“Steady! Hold! Hold.” Sir Averny’s voice was firm and full in the throne room, until suddenly the shuddering box stilled, and whatever burgeoning evil inside realized that there was still no escape from its prison. Whether the box had been there all along, rusting for millennia, or had instead materialized from the dungeon’s whims since Averny’s last stay at the castle-lodge, it was quieted for now. Muffled. Four sets of hooves gingerly descended from its metal lid.

When they no longer stood upon the box, it looked dreadfully small. Shriveled, if metal could do such a thing.

Wicker Man lowered his muzzle near to its corner, like an ear. “The king has gone away, away. The king has gone away, away.”

“Enough of your blasted music,” Averny snorted. He shook out his mane and swatted his tail like a whip. Sir Elnias peered at him gravely.

“We ought not stay in this room,” said Elnias. “We might agitate the spirits.”

“Yes, yes, of course we ought not. That is plain.” Stalking toward the throne room’s heavy doors, Averny’s hooves made loud reports on the ancient marble floor. The red rugs had long since decayed and blown away.

Hildebrand hurried after him dutifully, and Sir Elnias only followed once Wicker Man and his Wicker Hound had minced after them.

—

Once, when Hildebrand was younger—just out of yearlinghood, lanky and uncertain—Sir Averny had warned him of the changeability of the depths.

“You know, boy, it is very rare to enter the dungeons and find things precisely as you left them. Never count on it. Now—I do not mean that you should not hope for it. Sometimes the dungeon shows mercy. But never count, no! Always be prepared for the worst. You must adapt.”

“Adapt?” Hildebrand had asked. “But how?”

“Well, I don’t know!” The heraldic knight had laughed, then. It was a high, noble sort of laugh. Almost a whinny. “It depends on what sort of ‘worst’ shows up, doesn’t it?"

And he had winked one glittering blue eye.

—

They came to a ballroom, or perhaps a courtyard. It was hard to divine. Ruined arches jabbed impotently towards the distant cavern ceiling, and the gnarled remains of hedges and tiled squares lingered. Statues of dancers, human and Courser, were scattered like pieces over a chessboard. As they went, Wicker Man took moments to mimic their antiquated poses, swaying, clipping, jingling. A hovering fog snapped off the ends of the bells’ voices.

Averny had gone ahead, and Elnias with him.

Hildebrand slowed near a fountain.

“Boy!” his master barked. “Come, now. Leave that.”

But it was too late. The water, bright with magic, looked back at Hildebrand. It fixed him by the eyes and drew him in as if on two tiny, tethered harpoons. The centre of the fountain sucked back into a hungry whirlpool.

“How deep, how deep, how deep the waters,” crooned Wicker Man, before biting down on Hildebrand’s tail to steer him backward.

Averny and Elnias were there in a flash, fighting against the fearsome suction.

“You don’t want to find out how far down that goes,” Averny grated, four feet braced against the fountain’s base.

Hildebrand struggled against the pull. “No! I really don’t!”