They did. Caewen left the room first and the boy followed. It was only on the mention of light that the boy realised that the air itself was suffused with a glow, as if the stone that made the walls were faintly aflame. He realised then also that he was not casting a shadow, and nothing else cast a shadow either. The light came from nowhere and everywhere.
A few paces beyond the rock-crystal casket stood a wall of smooth stone. In this was inset a door of the same cold white stone. Caewen pushed at it, and the door gave easily under her touch, swinging on unseen hinges, silent. The room beyond lit up as they entered and the room behind them fell into a gloomy half-light. As the light in this space grew stronger, the boy stared. There were racks of swords and strange, elegant-shaped battle-axes, spears with blades like silver-red flame and armour made of metal bands and shimmering mail. The heaps of treasures in the other two rooms had been but a taste of what lay here. He reached out and touched one of the nearest pieces of armour: the metal rings made the faintest musical noise as if they were made of the crystal chimes and tiny brass cymbals that travelling players would sometimes wear when they visited his village.
“This is all so beautiful,” he whispered.
Caewen was stepping lightly among the treasures, looking at them with her own wonderment.
As the boy stood and looked around, he heard the voice of the sleeping enchantress again. It seemed to be close at his ear and as distant as the mountains.
– choose with wisdom.
He replied to her with a quiet, barely spoken voice of his own, full of uncertainty: “So, I can take something too?”
– you have both ventured into the dark under the earth. you are also deserving of some reward. yes.
“Oh,” he said. “These things seem like they’re fit only for heroes. For the brave, like Caewen.”
– those who walk in dark places, through danger and through shadow, they are brave.
“Not if they’re afraid of everything.”
– no. do not confuse the brave with the death-wishful. those who fear and yet go on are brave.
“I guess,” he answered, unconvinced. And mostly out of politeness, he walked among the rows of gleaming weapons and burnished armour. Swords and axes, glaives and spears and shields of wondrous silvers, greens and rusty autumnal colours were heaped everywhere. But none of it looked like the sort of thing that he ought to own. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could so much as lift most the things here. He trailed his fingers through the soft fur-trim of a woven cloak, and thought he could hear it whisper. Dust in crusts crumbled under his light fingertips. Everything here was all so very unlike him.
He looked over to Caewen. She had picked up a great axe that looked far too heavy for her to heft, though she seemed able to lift it easily. She gave it one or two experimental swings and put it down again, moving on. The boy began to feel a sense of urgency. He decided that he needed to find something that would be useful, and quickly. Maybe just a dagger or something equally small and easy to use? A rabbit-skinning knife. An apple-peeler. Did ancient folk of magic make such things? If they did, then such things would probably not have been piled up here.
Best look harder, he thought to himself.
Quickly. Quickly.
As the boy walked through the piles of treasures his eyes settled on a fat, drab brown shape. Walking over to it–which required skirting three suits of armour made of emerald-dyed steel–he found that it was a book in plain leather binding. Opening it, the smell of the pages hit him like a strange perfume, as if the filaments had been spiced when they were pressed into paper, so long ago.