Island of Fire

by Lisa McMann

  They discussed the clue at length, with the best suggestion coming from Mr. Appleblossom, who wondered aloud if one could see the other six islands in the chain from the top of the wall, and if so, perhaps there was a pattern to be found by viewing all of them at once.

  “Okay,” Alex said, “but how do we get up there?”

  “I guess I’ll get to work building a ladder,” Sean said.

  “Out of what?” Henry asked, incredulous. “We don’t have any wood or metal, just a few barrels . . . ”

  Sean glanced down at Florence, his jaw set, and then turned his gaze to the multitude of frozen, once-magical creatures that lined this side of the wall: squirrelicorns, beavops, platyprots, and more lying stiff and helpless without Mr. Today’s magic.

  “With them,” he said quietly. “Stack them up like a staircase, I guess.” And then he looked out over the sea, shaking his head. “Without a solution to Mr. Today’s clue, they’ll never come to life again to know the difference.”

  The High Priest Aaron

  As High Priest Gunnar Haluki was tied up at the moment, the new Associate High Priest Aaron Stowe wasted no time shortening his official title to High Priest Aaron. It was just easier for the people of Quill that way, he declared, and it took much less time to say and write.

  Not that Aaron could write quite yet. But soon. He’d been practicing with one of the scholars, Crete Sepulcher, a middle-aged man with crinkly, paper-thin skin and the personality of a rock.

  Aaron sat at his desk with a rare piece of paper, scratching on it with an ancient stick of a pencil. As a young boy, he’d always wondered how the markings got on the paper. He never imagined it was with a stick. It made him think of Alex, drawing with that stick in the mud in the midst of a downpour in the backyard. And how he’d tried it too. And how he’d been caught, but his father had mistaken him for Alex. With his eyes, Aaron had pleaded with Alex to go along with it, to take the blame so Aaron wouldn’t get an infraction.

  He looked at the pencil now, turning it in his hands, tracing the ridge with his finger, down to the dull, whittled point. Remembering. It all seemed a very long time ago. But the look of betrayal on Alex’s face . . . Aaron closed his eyes and tried to forget it. Tried to stop the words that taunted him. The only reason you’re sitting here now is because of him.

  Standing abruptly, Aaron dropped the pencil on his desk and strode to the window. An ugly gargoyle statue wearing a pink bow around its horn rested on the ledge, very nearly staring up at the young high priest. “Haluki had the strangest sense of decor,” Aaron muttered. He gazed through the glass down the long driveway, then turned his eyes back and traced his gaze along the ever-present, ever-boring wall.

  “Secretary,” Aaron said in a raised voice.

  Eva Fathom appeared in the doorway, her name—and indeed her identity—discarded once again.

  “Find me a dozen strong Necessaries and the most powerful tools we have. Giant hammers, sharp picks, shovels. My guards and I will meet them at the portcullis at sunrise tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” murmured Eva, but she smirked to herself. The rusty, broken-down gate to the palace could hardly be called a portcullis, but the new high priest was fond of making his things sound important, especially when they weren’t.

  “Next,” Aaron went on, “send two more guards to Artimé to infiltrate. Tell them not to fight—just create some more unrest and keep the grumbling going. It’s been working. We’ve taken in nearly two dozen so far and have put them right to work for our Wanteds.”

  “Very good,” Eva said. She folded her hands behind her back, waiting for more tasks.

  Aaron turned, looking down his nose at the woman. “And get me an update on the whereabouts and activities of the Restorers. Is Haluki dead yet? Where’s Gondoleery? She’s all but disappeared.”

  Eva hadn’t seen Gondoleery at all since the battle, but instinct nudged her not to admit that. Instead she said, “Many of the Restorers are taking a rest after all their hard work, but Liam Healy and Bethesda Dia Gloria are still stationed at High Priest Haluki’s house.”

  Aaron narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m the high priest. Secretary.”

  Eva pursed her lips and turned them into a thin-lipped smile. “My apologies for the slip. I don’t know what I’m to call him now.”

  “Call him . . . oh, who cares? Just don’t call him that.”

  Eva nodded. “Anything else?”

  Aaron turned back to the window and caught a glimpse of the gargoyle again. He frowned at it. “No. You may go.”

  Without a sound, the old woman turned and left the office.

  Aaron picked up the gargoyle, held it away from himself as he walked, as if its hideousness might be contagious, and tossed it into a wooden box in the closet with the rest of Haluki’s things. They’d melt the statue down to make weapons once Haluki was dead.

  Gondoleery’s Secret

  In the weeks since Gondoleery Rattrapp had made the skies above her little gray house open up and pour down rain, she barely gave a thought to the Artiméans. She didn’t think often about the new acting High Priest Aaron Stowe, either, though she’d been one of his prime supporters as he attempted to restore Quill to its former state of control.

  No, Gondoleery had been awfully scarce around Quill lately. And for good reason. She was very busy sitting at her kitchen table, thinking about her childhood.

  If she knew how to write, she’d be writing down everything as she remembered it so she could free up her mind for more memories. But there were no pencils for ordinary people in Quill, and no knowledge of how to use them. So instead of writing, Gondoleery was thinking.

  Sometimes she napped in her chair in the heat of the day, and she began to dream for the first time in decades. It was frightening at first, since dreams were not allowed in Quill, but she was wise enough to realize no one would ever know unless she told them. Her dreams were filled with ideas she could never have imagined when awake—dreams of fiery rivers of lava hurtling down a jagged mountainside. Dreams of swirling dust, of gusting winds, of frigid ice and quaking earth. Dreams of destruction that both frightened and thrilled her.

  Yet when she awoke each day, she knew she had seen such things before, though none of the people of Quill ever had. None, that is, except for the three remaining droolers in the Ancients Sector.

  And Eva Fathom.

  Gondoleery needed time to think. She needed time to remember, and time to see just how powerful her own bit of magic really was. And so it was that she decided to disappear from Quill by staying right where she was, in her chair, and not emerging until she had thought every thought and dreamed every dream. And relearned every bit of magic she’d lost.

  And then, when she was good and ready, when she was stronger and more powerful than any nonmagical high priest, when she required no team of Restorers to back her up . . . that’s when she would make her move.

  Caves

  The breeze came, and the breeze went away.

  Day after day, Samheed and Lani huddled together somewhere below ground on Warbler Island, telling time by the breezes that swept over them—the gentle wake of Silent people bringing them daily food and water. As on the first day, the two friends remained blind, deaf, and mute, and they still had metal bands of thorns threaded through the skin of their necks, which had finally begun to heal.

  In the vastness of their dark days, they created a language with their fingers, tapping the other’s palm or knee to spell out words. The letter A was one tap, B was two taps, and so on. It was a long process to spell anything of length, but they had plenty of time in which to do it. After a few days, having memorized the number of taps that corresponded to each letter, they were able to go more quickly, using a full-palm slap to count for five. The twelfth letter of the alphabet, L, was two slaps, two taps. S, the nineteenth letter of the alphabet, was three slaps, four taps. A brush of the hand meant a space between words, and a closed fist meant the speaker was finished. Sometimes they s
kipped a letter to save time and effort if they thought the other would be able to figure the word out without it.

  Through this method, Lani recounted what she had seen while Samheed was unconscious. She told Sam of her hope for Meghan’s escape, which lifted his spirits, although only a little bit. If it weren’t for each other and their new language, they might have gone insane by now.

  Sometimes, when they were tired of tapping and there was nothing left to say, they linked arms or clasped their fingers together as they fell asleep, desperately afraid that if they didn’t stay in constant physical contact, one of them could one day wake up alone and have no idea what had happened to the other.

  A few times each day Lani pulled Alex’s drawing from her pocket, concentrated on his face in her mind, and tried to send him a seek spell. It was the only spell she could think of that could help them. The first few times she sent it, she had great hope that Alex would be coming soon.

  But eventually she wondered what was taking him so long. Alex knew about the spell. She knew he’d be able to recognize that it came from her, because when it reached him, it would explode into a fiery picture of the drawing he gave her, and he only had to go in the direction from which the glowing ball had come. If Meghan hadn’t made it back to safety in Artimé—Lani shuddered at the thought of what might have happened to her friend—then Alex wouldn’t have the boat, but he could still ride Simber to get here. And she was certain Mr. Today could make another boat if he’d made the first one. She didn’t understand why no one was coming for them.

  Several thoughts kept plaguing her, joining together and chiseling away at her. What if Alex and Mr. Today had come already but couldn’t find Lani and Samheed? What if they had come and been killed? What if Meghan had made it to the boat but couldn’t find her way back to Artimé and had become lost at sea? What if . . . what if Alex just didn’t care enough to come looking for them?

  “Maybe magic doesn’t work from here,” Samheed spelled out. “There’s no sound so could be burier?” He meant to spell “barrier” but didn’t realize his mistake until he got to the end of the word, and he was too tired to redo it.

  But Lani nodded her fist in Sam’s hand. “Maybe.” She gave a deep, silent sigh and closed her eyes as a wave of hopelessness washed over her. She couldn’t stand this much longer. She wasn’t used to being so helpless. “We’ve got to find a way out,” she said daily. But each time they tried together to crawl around the perimeter of the cave looking for an exit, they couldn’t find anything. They ended most days in total frustration, with no voice to express it.

  After they’d been still and lost in thought for some time, sitting in the middle of the floor trying to waste away the endless darkness, Lani spelled, “I’d give anything to see my family agai—” And then she clapped her palm to her mouth. She’d forgotten about how Samheed’s family had treated him. She felt Samheed fizzle and slump to his back. He turned away from her, but he didn’t let go of her hand. Not even when the shuddering began.

  From a Closet in Quill

  Claire Morning leaned her head against a shelf in her closet prison. Every joint in her body ached, for she’d been sitting there in the dark, tied up, for all but one hour of every day for the past several weeks. Liam and Bethesda allowed her thirty minutes in the morning and thirty minutes in the evening to move around. She was growing thin and weak, and her early hopes for escape had faded.

  The thing that kept her strong was the Unwanteds. She knew, of course, that her beloved father, Mr. Today, had been killed. And she knew that Artimé was gone. It was the thought of all the Unwanteds struggling to make sense of what had happened, struggling to survive without their magical world, that kept Claire motivated to survive so that she could get back there and help them.

  She often heard the shuffling of footsteps and the low rumble of conversation between her two captors outside the closet. Now and then she was able to discern a word or two, but not enough to make sense of anything. And as much as she wanted to ask about the state of Quill and Artimé, she refused to speak to Liam or Bethesda.

  She closed her eyes and thought about her father, determined to remember all he had done for the Unwanteds so she could write everything down someday. Someday. The day dragged onward.

  She startled when she heard a commotion followed by the bang of the front door. Then there was silence once again. Very soon she heard soft footfalls coming toward her, but she knew it wasn’t yet evening by the line of sunlight coming from the crack under the door. So whomever it was certainly wasn’t coming to let her out. When, to her surprise, the door opened, she squinted as the light poured in and hurt her eyes.

  “Claire,” Liam said.

  She didn’t look at him.

  He reached down and untied her wrists, then loosened the gag from her mouth and let it fall so that it hung around her neck like a scarf. He handed her a cup of water. She took it and drank, frowning at her hands, which insisted on shaking around the cup. When she finished, he helped her to her feet and didn’t let go of her arm until he was sure she was stable.

  Her legs pricked and burned as the blood rushed through them, and a wave of black crossed in front of her eyes. She reached for the door frame, willing herself not to black out. A moment later her vision cleared, and she hazarded a glance at her childhood friend. He looked disheveled and hadn’t shaved in several days. His eyes were the same as they’d always been—surprisingly blue and intense.

  “Bethesda stepped out,” Liam said. He worked his jaw as if he might say more. Instead he looked away.

  A wave of adrenaline pulsed through Claire, but she trained her eyes on the floor now, her face frozen. Could she escape? Why was he telling her this?

  “I can’t let you escape,” he said in the softest voice. “I’d be sent to . . . well, you know where.” He stepped away, shuffling his feet awkwardly, and then he hastened to the stove and plated a thick slice of toasted bread and a hunk of cheese. “Here.” He set it on the table, and then refilled her cup and set it next to the plate.

  Claire stared at the food and walked to the table. She didn’t think it was a trick. She looked up at Liam, her brows knitting together, wondering.

  He looked back at her with softer eyes now, giving away the slightest hint of emotion. Perhaps there was a soul inside, somewhere.

  “Why?” Claire asked, her voice clotting on the word, leaving it stuck in her throat.

  Liam opened his lips as if to speak, and then closed them and turned away. He went to the window and peered out, keeping an eye on her as well. “Just hurry,” he said.

  Claire, gripping the back of the chair to hold herself steady, bit her lip and glanced at the door.

  “Don’t,” Liam said. He shook his head slightly, a warning. “You won’t make it.”

  She swallowed hard, the food wavering in front of her. She knew Liam was right. She wasn’t strong enough. But maybe she could build up her strength again.

  She tugged on the chair, straining to slide it back, and then sat down. “Thank you,” she whispered. She ate.

  Liam watched her out of the corner of his eye.

  When she finished, she asked, “Is it all right if I stand?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Stay over there, though.”

  She nodded, and stretched her muscles carefully.

  From the back part of the house came a thump. Liam tensed immediately, and then relaxed.

  “Bethesda?” Claire whispered, ready to hide.

  “No.”

  Claire’s eyes widened. She had suspected something for days, whenever she’d heard people moving about. “Is someone else . . . here?”

  Liam looked at her.

  “Liam,” Claire said, “is it Gunnar?”

  After a moment, Liam nodded so slightly that Claire almost didn’t see it.

  A sigh escaped her. She closed her eyes and brought her hands to her face, shaking her head, wondering what would become of them all. The situation was beyond hope. And then she
turned, dejected, went back to her pantry cell, and sat on the floor, placing the gag back into her mouth, and waited for Liam to tie her up again.

  Descent

  The next day Alex was no closer to a solution. While Sean, Meghan, Henry, and the Silents began stacking frozen creatures to make a stairway to the top of the wall, Alex made the rounds of the Unwanteds, trying to boost morale and offer help in any way he could.

  “We need more water,” grumbled a woman on the beach. “The ration you’re giving us is worse than in Quill.”

  “I’m starving,” a man said. “I haven’t eaten a thing in two days.”

  “This place is a disaster,” voiced a group of Unwanted boys from Alex’s year. A few of them jeered. Cole Wickett took Alex aside. “Come on, Alex,” he said earnestly. “You’ve got to do something. People are going to leave, you know?”

  Alex pressed his lips together. So far today he had taken a number of verbal beatings from the people of Artimé, and he was beginning to feel defensive and desperate. “I know,” he said. “We’re doing everything we can. I don’t know what else to say.”

  Cole shook his head. “I’m sorry, Al, but . . . ” He looked around at all the Unwanteds, some weak and ill, sprawled on the ground, others grumbling in small groups, and still others lining the shore trying desperately to catch fish, with little success. “This place is starting to remind me of the Ancients Sector. Somebody’s got to step it up here. Fast.”

  And it’s obviously not you. Cole didn’t say it, but it was implied. Alex felt the hopelessness of it all pulling him down, and at the same time a wave of reckless anger rushed up from his collarbone and he threw his hands up in the air. “Well, maybe you should be in charge, then. I never wanted this job, you know.” His mouth twisted against his will. “What do you want me to do, anyway? What exactly does everybody expect me to do?”