Chapter 26 Where Our Spirits Rest
Nothing says horror movie like a crypt, Lizzie thought, as they climbed down the stairs of the chapel – Chapel of Saint Margaret, Brun had mentioned when he first showed her a map of Glennloch’s grounds in what felt like decades before.
“Bloody Fae and their stupid riddles!” she grumbled.
“Did you say anything?” he glanced over his shoulder at her.
“I said nothing,” she lied, trying to contain a shiver. The passage to Aranna’s workshop had had a Dungeons and Dragons atmosphere, while this one was reaching zombie apocalypse levels of stress quite fast.
He narrowed his eyes at her, obviously not buying her fib, but said nothing.
The chapel, Brun explained earlier that morning, had been originally built in the eleventh century and its current version was finished about fifty years before Gweyir’s death in the seventeenth century. The building was located on top of the hill to the west of Glennloch, diametrically opposite to the loch.
Despite the breath-taking view of Loch Tay and the surrounding Highlands, the day had remained stubbornly overcast, announcing that summer was drawing to an end.
She had not slept a wink on the previous night despite the exhaustion and the whiskey, haunted by the image of Brun walking out of the library, leaving her alone with an icy sensation inside her chest. The tension between them had not eased with the morning: he had barely spoken to her, his jaws now permanently set in an angry scowl and she could almost hear his teeth grinding. He was simmering and it broke her heart to know that there was very little she could say to console him.
What is there to talk about?
He was feeling betrayed and who could possibly blame him? He had five hundred years of bottled anger to deal with, but still – for better or worse – both of them were on the same boat: shouldn’t they talk about it at least? After all, they had been intimate – repeatedly – and magic bond or not, that should count for something.
Right?
And yet, what could she say to him that would ease his pain? For his whole life he had been controlled and manipulated. A lowly paw in much higher games played by mythical magical creatures who had no compassion for the human lives they toyed with and destroyed.
Not even his feelings belonged to him.
That last thought pushed the blade buried in her heart a little deeper. It was like an infection, slowly poisoning her blood. Had everything that happened between them, that mind-blowing attraction, really been only the product of this magic connection?
And what was worse: they had known it. The Endellys sisters had known the truth and never bothered to tell Brun. The Fae were truly cruel creatures.
We endured a millennium of strife.
Aranna’s grief when narrating how the Otherworld had been on the brink of being destroyed was genuine enough. After a thousand years of war, they felt justified in the actions against humans in order to protect their own dying race.
“Lizzie!” Brun’s voice sounded from somewhere far away.
She blinked at him, realising they had stopped.
The distress on Lizzie’s face wasmaking himuncomfortable. That morning they had discussed every single word that Aranna told her, except what it meant for them.
But he could not even think about it. Not yet. He felt raw and tender, as he had just been flayed again within an inch of his life. There were far too many feelings raging inside his heart and right now he had no idea which ones were truly his and which were part of the Fae manipulations to enslave him. Doubt was killing him, and it was killing him faster than his five centuries of solitude.
Alas, death will be the only way to be free of it all.
He stared into Lizzie’s emerald eyes feeling angry that he could no longer trust the reactions of his body to her presence. His mind was screaming at him to claim the lips she was now biting with uncertainty and hold her against his chest, but he could not bring himself to touch her.
Sighing, he turned his gaze forward, knowing he would not find the answers to any of the questions tormenting him on her face. Those who could provide him with answers were long gone and mostly likely he would die without ever knowing.
“Here we are,” he gestured to the crypt’s wooden door. On each side of the doorway was a marble winged angel with hands posed in prayer and heads bent low in mourning.
Brun pulled a ring of old keys from the pocket of his cargo trousers and unlocked a big ancient padlock.
The last time the crypt had been opened had been for the funeral of Triarell’s grandson, the last Endellys intombed in Glennloch. After that, his wife had taken their infant son who could not inherit anything beyond a small allowance, returned to Cornwall where her family was originally from, and that had been the end of the Endellys in Glennloch.
Seven generations later, he was reopening that door in the company of the last of the Endellys.
Clenching his jaws, he pushed the door open and they walked into the crypt with that uncomfortable silence hanging between them.
Being the daughter of a self-proclaimed History buff, Lizzie had visited her fair share of crypts in her life time. Essentially every family holiday had been seen by her father – to her mother’s dismay – as an opportunity to wander around ancient ruins, walk into old castles and churches and, of course, its associated crypts. Like her father, though not with the same level of enthusiasm, Lizzie too enjoyed historical sites.
However, she had never seen a crypt as striking as this one, in particular considering that those buried there were actually her ancestors.
I need to bring Dad here… If I survive that is…
The chamber was partially built below ground with an arched ceiling that emerged at the ground level, crowned by short glass windows that allowed natural light to pour. There were about a dozen tombs there, some in marble and others in black granite and at first glance it was like looking at a black and white photograph.
Half of them bore an effigy, so perfectly sculpted that it was as if the person had been turned to stone. The carvings on the tombs were exquisite in the complexity of the flowery design intercalating with the Lochellen’s coat of arms.
It took a moment for Lizzie to realise that the flowery carvings were actually Fae words.
“Are those… spells?” she pointed to the first tomb.
“Aye,” Brun’s voice sounded even deeper in the silence of the crypt, “Well, not all of them. Some are just stories. Fae stories,” he made an ample gesture towards the back of the chamber, “Most of the older tombs are empty, of course, except…” he swallowed a dry lump, his eyes locking on the biggest one, lying roughly at the centre of the crypt.
It was a woman’s and Lizzie knew to whom it belonged straightaway.
The last time Brun had been inside the Lochellen crypt had been to lay Triarell to rest. Not even after Darron – who had been the closest thing to a son to him – died, had he set foot there.
Painfully aware of Lizzie’s presence behind him, his eyes found Triarell’s tomb and he stared at her effigy, transfixed.
The marble had been sculpted to utter perfection, reproducing her image down to the smallest detail. The only feature missing was colour.
It was a classic Christian effigy with her hands folded over her chest. The pleats of her dress fell slightly over the left edge of the tomb, and the asymmetry created the idea of movement, as if the effigy were about to swing her legs to the side and sit up.
The light filtering through four of the small windows hit precisely on the effigy’s face, but he no longer saw Triarell.
That was Lizzie’s face.
A shiver ran down his spine. To see Lizzie’s face on a tomb was beyond unsettling.
Clearing his throat, he turned to her and pointed to the tombs flanking Triarell’s, “Here is Ryul and to the left is an empty one. Aranna and Gweyir are at the back,” then he gestured to the ones close to the entrance, “The last ones to be buried here were Darron, his wife and his son.”
To escape her scrutinizing gaze, he climbed down the last steps into the chamber, purposefully walking past Triarell’s tomb without even glancing at it again and stopping beside the tomb on the right, where Gweyir’s remains rested.
Unlike Brun, Lizzie halted beside Triarell’s effigy, staring at it with morbid fascination. She could not begin to describe how weird it was to see the tomb of someone who was pretty much her identical twin. It was far too Twilight Zone for her comfort.
She lowered her eyes to the epitaph engraved on the side of the tomb.
Elizabeth Endell
Eighth Viscountess Lochellen.
Beloved wife, mother and friend.
Eerie…
Not willing to dwell on the uncomfortable sensation of seeing her own face – and name – on a grave, she rushed after Brun, sparing a glance to Aranna’s, seeing in marble the face of her dream or vision, or whatever that conversation with her ancestor had been.
This is so messed up…
Then she studied Gweyir’s effigy. The resemblance between her and her sisters was clear, though Gweyir seemed to have less imponent features, almost child-like.
“Did Aranna give any hint as to what this missing puzzle piece might be?” Brun’s voice startled her from her musings.
Lizzie shook her head, pushing her hands inside the pockets of her jeans, “None whatsoever.”
Straightening up as if he had just woken up from a dream, Brun broke their eye contact and actually walked away, putting as much distance between them as the confined space allowed.
“Well, I suggest we start looking for… well, whatever it may be. Keep your senses alert, it may very well be something glamoured with magic,” he crouched at the foot of the tomb and began to inspect the intricate pattern carved on the marble.
It took Lizzie every ounce of willpower not to break into sobs, but she turned to the opposite direction and focussed on the effigy’s head.
She brushed dust and spiderwebs away from the cold stone without much conviction, wondering why Aranna did not reveal the identity of the Dreams Thief and how to defeat him. After creating such a badass spell to bring her to the Spiritual World, why give them another riddle? It simply did not make sense.
Strictly speaking, none of this makes sense, yet here we are…
Afteran hour crouching and bending, Brun straightened up and groaned, feeling stiff and frustrated. Other than flowery vines, spells to guide the deceased’s soul into the afterlife and stories of Gweyir’s life, there was nothing out of the ordinary on her tomb. The had even examined the decorative statues and ornamental vases.
Lizzie rubbing her sore back. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek and his fingers itched to touch her skin and wipe it clean, but he balled his hand into a fist, restraining himself.
Then he turned his gaze back to the tombs, “I do not think we have a choice…”
Her lips pursed with disgust, “You mean…”
“We will have to open them.”
“Are you sure?” she turned a little green at the gills.
He shrugged, “The only one… occupied will be Gweyir’s, and frankly I don’t think Aranna would have hidden anything in her sister’s grave. To the Fae, the dead are sacred.”
“How are we going to open these?” she gestured to the empty tombs, “These slabs must weight some three hundred pounds!”
Brun put his fingers under the edge of the gravestone, pushing up. The muscles of his arms bulged, “Four hundred I would wager…” then he stared at her, “We will need to use magic.”
She blinked, her eyes flickering between him and the graves around them.
“We?”
He offered her a small smile, surprised by her lack of confidence. Lizzie possessed enough power inside her to demolish the whole Glennloch manor, but she still believed herself capable of so little…
“Yes, well, I may be able to help a little.”
“Brun, I cannot possibly…”
He wanted to take a step forward. He wanted to reach for her hands and kiss her, but none of it would be real, so he settled for pushing his hands inside his own pockets.
“Lizzie, you are far more capable than you think.”
In response, she bit her lower lip and he had to push his hands further down his pockets, hoping it would act like handcuffs, because that was the one nervous gesture she had which made his body catch fire.
“Okay then,” she said at the end of a long exhale.
The silence of the dead enveloped them for a heartbeat or two. The crypt was well insulated and only Brun’s acute sense of hearing could detect the distant sound of a bird singing somewhere nearby.
She took a deep breath and exhaled again, as if she were releasing more than air, and the atmosphere became charged with her power. Brun felt goosebumps when her magic reached him.
As soon as her voice filled the crypt, the walls started to vibrate.
“You need to focus on the gravestones or you will bury us alive here,” he warned gently, bringing his ring up and summoning its magic, “Picture them sliding aside and I shall help guide their movement.”
Without stop singing, Lizzie nodded slowly. Then she lifted her small hands as if she were pushing the air.
There was a rumbling noise of stone scrapping stone. Brun moved his hand, directing the slab to the side. After ten minutes of continuous work, which left them both panting, the first tomb was open.
Turning on his torch, Brun flashed light inside.
“Anything?” Lizzie called from behind him. Her voice sounded exhausted.
“Completely empty,” he grumbled, turning to the next tomb, “Well, one down, another six to go…”
Seven empty tombs later,Lizzie felt as if her body had been through an orange juicer. Lifting the heavy tombstones – and then closing them again – had been arduous work of course, but the effort of controlling the spell had taken the hardest toll on her.
“Maybe we should stop?” Brun suggested, crouching beside her. After the seventh tomb, she had just dropped on the floor panting.
She looked at him. His blue eyes were trained on her face, studying her with concern.
Concern. That was all that was left of all the passion of the past few days and Lizzie fought against the urge to climb into one of the tombs and close the lid.
“It’s way past lunch. We can return tomorrow,” he went on, still staring at her as if he were considering hauling her over his shoulder and carry her back to the manor like a caveman.
Shaking her head, she stood up and beat her legs to clean away the dust.
“I’m fine, I just needed a minute,” then she turned her back to him, “Besides, there’s only one left.”
They stood beside Gweyir’s tomb. Brun’s jaws were clenched with tension.
“This feels wrong…” he paled, but Lizzie knew it was not because there would be a skeleton inside.
That skeleton was the remains of someone he had known and loved, of someone who had been the closest thing to family to him.
“I know it does,” she said slowly, placing a tentative hand on his upper arm and was ridiculously pleased that this time he did not shy away from her contact as if she had leper, “But perhaps Aranna deemed this the safest place to hide this clue, exactly because no one in the Fae world would think of that possibility.”
He bobbed his head, “Yes, well, that is something that Aranna could have considered,” then he looked at her again, “Are you sure you can–”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’ll probably sleep a week after this, but I can do it now.”
Without waiting for his agreement, she sang again. It felt easier this time, even though Gweyir’s tombstone – the only one of the eight they opened bearing an effigy – was clearly the heaviest of them all.
A puff of air and dust gusted out of the tomb, filling the air with the faint stench of decay, and the words grave desecration flashed in big red letters in her head.
This adventure is escalating into grimdark rather quickly…
She glanced at Brun who was still as a statue with the torch in his hands, staring at the open gap in the marble grave. Whether or not his feelings for the Endellys had been nothing more than the by-product of magic, for centuries those feelings had been real and so was his mourning.
Taking a step closer, she took the torch from his hand.
“I can do it.”
As if startled out of a dream, he snapped out of his torpor.
“No, I will do it, I…”
“Brun, I am a doctor,” she reminded him gently, “I’ve seen… corpses before.”
Not any Fae ones as far as I know, but that’s beside the point.
“Yes, well, you are right of course,” he muttered, stepping back, barely hiding his relief.
Taking a deep breath to summon her courage, Lizzie turned on the torch and threw light inside.
It took her all her medical training and willpower not to yelp.
“Hell’sbloody bells!” Lizzie whisperedand Brun rushed to her side.
He peered inside the tomb and gasped, “Heavens!”
Gweyir’s body was virtually untouched by decay. It was not even desiccated: were it not for the fact that her funeral gown was in tatters after three hundred in fifty years buried, one could say she had just been laid to rest.
“I confess I was not expecting this…” she winced, “This is mental! It’s like… like she just died!” she gawked at him, “Is this normal for Fae? Since they live thousands of years, perhaps it takes… longer than usual for their bodies to decay…”
“I know not,” he shook his head astounded, “As I said, exhuming bodies was rather frown upon by the Fae.”
“Right, yes…” swallowing a dry lump, she turned her gaze back inside the tomb. Together with Gweyir’s remains there was an assortment of items, from books to jewellery and music instruments, “There’s a lot of stuff here…”
“For the Fae it was customary to bury their dead with their most beloved possessions,” then he pointed to a small harp lying under Gweyir’s left hand, “She was a fine musician. Loved playing and singing.”
“Do you see anything out of the ordinary?”
Ignoring the unsettling image of Gweyir unspoilt corpse, he carefully studied the contents of her grave, trying to recall the day of her funeral.
It had been a gloomy rainy day, well matching the mood of the remaining sisters and Glennloch’s household at large, considering how well-loved Gweyir had been. Triarell had been sad, but Aranna had been completely distraught. She had cried quietly for the entire day, her expression betraying the simmering emotions inside her.
As the Clan’s head, Triarell had presided over the funeral, placing Gweyir’s personal effects inside her tomb, but it was possible that Aranna had sneaked something else there without anyone noticing.
“If she did,” he answered, lifting his hand and reaching for his power, “she probably concealed it with magic.”
Wincing at the idea of putting his hand inside, he splayed his fingers and allowed his senses to sharpen, closing his eyes.
There was still residual magic there. Heavens, even three and a half centuries dead, Gweyir’s magic could still be felt, though only a faint shadow of its original strength.
Nevertheless, that was all it was. A residue. There was nothing there nearly as powerful as the spell protecting the puzzle box or Mrs Clisham’s locket.
“I cannot feel anything,” he sighed, taking a step back. Then he looked at her apologetically, “If there’s something there, maybe it could be linked to your bloodline, like the other objects…”
Nodding her understanding, Lizzie stepped closer and repeated his gesture, stretching both hands inside and closing her eyes. Like him, she was also reluctant to touch anything.
He watched as she slowly hovered her hands over the corpse, briefly halting at some objects before continuing.
“I can only feel a phantom of magic,” she said after a few minutes, keeping her eyes closed, echoing his earlier assessment, “I don’t think there’s anything here…”
After resealing Gweyir’s tomb and locking the crypt, they slowly made their way back to the manor at a rather despondent pace, each lost in their own ruminations.
“I was so sure we would find the next clue in that crypt,” she groaned, hooking a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Frankly, I was sure too…” he replied, keeping his gaze fixed on the path ahead.
“I mean, what other place do their spirits find peace?” she shrugged.
Brun halted his march so sudden that Lizzie almost crashed on his back.
“What did you say?” he whirled on his heels like a spinning top.
She blinked at him confused, “I said, what other place do their spirits find peace, I mean, if not in their graves…”
He stepped into her space, so close that Lizzie could again see those charming green speckles on his blue eyes, and held her by the arms, surprising her.
“Lizzie,” he said her name using his most serious tone, “I need you to take your time and try to remember exactly what Aranna’s words were: did she say the place where the spirits rest or where the spirits find peace?”
She frowned, “Isn’t it the same?”
He shook his head, “For humans, yes, but for the Fae those are two completely different things. As you rightly guessed, the graveyard is where their spirits rest, but finding spiritual peace has nothing to do with dying for the Fae.”
“I don’t–”
“Please,” he cut her gently, “Think: what exactly did Aranna tell you?”
Huffing impatiently, she closed her eyes, tilting her head up and he took a step back, his hands falling away from her arms.
After a minute she opened her eyes, “Okay, her exact words were: To find out the truth, you and Brun must go to the place where my spirit found peace.”
He smiled triumphantly, “Then I know exactly where the missing clue is!”