The air grew colder and the space opened up on either side of them, and above also: as they went deeper the ceiling receded until it was lost from sight. Their torchlight no longer fell on damp grey stone and streaks of mould, but instead it glistened against a white stone that was marbled with greens as rich as emerald. Elegant carvings adorned this space–graceful, encompassed by arches and full of statues with beatific expressions and eerie, almost feline cheekbones and eyes. The larger of these statues formed a line down the middle of what seemed to be a great hall. Their heads were bowed and hooded, whilst beautiful stone-carved and leaf-shaped swords clung loosely in their fingers. There were passages going off to the right and left, but Caewen showed no interest in those paths. Instead, she took herself a few paces down among the line of statues, stopped and looked about. The boy felt himself being drawn to the nearest statue. He held the torch up so that he could see the carven face within the hood: there was no mistaking, it was not human. It was too long, too drawn and too gracile. The brows and cheeks were strangely prominent, and the ears ran up to points. The eyes were catlike. These were carvings of strange creatures out of old legend. “Are these eerie folk?” asked the boy, wonderingly.
“The Eiry-Folk? No. These are Fane, though they are distantly related. The Eiry and the Fane, the Sithean, the Wisht, the Elbgast… they are all tribes that branched from the same tree. The blood of the Sithean is the purist–the others have mixed their blood with mortal Humanfolk and other stranger people–weird ogres and monsters–and they have changed. They are not one people any longer, but a dozen or more tribes, all somewhat the same of cast and look, but quite different also.” She sounded reflective. It wasn’t clear where this information was coming from. Was she remembering it, or realising it? Her tone suggested a little of both. “A person needs to know who they are dealing with, when they meet one of the sundered tribes. The Fane are mostly easily dealt with, though are prone to great swings of emotion. If pushed to war, they are warlike. If left alone, they are merry. Sometimes, a little too merry. They can be prone to force others into merriment. The Sithean on the other hand are dangerous, prideful, powerful, but not without honour. Wisht are full of trickery, but honourable enough when their tricks are seen through. I’ve never dealt with Eiry-Folk. I know little about them. The Elbgast? Never go near them. They are a merciless and hateful sort of creature, and they have mixed their blood not just with mortalkind, but even boggarts and–some say–bleak Faerye Folks too. Extremely dangerous, is all you need to know about Elbgast.”
“So the Fane are good then?”
She shrugged. “Mostly as good as humanfolk are good I suppose.”
He looked around, “So a mixed bunch?”
“That would be true enough. There are few of them left now, and their realms are mostly a long way from here, away in wooded and moss-green places.” She waved a hand idly. “Off in the south and west.”
“Oh. What happened to the ones who used to live here?”
She frowned. “Killed in wars. Or driven off by fighting. Ages and ages ago.” She smiled at him. “You see? Full of questions. Full of a need to learn.” Her eyes seemed to flicker with shadows as she spoke.
He felt a bit embarrassed at her sudden attention, and a little frightened to. There was something changed in her. Caewen had a darkness running though her that had not been there before. He didn’t ask anything more, though he was burning to.
They walked down the length of the hall, with the statues facing them, blank and cold. The two of them, Caewen and he, sent footsteps echoing around the walls, flocking like bats to-and-fro, and returning fainter and distorted.
“There is something here,” said Caewen, suddenly. She stopped. She looked around. “I feel a presence in this place. I feel the prick of its eyes. I hear its whisperings.”
The boy moved to stand closer to her. He felt as if his torch were somehow burning more faintly and shedding less light. “A spirit? A ghaist?”
“I do not know. Perhaps. Or perhaps not.” She scanned the recesses of the room as if she could stare through shadows by staring hard enough and long enough. “It is as if a great will moves through this place and stirs up other lesser things in the darkness.
Suddenly, a noise broke the still darkness and something that sounded like a voice in a weird tongue came rushing through the air towards them. The sound seemed to come right up to the boy, stop a few inches from his face, spit and hiss and cackle, and then it was gone. Just as quickly another voice rushed out of the corners of the room–it speed past the boy’s head, laughing. And then another hiss and rattle of words spat at him and that voice also disappeared. The boy was not able to see any creature or shape attached to these voices: they were disembodied, cold and dead. He started to say something but Caewen cut him off.
“Hush!” said Caewen. “Quiet! There is another. Listen…”
He could not hear it at first, but as he strained he detected a singsong intonation under the current of the air, rising and falling–seemingly, in a tongue he did not know and yet found both oddly beautiful and familiar. As the voice arose in strength, he became less sure if it the words were being spoken aloud, or if they were somehow shivering their way into his brain, through bone and skull, deep in his mind. Slowly, slowly, words that he could understand began to form. Without knowing how he was able to make sense of the voice, he heard it speak.
– children. children. walking in the darkness. who are you, who walk my paths? who are you, who wander in these beshadowed halls where I, and I alone, am master, where I do not stir, and am alone, and yet dwell on?