‘Oh, you do, do you? I’m sorry, Mr Lord of the Manor, some of us have jobs and bills. I can’t live like Jason and Nico, always in search of the next treasure, the next adventure.’
I can’t live where Simon died, she thought, but didn’t dare say it out loud. Perhaps some shadow of her pain passed across her face because Rafael changed the subject.
‘You don’t believe there’s anything here, do you? Ys or whatever it might have been…’
She frowned. It felt like a betrayal to say it. Simon believed. So did her brother. ‘“Whatever it might have been…”’ she echoed him. ‘There’s bound to have been settlements here throughout history, especially at the time Ys is meant to have existed. The Bretons arrived, fleeing the Saxons, settling here…’
‘Following Conan Meriadoc, founding the House of Rohan, and Brittany itself. Believe me, I know the stories. My family came with him – I have the lineage here somewhere – fleeing invaders, looking for safety, finding it here at this place at the end of the world. Following the man who’s said to be the father of the King of Ys.’
‘But not the king of a city full of wonders and terrors, swept away by the sea. Saved by a magical horse. There are historical factors, I’m sure. That’s what Simon…’ She choked a little and cleared her throat. ‘That’s what he thought. And Jason believes it too. He might find something, it’s true. But it will be old rocks and scattered remains, maybe some carvings. If we’re lucky, there will be more things like the coin and maybe –maybe– the mask. But those cliffs and caves are coming down. The sea is relentless. It’ll destroy anything remaining there before too long. I don’t think they’re going to find Ys, do you? Not the Ys of red walls and golden roofs and a thousand wonders.’
He shrugged, his toned shoulders moving beneath the expensive shirt in an entirely too distracting way. ‘The local stories say differently. They say there’s a pathway to Ys and if you’re brave enough and true enough, you’ll find it.’
She sighed and rose to her feet. ‘I’m sure they do. And I’m sure your family has many tales to tell, just like Simon’s did. He was full of stories about this place, about people who found traces, who stumbled on secrets, but really, Rafael, that’s all they are. Stories.’
‘And how do you explain the mask?’
‘The mask?’
He put the glass down on the desk and picked up a book. It was richly illustrated, leather-bound and old. He turned a few pages and then offered it to her.
The page was beautiful, elaborately decorated with colours like stained glass in sunlight. A woman with white hair held a white mask decorated with gold and gleaming blue spirals, offering it out to the viewer. Strands of something like ribbons hung from it, like tendrils of hair, or vines, but they curled in an unusual way, as if they had a life of their own.
‘Dahut’s mask. The one she used to enchant and murder her lovers. It’s all there. I knew I recognised it.’
Ari took the book. It was old, a manuscript, she realised, and she couldn’t read the language in which it was written. The ink was still dark and the colours bright. This had been treasured for a long time. Cared for.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, smoothing her fingertips along the side of the page. Vellum, she realised, not paper.
‘It’s a family heirloom.’
‘And the language?’
‘Ancient Breton. A local dialect.’
‘This must be priceless.’
He shrugged. Maybe to him many things were priceless. Or perhaps they were until he set a price. ‘It has been studied. “A collection of local folktales, gathered together in the Middle Ages, referencing earlier works, handsomely illustrated”, and so on. The academic authorities don’t believe it has merit beyond local interest. Gwen would love to get hold of it for her museum. Your Simon studied it, I believe. He visited Mémé here a few times. There are a number of copies. Most academics believe this too is a copy. It is not.’
‘And you just keep it here? In your house?’
He shook his head. ‘It is kept secure, don’t worry. We have a vault. I wanted to refer to it. That’s why I have it here.’
She couldn’t seem to let it go. It was beautiful, ancient. ‘Why not make a digital copy, Rafael? Why the original?’
‘The original is special,’ he told her and took it back, sliding it into a leather case with the greatest care. ‘And it belongs to us. To me. I can’t pretend I’m not unsettled by this discovery, Dr Walker. The mask is legendary and dangerous. And you found it on your first dive…’
She didn’t know what he was implying, but she didn’t like it.
‘Dangerous?’
She thought of the conger eel, the way it had attacked Thierry, the way it wound itself around the rocks, the way it had been coming back. That had been dangerous. The mask was just a mask.
‘So the book says. So our legends say. Dahut of Ys used it to kill and control. It is her symbol. Some might say it heralds her return. She was transformed into a water witch, cursed to dwell in the waters of her sunken home, luring people to their deaths with her beauty and her song.’
‘A mermaid?’
‘Yes. Of a sort. But not like your Ariel.’ He arched a knowing eyebrow at her and she pursed her lips, his dig very clear. She wasn’t going to rise to that. ‘Dahut is dangerous, treacherous, and thoroughly wicked. Vindictive. She is driven solely by revenge against those who betrayed her and caused the destruction of Ys for which she was blamed.’
