Skylar dipped her wing into her satchel and removed some ground glow worm. She sprinkled it on the latch and waited as it ate through the rust.
“We’ll make sure the warding spells are still active,” said Skylar. “Then the three of us will be on our way.”
Jack pulled open the doors and everyone went inside. Nearing the bottom of the stairs, there was a noticeable drop in temperature, and the creamy orange-and-white-speckled walls became cool to the touch. Jugs of persimmon wine and barrels of dilled apples were stored in neat rows along with pickled corn and radish cider.
“At least we won’t go hungry,” said Marianne.
“But we might suffocate if Jack can’t take a bath,” said Dalton, teasing the younger wizard.
Jack smiled good-naturedly, taking the ribbing in stride. Aldwyn thought that Jack might be the youngest now, but in a few years his magic would outshine both Dalton’s and Marianne’s – assuming human magic returned, of course. Then he’d be the one making the jokes.
Skylar dipped a wing back into her satchel and blew a plume of silver dust into the air, incanting, “Dust of Eckles, knowledge calls, use your gift and search the walls!”
The tiny cloud of particles spread far and wide, covering every inch of the four alabaster walls and the ceiling.
“If there are any cracks in the magic seal that protects this chamber, this will expose them,” explained Skylar.
All the walls glowed brightly when the enchanted dust came into contact with them. Even the two iron doors sparkled with the distinct golden hue of wizardly protection. Aldwyn was satisfied that Jack and the other loyals would be safe here, until Gilbert piped up from over by the pickled corn.
“Um, guys,” he croaked. “Why is this part of the wall charred black?”
Everyone turned to look, and sure enough, there on one of the four alabaster walls, behind all the glow, they could see the grey outline of an archway.
“It looks like a hidden chamber,” said Dalton.
He leaned his shoulder against the wall and pushed open a secret doorway, revealing a second room of equal size built just behind the first. Although the dimensions were identical, the items housed within were anything but. In place of food rations, there were relics from Kalstaff’s younger years: not only dusty tomes but chain mail robes scuffed from battle and the twin swords wielded by Kalstaff when the first Dead Army had tried to conquer the land many, many years ago.
A particularly ominous-looking suit of armour was mounted on the wall. Just glancing at it made Aldwyn’s fur stand on end. It was the colour of bone, and a cool steam emanated from its faceplate, as if something within was still breathing. A smoky diamond was embedded in the forehead of the mask and there were three other indentations: one in each glove and a third in the chest piece, where matching diamonds must have once been placed. Aldwyn was surprised to recognise the helmet. He had seen it before in a whistlegrass vision, while following his father’s glowing paw prints in search of the Crown of the Snow Leopard. The vision formed by the enchanted blades of grass was of the original Dead Army Uprising. And the helmet had been worn by one of the dark mages leading the undead, Wyvern or Skull; Aldwyn wasn’t sure which, but either way, he could feel the pull of evil from the accursed armour.
Aldwyn wasn’t the only one awed by the hidden treasures of their former teacher. Skylar was slowly flying along the bookshelf, reading each of the titles. Gilbert eyed vials of unlabelled potions, then asked the question Aldwyn had been thinking.
“Why would Kalstaff keep all this stuff a secret?” Gilbert looked around curiously.
“Maybe he was protecting us,” said Marianne.
“From what?” asked Gilbert.
That creepy helmet, for starters, Aldwyn thought.
At the far end of the chamber was a writing desk where Aldwyn’s eyes were drawn to something dangling over the edge of a jewellery box: a silver anklet embedded with squares of emerald. Only the Noctonati, a secret sect of knowledge seekers to which Skylar also belonged, wore them. These humans and animals believed learning magic and searching for answers to all of life’s mysteries was even more important than the laws of the land.
“Skylar, come look at this,” called Aldwyn, curious to know what she’d make of it.
The blue jay fluttered over to the desk. When she saw the anklet, her face filled with surprise.
“People said Kalstaff had once been a member of the Noctonati,” said Skylar. “I just never believed it.”
She took the anklet in her talon and pointed at an inscription: KGM.
“Kalstaff’s initials,” she said. “So it was true.”
Beside a nearby bookshelf, Gilbert sat on Marianne’s shoulder. She was flipping through one of Kalstaff’s handwritten diaries.
“Do you think you should be reading that?” he asked. “It’s private.”
“Did you know that Kalstaff and Queen Loranella were once romantically involved?” asked Marianne, rapt. “Until the Mountain Alchemist came between them!”
“It really feels wrong to be snooping like this,” insisted Gilbert. He paused for a moment, then curiosity got the better of him. “Well, what did the Alchemist do?”
“He stole her away for himself,” said Marianne.
“Listen to this,” said Dalton, interrupting them. He was reading a different journal. “Here, he writes about taking Galleon on a trip into the dream world. It’s one of the final tests of a graduating wizard.”
Aldwyn was less interested by the personal revelations in Kalstaff’s diaries; his attention kept getting drawn back to the helmet, which was now sending plumes of cold air out through its nostril holes. He watched as a wisp of chilled vapour slithered through the still air and wrapped itself around a book with no title on its binding. A slight gust swept the book open to a spot in the middle. Aldwyn looked at the page in front of him and saw words written on the parchment in a shaky handwriting. Most of the time, Kalstaff had dictated to Scribius when he needed something to be written, but on rare occasions he wrote notes to the young wizards himself. Clearly, it seemed whatever had been recorded here was so personal Scribius hadn’t transcribed it.
I have become troubled lately by a great fallacy that many Vastians have taken to be truth: that all prophecies are divine and certain. My studies are beginning to uncover that this may not be the case at all. Take Eradeigh Wallus, the young goose farmer destined to wield Brannfalk’s sword against a herd of tunneller dragons. He tried and failed, and all of the northern villages fell to the beasts’ mighty horns as a result. And he was not the only one. The Flora Sisters never built the Sapphire Temple. No legendary hymns could be written about the prophesised warriors of Marth, since they never even rode into battle at all. History only seems to remember the prophecies that come true and turns a blind eye to the ones that do not. A warning to those with a destiny of their own: just because it is written in the stars does not make it so. These words will surely cause great worry among all who depend on the fates protecting them. I must think long and hard before choosing to share them.
Another sudden swirl of cold air ruffled the pages, and then the book was closed once again. Aldwyn jumped back. He knew the evil helmet had played a role in his troubling discovery, but there was no denying that the words had been written in Kalstaff’s hand. A sickly feeling crept over Aldwyn. Was the prophecy of the Three as false as the ones that Kalstaff had uncovered? His confidence had grown since he had learned that he did in fact possess magic powers, but were he and Gilbert and Skylar really powerful enough to save Vastia? He looked at his friends, wondering if he should share Kalstaff’s warning. But why, he thought. What good would it do to fill their heads with doubt?
Through the iron cellar doors, Aldwyn could hear the unmistakable chirping of dawn crickets announcing the arrival of the morning sun. Even though he needed no reminder,