darting into the tunnel, then adjusted his glasses and allowed his gaze to drift slowly round his ransacked library, travelling over the remaining volumes and documents, the scattered papers and scrolls, rising slowly to the very top shelf. There, his eyes came to rest on the very same volumes that had drawn Sylas’s interest when he had entered the den. Perched high above the hall, they had been overlooked by the other Scribes as they rushed to the tunnel, and their beautiful silver inscriptions still shone in a shaft of light:

The Glimmer Myth

Fathray turned and reached for a ladder.

“Who would have thought?” he muttered, the trace of a smile on his lips.

“Homes 
burned,
gardens,
scourged 
languages 
forgotten
;
and with them dies a blessed magic.”

T
HE TUNNEL WAS CLOAKED
in a thick blackness that seemed to press in on all sides: the walls scuffed his shoulders as the passage twisted and turned, rose and fell without warning. But where others would have stumbled, Sylas sped on, well prepared by his years in the deranged corridors of Gabblety Row. He heard the yelps and curses of the Scribes, but he could not see them, not even when he almost collided with the man in front.

Suddenly he heard a shriek ahead of him followed by the sound of books and papers crashing to the floor. Before he had time to stop, the ground fell away beneath his feet and he felt himself sliding down a slope. He tried to slow himself by clawing at the passage wall, but it was no use – he was already moving too fast. He began to fear that he had fallen into some kind of trap, but then he saw a glimmer of light. Moments later his feet hit level ground and he was pitched forward through a curtain of twigs and leaves. He landed heavily in mud and scattered parchments. “Up! Off! Get
off
them!” came a bleating voice at his side.

“You’ll ruin them!”

It was Galfinch, scrambling on his hands and knees as he tried to gather up the scattered documents.

They were in a small clearing just a few paces from the water’s edge. To their right, Sylas could see a swarm of people frantically loading a long line of rowing boats with documents, clothing and strange artefacts, all of them looking fearfully back towards the mill house and across to the other side of the river.

Galfinch pushed him to one side. “Every one of them is important now!” he blustered in a voice that seemed far too loud. “Quite priceless!”

All at once the bush behind him parted silently and a large powerful man raced into the clearing, kicking away parchments in his haste. He reached down to Galfinch and clamped his hand tightly over his mouth, then pulled him upright.

Galfinch looked at Sylas with terrified eyes and dropped his bundle of documents.

“Silence!” the man hissed in his ear. “Your squealing will kill us all!”

Sylas recognised the bear-like man as Bayleon: the huge bearded man who had spoken so strongly at the Say-So.

Galfinch nodded his head imploringly until Bayleon released him. He slipped down on to his knees and, stifling a sob, began gathering up his papers again.

“Leave them, you fool!” hissed Bayleon.