Booooooomboomboombooooooom!
Suddenly the chamber reverberated to a hail of objects slamming onto its roof, ending with a huge whuuump of something heavy and soft, which sent shudders through to their feet. Marcellus and Septimus felt the chamber tilt, and then the brief but sickening sensation of free fall.
What Marcellus and Septimus did not know was the moving chamber had become lodged just above the top of the exit door where, over the centuries, a fat helictite had formed so that it obstructed its path. The falling objects had provided enough force for the chamber to snap the helictite and continue on its way. Fast.
Luckily it was only a ten-foot drop.
There was a bone-jarring crump. Marcellus and Septimus picked themselves up from the floor. They looked at each other in the darkness but saw nothing but the total absence of light that had oppressed them for almost fifteen hours.
“It’s not tilting anymore,” said Septimus. “That must be a good sign.”
“Let us hope so,” muttered Marcellus.
“I’m going to try again and see if the door will open,” said Septimus.
“It won’t,” Marcellus said flatly. “There’s no orange arrow. That means no power.”
“We may as well try,” said Septimus. “Unless there’s anything else exciting you had in mind?”
“There is no need to get tetchy, Apprentice.”
“I am not tetchy.”
“No. Of course not. Well, you take one side and I’ll take the other.”
They had already done this countless times before the chamber fell for the second time—desperately pressing their palms over the cold, smooth surface of the chamber with absolutely no response—but now they began again. Septimus took one side of the chamber and Marcellus the other. Suddenly the darkness took on a faint orange hue. Marcellus gasped.
“The arrow—it flickered! Quick, quick, Apprentice. The door’s on your side. We may have a chance. Press it now! Now!”
The problem was that without being able to see the telltale worn patch—the dim orange glow did not give out much light—Septimus could not know whether his hand was in the right place or not. Marcellus joined him and frantically they pushed their palms onto the glasslike surface in increasingly wildly improbable places, desperately seeking the spot that might—just might if they were lucky—open the door. And all the time the orange arrow flickered, reminding Septimus of the distress lights on the Wizard Tower.
“It’s going! It’s fading!” Marcellus sounded desperate as his hands slapped frantically against the wall.
Septimus knew they were never going to find the right spot by panicking. “Stop,” he said. “I want to find it a different way.”
“I told you, Apprentice, Magyk does not work in here.”
“But my mind still works,” said Septimus. “Marcellus, please. Stop and be quiet a moment. Let me . . . let me Find it.”
The orange arrow was fading away and Marcellus knew they were getting nowhere. He let his hands drop to his sides. “Very well, Apprentice. Over to you.”
Septimus closed his eyes. It made no difference as to what he could see, but it sent him back inside his head—deep into another place. He held out his right hand and remembered how he had once opened a similar door far below the Isles of Syren. He remembered how the smooth, cold material of the chamber had felt beneath his hand; he imagined that he was there now, in its bright blue light, and he allowed his hand to guide itself where it wanted to go. Then he pressed his palm down hard, throwing all his weight behind it. He heard a soft swish and Marcellus’s gasp.
“It’s open! Apprentice, you’ve done it. You’ve done it!” Terrified that the door would suddenly close, Marcellus pulled Septimus out of the chamber. As soon as they were safely across the threshold, Marcellus sat down very fast and put his head between his knees.
Septimus collapsed, giddy with relief, on a wobbly metal platform that felt dizzyingly high up. But for once he didn’t care how high he was—he was free. He was not going to finish his life trapped in a box hundreds of feet below the ground. Slowly, he began to take in his surroundings. He could feel a vast arena all around him; it was hot, and suffused with a deep red glow that shone up from below. His overwhelming impression was of a heavy sense of stillness where a quiet and purposeful process was slowly unfolding.
Septimus walked carefully along what felt like a very rickety platform to a line of Fyre Globes placed below a guardrail, and gingerly looked over. His head swam. Far, far below, a huge red circle stared up at him, as bright and intense as a sun. Across the top of the red ran tiny, vibrant flames of blue, licking and jumping up into the air. Septimus felt overawed. So this was the real Fyre. He looked away and saw a perfect green afterimage in front of his eyes. It was then Septimus realized that he was standing on a perforated metal platform as flimsy as a sieve. The bones in his legs felt as if they had turned to water and he retreated back to Marcellus.
“Wow,” he said. “That is so . . . beautiful.”
“It is,” agreed Marcellus.
“And Magykal. So alive and delicate . . .” Septimus was lost for words.
Marcellus smiled. “You understand,” he said. “I thought you would, even though most Wizards don’t understand the Magyk of Fyre.”
Septimus was overwhelmed. “I wish you had shown me before.”