“We can come back anytime, Nick. That’s the miracle of the key. We have our lifetimes to dine in Paris. It can be like the old days again.”
Nick suddenly took on a strange pensive look. He bit the bread and chewed sullenly.
Soon they encountered the first open room with its door torn off its hinges. Malcolm shined the lantern farther down the hall and reported several more open doorways before the corridor ended with an intact iron door.
Simon borrowed a lantern and stepped inside the first room. It was barely fifteen feet square, certainly with no windows available so far below the streets of Paris. The walls were plain and bare. He took a thick stub of chalk from his pocket and began to draw on the floor. He scribed white runes in a circle, then knelt in the center. He placed his fingers against the stone. He spoke and the runes glowed green. The cell was suddenly full of strange markings, the walls, floor, and ceiling all crowded with runic etching usually invisible to the normal eye.
Kate gasped in wonder at the intricate handiwork. “Pendragon?”
“Yes,” said Simon. “Gorgeous stuff. Incredibly powerful.”
“Was this Gaios’s cell?”
“No.” Simon pointed to a string of runes on the ceiling. “If I’m reading this properly, this cell was prepared for our friend, Nephthys, the demon queen.”
“Our late friend, Nephthys,” Malcolm commented from the door.
“Just so.” Simon smeared the chalk circle and the runes vanished. He then went to the other cells in the long hallway and repeated the ritual in each one. They glowed with hints of sorcerers and monsters they had encountered such as Gretta Aldfather and Ferghus O’Malley until all of the so-called Bastille Bastards were accounted for but one.
In the last open cell, Simon set about chalking. This chamber was considerably larger, but no less dark. There were remnants of furniture constructed of excellent wood with traces of quality fabrics. Bits of porcelain and glass hinted of fine dishes and toiletries. When Pendragon’s inscriptions flared to life, Simon exhaled in triumph. “This is it. Gaios was in this cell.” He began to copy the complex runes into his notebook.
Kate said, “It’s certainly nicer accommodations than the others.”
“They were friends,” Simon replied. “It says a great deal about Pendragon.”
Nick chuckled to himself as he strolled around the room, gazing at the runes. Then he pointed at the wall. “Have a look here.”
Simon continued writing. “I saw it. Very similar to the phrases on the foundations of Hartley Hall. Obviously my father borrowed from Pendragon.” He glanced at Kate. “Which gives me hope I can do the same thing and fashion magic to dampen Gaios’s power.”
Malcolm leaned against the doorjamb. “So you scribes can write spells to counter any other form of magic?”
“It’s possible,” Simon said. “But difficult.”
“Then why don’t the other magicians just kill all the scribes?”
Simon smiled. “They’ve tried. I am the last one.” He glanced at Nick. “Which is why Ash wanted to cultivate me, I suppose.”
“Or kill you?” Malcolm eyed Nick.
Nick froze, realizing everyone was staring at him. He turned with an annoyed glare. “If she’d wanted him dead, she wouldn’t have had me waste my time with him. She would’ve told me to go to his home, smile in his face, and put a knife in his heart.”
“Charming.” Simon watched his friend in the weird light of the runes. Nick seemed pained more than insulted. Simon stood and crossed to the door, putting a hand on Nick’s arm. “I’ve gotten all I can here. I do want to take a look in that last cell.”
He went to the iron door at the end of the hall. He shined a lantern through the barred window. The beams danced around the room. It was clean, without the detritus of occupation or the wear of use, except for a far corner where there was a low mound of something, a pile of objects smooth and irregular. Kate stood beside him, staring at the lump as well.
Then it moved.
A piece of the pile shifted with a dry clattering sound. Two dark holes turned toward the door. A skull. Another section of the mound moved and a recognizable skeletal hand slid alongside the jaw. And then another hand on the other side. With long arms, the hands lifted the skull from the pile and adjusted it atop a curved bumpy shaft—a spine. The hands pressed against the floor and lifted the rib cage. The head, now properly atop the neck, turned side to side to survey the area. One leg unfolded while the skeleton reached over and grabbed another leg, clicking it into its hip socket. The newly assembled skeleton clambered onto its knees with no more difficulty than someone rising groggily from bed. It reached behind itself to seize a long shaft of some sort. It used the pole like a staff and pushed itself up onto its bony feet with a creaking noise. Something bright reflected the lanternlight. It was a long curved blade on the skeleton’s staff. The macabre figure leaned on a scythe and stared at the door.