They took a cautious step inside, staring at row after row of barrels surrounded by frost-rimed walls. Turold had seen this before in his vision, though memory had since obscured the finer details. The cold pierced his clothing and made each breath a suffocating embrace, but he tried to ignore it. Giacinta took his hand, prevented him from going too fast; she knew this was the place, as she felt a presence here that she hadn’t felt since…
“Yes, this is exactly how I envisioned it…well, except for the cup. Maybe I dreamed that part?” Turold said.
“No, it’s here, I can feel it. What’s the next part of the rhyme?”
Turold knew it by heart now:
The sound unstill
the deep dead wave
is darkest longest.
“This is the strangest part: the sound unstill? What does that mean?” he asked.
Giacinta made a gasp of understanding, her eyes fixed ahead. He followed her stare to a tall column of ice stretching from the floor to the ceiling, several feet thick, black with age. The entire room seemed to possess incredible tensile strength, like a coiled rope wound to the breaking point. The slightest sound, a stray movement, would crack the silence to life.
“You said in your vision the ice was melting,” she whispered, drawing him back. “If the ice melted, the silence would sound. The sound unstill. Ice is frozen water, frozen movement, frozen sound.”
“And the deep dark wave—a waterfall, flowing through this room for hundreds of years, arrested in darkness and silence,” he said, nodding. “But how did it freeze? It’s cold in here, but not that cold. Surely the beer isn’t frozen.”
“No,” she said, approaching it carefully, placing a hand gently against the ice. “Oh, this is more than cold: this is a spell of the Codex. Listen: it’s murmuring in rune-speak.”
Turold strained to listen, but only heard the ever-deepening silence surround him. Did ghosts haunt these chambers as well, invisible to all but the dead (or newly-resurrected)? For a moment he wondered if she was telling him everything she saw and felt. Or only the things she couldn’t get away with.
“What’s the last part again? Something about grains in wonder-lock?” she asked.
“Right…one shall break/frost’s fetters/free the grain/from wonder-lock,” he said, staring at the ice. “So if this is a prophecy, which one of us is it? Who’s the one? You, I imagine; even prophets forget to look down,” he said, with a laugh.
But she didn’t laugh, too mesmerized by the ice.
“Turold, in your vision…did you taste the drink?”
“I never got that far,” he said, shaking his head. “But it’s strange, the cup was right here; I could see it clearly. But I can’t see anything through the ice. Just darkness.”
Giacinta seemed dazed, listening to him and something else, just beyond (or within) the cavern. He took her hand to inquire and she nodded with a pained smile, though her eyes seemed to hide from his stare.
“I think I know,” she said. “What the cup holds…why it’s here.”
“The ale of the gods? Something stronger?”
“I think we should go,” she said, suddenly nervous, backing off. “This was just a scouting mission, after all. We never meant to do anything more, certainly not free the goblet. Besides, if the king found us—”
“Giacinta, we can’t go now!” Turold said, catching hold of her. “We might not get a second chance. Why else have we come? If we leave now, the Messengers will find it—and use it!”
“Yes, the Messengers,” she muttered.
It was that blasted ghost, he realized. Something she said spooked her, made her question everything they had accomplished to get here. She had been so bold on the way here, catching glimpses of her face in mirrors and pools of water. Now she seemed to be hiding, as much from him as from herself. As if she never wanted to be seen again.
“I know what you’re thinking, and it isn’t true. You’re not one of them,” he said, pulling her close.
“But it’s the only thing that makes sense,” she whimpered. “And if I find the cup, they’ll have it, too. It’s why I’m here.”
“No, you’re here to help me, remember? You said it yourself, I was the only one you knew, right from the beginning. That has to mean something.”
She nodded, but seemed increasingly uncertain.
“You know how to break the ice, don’t you? Something you read in the Codex?” he asked.
“Yes, I know…that is, I can hear the words in the chamber. They’re telling me what to say. Can’t you hear them?”
“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Just the beating of my heart. And yours.”
“Then it must be deafening. I’m terrified, Turold. We should leave this place,” she said, desperately. “It’s not too late.”
“But we need the cup! This might be our last chance to find it. Believe in yourself; believe in me,” he said.
Giacinta no longer resisted, nodding grimly. He led her back to the ice and she mouthed the words that were swimming all around her. Words that had once been invoked to seal this room in ice, long before this palace or the kingdom existed. And as she said them, she could see everything as it once was, the way she once was, when she was there. Yes, she had been there, as one of them, speaking the words and sealing the prophecies for ages to come. Her words.
Slowly, the ice began to thaw: at first a slow trickle, then a steady stream of water cascading onto the floor. The ice groaned, the cracks multiplied; the room itself seemed to shift beneath their feet. Turold watched, breathlessly, as the color shifted and strange shapes emerged from the shadows. Then he saw it, the figure from his vision: the outline of a cup, as large as his head, like a face peering out from the depths.
Giacinta became lost in the words, surrendering herself to their power, their promise of another life. A life without Turold. It was not only possible, it was inevitable. Sir Otrygg warned her she couldn’t remain on this earth; all the portals were tied to her. The longer she remained, the greater the chance of its return. He wanted to kill her himself, but in the end he couldn’t do it, not with the memory of his sister standing between them. But Turold had no sister or love standing between them. Only his pity, a sense of obligation would stay his hand. But for how long? Better to end it now than to live long enough to watch him kill her. And to realize he never could.
The ice retreated steadily now, like villagers from advancing flames. The water swept between their feet, eddying around chunks that had shattered against the floor. And there it was: hanging loose, close enough to touch. As he stared at the cup, he could make out a figure in faded paint: small, yet vast, arms aloft, reaching for the stars. The ice dripped onto the floor, each drop echoing like a hammer blow in the distance. It was just like the vision: somewhere, far beyond, a voice intoned,
drink,
Drink,
DRINK!
He reached out for the cup, feeling its power push aside all doubt and discernment. Whatever happened, he would drain the cup and know its secret. Soon Lord Gramsteed and Sonya Vasilyevna and all their Messengers would fear his power. They would never call him ‘short’ again.
Giacinta grabbed his hand and thrust him aside. Before he could react, she sized the cup and looked inside, seeing exactly what she thought, the memory trickling in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Turold, but this isn’t for you. You aren’t the one to free the grain from wonder-lock. We placed it here so I could return for it; they were waiting for me.”
He tried to stop her, but felt himself held fast, his limbs cold and useless. Instead he watched her doff the entire cup and hold it in wonder against her lips.
“I remember everything now, Turold,” she said, in a distant voice. “It’s all coming back to me. We were wrong…we were both wrong.”
