Tuonela is built from iron, she says knowingly. A material that created a whole world. Iron is magic and can give life to things, attract things, as well as repel. The longer you are here, you will learn to work with both iron and it’s ally, silver, to your advantage. I keep an iron cross by my bedside, just in case.
I glance at her. “Just in case of what?”
What could possibly happen to her here?
Silence. Then she says, Old habits from the old days. Shall we move on?
I don’t want to move on, not from our conversation, but I have a feeling she won’t give me any more. Why would Raila need an iron cross? I know that in some myths and superstitions they ward off fairies, but since those don’t really exist here, what exactly are they warding off?
I ponder that over as Raila leads me out of the Solar Room and down the stairs, showing me the rest of the castle and giving me background information.
I have to admit, she points out some good gossip, like how one time Death was entertaining Tapio, God of the Forest, who then tried to revive all the furniture in the castle that was cut from trees of his forest, or when Vellamo and her mermaids stayed with them for a week, and the underground waterways were filled with mermaids for days on end, which attracted Gods from all over.
I have to wonder if that’s when Bell was first introduced to Death, but instead I ask if I can see the waterways, knowing that they must be a level below the Crypt.
So Raila leads me down, down, down, all the way to the cellar.
She points out the various sweetvine and frostmint wines he has stored, plus those procured from my world, then talks about the dungeons, the torture chambers, and the oubliettes, really sinking her teeth into all the gory details.
Finally, we come to the crypt.
This is the crypt, she says to me. The Sect of the Undead.
“Can I see inside?” I ask.
She hesitates, a pause hanging between us, weighing her options.
Then she says, If you wish to. The Master himself will avoid it completely, but he’s never explicitly said that it’s off-limits to others.
“Great,” I tell her, giving her an expectant look.
I swear I hear her sigh. She turns and then takes out a long key from somewhere in her robe and inserts it into the metal door. With her veiled hood, she looks extra ominous against the flickering candlelight. She turns the lock and the door opens.
We step inside.
Hell.
That’s my first thought, and maybe it’s a bit sacrilegious, but still.
Hell, and snakes.
The moment the door opens, a multitude of black snakes start slithering from the center of the room, disappearing into the shadows, hissing as they go.
I gasp, nearly jumping into Raila’s arms. I think after my tussle with the Devouress, I’ve developed a new phobia of them.
Don’t mind them, Raila says. They are only relics. They protect the crypt.
And the crypt itself is like an all-white tomb. There are no windows, and the walls are this smooth, blasted stone, so unlike the dark textures of the rest of the castle. But while the space is bright, the things within the space are not.
First, there is the manner in which the crypt is laid out. It looks like a church, with a few pews on either side of an aisle. But the pews consist of the type where it’s all about being on your knees—there are no benches or seats.
At the front of the aisle is the altar.
The altar is made of bones, white and shining, which prop up two stands. One is empty, the other holds a crown made of black bones and red jewels. A crown of crimson, just as Raila had described to me, waiting for the next Goddess of Death.
But the crown isn’t what’s caught my eye, nor is it what’s made my blood run cold.
It’s what is lined all along the sides of the crypt, which I’m starting to realize is more of a church, a place of worship, than anything.
There are six statues, three on each side.
Four of them are of people in flowing robes, with gaunt faces, arms outstretched or together in prayer, crowns of needles or blades or porcupine quills or antlers on their heads. All of them have their eyes removed, blood or gold or tar running down their cheeks, while lit candles sit on their shoulders, the wax dripping down, making it hard to decipher what’s covering their bodies.
The two other statues are in similar poses, also wearing candles on their heads and shoulders and arms, except the upper halves of their faces are covered by intricate masks, with no holes to see out of. They are essentially blindfolded, one with a mask made of gold, the other of iron, their mouths set in a chilling grin.
“What…is all this?” I ask Raila. Fucking creepshow.