Mahalia unconsciously moved closer to Jack so that he could slide an arm around her. The four of them stood huddled together in the centre of the vast hall for a long moment, drinking in an atmosphere of claustrophobia and incipient dread.
'It feels to me,' Jack began hesitantly, 'as if something happened here. I don't know what…'
Crowther had finally gained enough control over himself to return the mask to its pocket. 'Well, we can't go back,' he said, with an edge of bitterness. 'So we'd better hope there's another way out of here.'
Matt ventured towards one of the walls, wincing as the carvings shifted to watch him. Plucking a torch from a metal bracket, he struck his flint and ignited it, so that the shadows swept away; it only added to the eerie movement across the walls.
Matt walked slowly towards the darkness at the far end of the hall. The others fell into line behind him, glancing behind at the comforting sunlight that broke through the open door. The hall gave way to a maze of corridors and chambers, everywhere decorated with the disturbing carvings. They would glance up to see a horned figure watching them from above an arch, or something sinuous slither around a door jamb and into a room.
They began to think they could hear the carvings talking. What sounded like sibilant voices came and went in phased patterns. It was only after a while that they realised it came from small globes fixed high up on the walls, with holes of varying sizes bored into them. As the four of them moved, they set off air currents that passed through the holes to create the constant sounds. Once they understood the source of the noise they decided it didn't really sound like voices at all. There was timbre and rhythm and cadence; it was music, but of a kind they had never experienced before.
Crowther theorised that many people moving through the corridors and rooms would create louder, more vibrant tones so that it would appear that the entire court was always filled with soothing music. But with only the four of them there, the effect was creepy and unsettling.
In one large hall, they made out paintings on the walls, so heavily faded that only by holding the torch close could they see the design. Parts of the paintings were obscured by the carvings, making it clear that they came from the earlier age of the court, when the Drakusa occupied more spartan surroundings. There were mountains and fire and vast plains, epic forests and gushing rivers. But one section made them all pause. Here were strange silver objects like eggs with legs.
'Clearly they are the Caraprix,' Crowther mused as he examined the silver shapes. 'They are symbiotes. All the Golden Ones carry them.'
'Caitlin mentioned Lugh had one,' Matt said.
'Yet here they are huge, dominating the scenery.' Crowther was puzzled. 'Then, the Drakusa knew of the Caraprix too. Yet the way they are drawn… it's almost as if they were deified.'
He wanted to consider the issue more, for he was convinced it was of deep importance, but the others were keen to hurry along in search of daylight. The court appeared to stretch for miles, from the cliff face deep into the bowels of the earth. Flaring up in the shifting torchlight were grand columned halls with designs of brass and glass, drapes of scarlet velvet and floors of shining marble, sweeping staircases that could have taken fifty people walking side by side. There was a room where the walls were entirely made of mirrors, giving an unsettling sense of the four of them striving throughout infinity, seeking survival in endless dimensions.
The chambers cried out for a throng of people devoted to art and beauty, continually accompanied by the music of their movement. But nowhere was there any sign of life. The scuttling, chattering, whispering sound that followed them wherever they went only added to the abiding sense of loneliness.
Finally, when weariness had turned their legs to lead, they opted to rest in a smaller room where they didn't feel so exposed. Matt fixed the torch in a bracket on one wall, but its faint light did little to dispel the feeling of a sea of darkness all around, waiting to submerge them.
'Ever get the feeling we've taken a wrong turn?' Matt said as he settled down at the foot of a wall. The oppressive atmosphere had crushed all the humour out of him.
'I can't understand this at all,' Crowther muttered. 'Everything suggests this place was clearly occupied very recently. Triathus gave no sign that it was deserted. So where could they possibly have all gone?'
It was a rhetorical question, and no one even began to answer it, though it had been troubling all their minds since they had first stepped into the court.
Both Matt and Mahalia fell into sleep quickly. Crowther, who had spent much of their trek through the court struggling with his desire to wear the mask, forced himself to sit down beside Jack. Even in the grip of his addiction, other concerns were at play in his mind. He watched the boy preparing to put his head down and then said, 'So, you and young Mahalia are… stepping out, as we used to say in my day.'
Jack's brow furrowed. 'Stepping out?'
'An item. A couple. Romantically intertwined. You really have led the ultimate sheltered life, haven't you?'
'I love her.' Jack's eyes sparkled in the semi-gloom. 'Really. Sorry to burst your bubble, but it's only infatuation. You're awash with hormones. It's a genetic process designed to facilitate speedy bonding for continued propagation of the species.' Jack stared at him blankly. 'I know what I feel.' 'No, you think you know what you feel. That's what all this mess is about — everything is an illusion and the truth lies somewhere behind it. Tell me about love when you've been with someone for years, cared for them when they're ill, put up with them when they're miserable or grumpy, taken the sharp side of their tongue and still come back.' He looked away into the dark, and added quietly, 'Tell me about love when you've acted quite appallingly, and the other person has still accepted you.' 'Why are you so concerned about us, Professor Crowther?' Crowther snorted. 'I'm not concerned. Ridiculous.' Jack eyed the gentle rise and fall of Mahalia's chest. Occasionally, she would twitch and half-heard words would spring to her lips. His attention was caught by Crowther fumbling inside his coat, and for a second Jack thought the professor was after the mask again. Instead, he pulled out a dog-eared picture. 'What's that?' Jack asked as he shuffled closer to peer at the snap. 'A painting?' 'A photograph.' Crowther's voice was strained. The picture showed two teenage girls, long, blonde hair, wide smiles, sparkling eyes. Anyone other than Jack would have recognised the fashions of the early nineties. 'Who are they?' Jack asked. 'My daughters.' Crowther's face was shrouded by shadows. 'What are their names?' 'Sophie. And Stacia.' 'Where are they now?' 'You ask a lot of questions,' Crowther said grumpily. He tapped the photo gently with the tip of his index finger. 'I have no idea where they are. They left home. Never really got in touch much.'
'That's not very nice.'
'No, it's not their fault,' Crowther said firmly. 'I wasn't the best of fathers. Quietly obsessed with my own life, you see. Children were a distraction.' He fell silent for a moment, then added quietly, 'It seems to be true what they say — you never really know what you've got till it's gone.' He tucked the photo away.
'Well, I know what I've got with Mahalia,' Jack said adamantly.