Warrior Genius

by Michael Dante DiMartino

  “Do you have any leads yet?” Niccolo asked.

  Giacomo was about to tell him about Garrulous’s journals when Milena entered.

  “I think I might.” All eyes turned to her as she walked in front of the hearth.

  Niccolo glanced at the book in her hand. “What do you have there?”

  “You don’t recognize it? It’s one of Poggio Garrulous’s journals,” Milena said.

  “Didn’t one of your ancestors fund Garrulous’s journey?” Pietro asked.

  “Ludovico Abbate,” Niccolo confirmed. “I knew the journals were part of my family’s collection, but I never realized they’d ended up here.”

  “Listen to this,” Milena said, then began reading. “‘The Creator’s Compass is believed to be a powerful tool that allows the artist to create a portal of light through which he or she might travel great distances in the blink of an eye.’”

  Giacomo fidgeted in his chair. “We already know that. What about the Straightedge?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Milena said crossly, then kept reading. “‘However, I have encountered a few mystics during my travels who claim that the Compass may also be able to create a portal to the sacred.’”

  Giacomo glanced down at the Compass leaning against his chair, the firelight glinting off its golden handle. “‘Portal to the sacred’? What does that mean?”

  “As in the Sacred Tools,” Milena said. “What if the Compass could create a portal to the Straightedge and the Pencil?”

  Giacomo’s heart jumped. “Master Pietro, do you think that’s possible?”

  “I suppose Garrulous could be referring to the Law of Contagion,” Pietro said. “What do you make of it, Niccolo?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Niccolo said.

  “I don’t remember reading about that law in any of Baldassare’s books,” Milena said. “What is it?”

  “A very ancient belief that once two objects, or people, have been in contact, an energetic bond is formed between them,” Pietro said.

  In a flash, Giacomo returned to the moment when he had realized he was a Tulpa and pulled the Creator’s Compass from its sacred geometry shield. “Could the Law of Contagion explain why I seem to have a connection with the Sacred Tools?” he asked. It might also account for the bond he felt with Zanobius, despite having known him for only a short time.

  “Possibly,” Pietro said. “Tulpas are sacred geometry incarnate. Your parents created you by tapping into the same energetic forces that run through the Sacred Tools.”

  “So if this Law of Contagion thing really works, I could use the Compass like a divining rod to home in on the Straightedge.”

  “But it’s probably thousands of miles away,” Milena pointed out. “Even if there is some kind of energetic bond between the Tools, it would be really weak.”

  There’s another way, Giacomo thought. But it’ll be risky.

  “I’m not talking about tracking it down on foot,” Giacomo said. “I know a shortcut: through the Wellspring.”

  * * *

  Nerezza found Giacomo in his dreams that night, as she had each night since he’d fled Virenzia. This time she chased him through Niccolo’s packed villa and out the back door, where Victoria was waiting for him. The bird-Genius gripped Giacomo’s friends in her talons. They shouted for help and Giacomo tried to go to them, but Victoria’s gem blazed violet, then fired. The beam consumed him.

  Giacomo shot up in his bed and caught his breath, telling himself that he and his friends were safe, that Nerezza wasn’t going to find them. But reassuring himself didn’t help much, and he lay awake the rest of the night.

  When night finally waned, Giacomo went from room to room, rousing everyone from bed. With the Compass slung over his shoulder, he led them up and down the rolling hills until he found a clearing far away from the villa. Flitting joyfully alongside the other Geniuses, Mico chittered at the oncoming dawn. Giacomo wished he felt as carefree as his Genius.

  Giacomo recalled the other times he’d summoned the Wellspring’s devastating power—Milena screaming as she was burned by its intense heat, Ugalino vanishing into its whipping winds … He had gone over his decision hundreds of times in his head—either Ugalino perished or thousands of Zizzolans did. Still …

  He shook off the guilty memories and focused on the task at hand.

  The night before, Giacomo had laid out his plan. He had reminded everyone that when he had been trapped in Duke Oberto’s camera obscura, the Wellspring had opened, allowing him to see across physical space to the Cave of Alessio. Giacomo believed he could use the Creator’s Compass to guide him through the Wellspring again—this time to glimpse wherever the Straightedge was.

  While Zanobius and the other children retreated a safe distance down the slope, Pietro remained on the hilltop with Giacomo and their Geniuses. Mico fluttered around Tito’s head while the lumbering owl Genius hooted his annoyance.

  “Ready when you are,” Pietro said, raising his brush.

  Giacomo took a deep breath and gripped his pencil tightly.

  Pietro arced his brush in front of him; the square gem in Tito’s crown lit up, and the great Genius beat his wings once, thrusting his head forward. A beam of orange light shot out from the gem and formed a large circle that hovered several feet away, its edges shimmering.

  Giacomo mimicked his teacher’s actions, drawing a ring in the air. Mico chirped, and his tiny gem cast a glimmering red circle. With a wave of his arm, Giacomo moved his circle closer to Pietro’s, as he’d been taught to. When the two circles collided, the combined energy released a shower of sparks, followed by a low hum. Then, as the circles overlapped, forming the almond-shaped eye of the mandorla, bright beams shot out and a rush of hot wind slammed into Giacomo, nearly toppling him.

  Squinting, Giacomo stared into the familiar light storm of the Wellspring and unsheathed the Compass. “I’m going in.”

  “Be careful,” Pietro said.

  “I’ll be all right,” Giacomo assured his teacher, despite his own shaky confidence.

  While Pietro kept his Genius’s beam fixed on the mandorla so the Wellspring stayed open, Mico hovered above Giacomo and projected a latticed sphere around them both to act as a shield. Then, with the Compass pointed in front of him, Giacomo stepped through the radiant eye of the mandorla and into the maelstrom.

  The winds crashed against the glowing shield, but Mico’s barrier held. Giacomo glanced back, but he’d already lost sight of Pietro through the veil of colors. He peered forward, through the undulating swaths of greens, reds, and blues, but there was no sign of the Straightedge, either.

  Maybe I’m not as connected to the Sacred Tools as I thought.

  And now, unmoored from the physical world, dizziness overcame him, and Giacomo began to fear he might never find his way back. He gripped the Compass’s handle tighter and closed his eyes, trying to block out the howling gale.

  To Giacomo’s surprise, the Compass began to vibrate, and when he opened his eyes, the circular pattern on the handle was lit up. The tip of the Compass bobbed up and down, tugging at him like it was animated by an unseen force.

  “Mico, I think it’s working!”

  His Genius chirped excitedly. Giacomo relaxed his grip, letting the Compass guide him deeper into the storm.

  Out of the cacophony came a voice. It began as a whisper that Giacomo couldn’t quite make out, but gradually it grew louder, until Giacomo could understand it.

  I was trying to help you, Giacomo. And you left me to die in here!

  Giacomo’s entire body went cold. The voice unmistakably belonged to Ugalino.

  Soon, you will become a Lost Soul, like me!

  Giacomo wheeled around, expecting Ugalino to appear, but all he saw were the waves of color crashing around Mico’s shield. The voice faded back into the storm.

  Ugalino’s gone, Giacomo told himself. He can’t hurt me.

  The Compass began to shake violently. It jerked left, dragging Giacomo with it. Sudden
ly, the storm was swept away, and he found himself inside a strange tunnel that glowed red from rivulets of lava trickling down the rocky walls.

  Mico’s gem dimmed, and the lattice shield he’d created scattered into specks of light.

  “Where are we?” Giacomo said, his muscles tensing. Mico hovered close, trilling warily.

  The Compass jolted again, pulling Giacomo through the tunnel and into a triangular cavern full of sharp black rocks that jutted from the floor and ceiling like fangs. In the shadows, the light glinted off a shiny surface. Giacomo made out the L shape of the Straightedge.

  He gasped. “Mico, we found it…”

  But Giacomo still had no idea where in the world he was. He’d have to make his way out of the tunnel and try to get his bearings so he could find this place again in the physical world. Before he could turn to go, a new voice echoed through the chamber. It sounded hoarse and strangled, though, and Giacomo couldn’t make out what it was saying.

  Then, out of the darkness, a figure—more skeleton than man—emerged. He had stringy gray hair, sunken cheeks, and sallow skin. His neck was as thin as a finger, and his teeth were rotted and yellow. His black eyes stared out like two immense voids. And he was clutching the Straightedge in his bony hand.

  The skeletal man shrieked, raising the Tool like a sword, and Giacomo was suddenly overwhelmed by intense agony. The man started to bring down the Straightedge, aiming to strike Giacomo’s skull, and Giacomo was powerless to stop it. He was frozen in his anguish until, at the last moment, Mico’s screech moved him to action. He lifted the Compass to block the blow, and the Sacred Tools collided, setting off a blinding blast of energy that hurled Giacomo from the cavern and back into the Wellspring’s maelstrom.

  He clutched the Compass close, stumbling through the murky mess of colors. Somewhere, Mico called to him with a frantic song, but Giacomo could no longer see his Genius. The winds were scorching now. Tulpas could survive in the Wellspring, but not for long. “Pietro! Help!” Giacomo screamed, but the raging storm swallowed his voice. He tucked his body into a ball and braced for the end.

  Then, out of nowhere, two huge hands reached under Giacomo’s arms and picked him up.

  “I’ve got you!” Zanobius shouted. He hugged Giacomo close, shielding him from the tempest.

  “I can’t leave without Mico!”

  The last thing Giacomo remembered hearing was, “Don’t worry, he’s safe…”

  * * *

  When Giacomo came to, he was on his back and staring up at clouds floating through the sky. One by one, his friends’ concerned faces popped into view.

  Zanobius helped him sit up, and Giacomo grimaced. His head throbbed.

  “Are you all right?” Aaminah said.

  “I think so…”

  Mico landed on his hand, chittering with relief, and Giacomo looked around. The grass had been scorched. Zanobius’s naked chest was covered with welts and scrapes, and Giacomo could feel the burns on his own skin where the wind had whipped him. Once again, the Wellspring had done its damage. But fortunately, everyone was all right.

  “Thank you, Zanobius.”

  “You should thank your Genius,” Zanobius said. “Mico shot out of the Wellspring, screeching like mad. I knew you were in trouble.”

  “What happened in there?” Pietro said.

  “I saw someone…” Giacomo said, still shaken. “He attacked me with the Straightedge.”

  “Who was this man?” Pietro asked.

  “I got the feeling he was a Lost Soul, only much worse.” Giacomo described the man’s disturbing appearance. “I could feel his torment in my bones.”

  Milena looked troubled. “Then this Lost Soul has already found the Straightedge?”

  “That’s what it looked like,” Giacomo said. “And he definitely didn’t seem willing to part with it.”

  “Where’s the Lost Soul keeping it?” Savino asked.

  “I … I’m not sure. In a cave somewhere.”

  “What is it with Sacred Tools and caves?” Savino grumbled.

  “At least we know what’s waiting for us out there,” Milena said. “We can start preparing.”

  “If I’m going anywhere near that Lost Soul, I need to get back to my sacred geometry lessons,” Giacomo said.

  Pietro nodded. “I was about to suggest the same thing.”

  6

  SAVINO’S SCULPTURE

  Zanobius wove between the mighty stones along the hillside, his master’s disembodied voice echoing in his head.

  You will never forget the lives you have taken! Your soul will never be at peace!

  When he had heard Ugalino calling to him in the Wellspring, Zanobius had told himself he was hearing things, that the howling winds were playing tricks with his mind. But the longer he had been free of the storm, the more convinced he had become that Ugalino’s words were true.

  “You all right?” Enzio stepped out from behind one of the stones.

  “Yes, of course.” Zanobius stopped and showed Enzio the faint crisscrossing scars where the winds had slashed him. “My healing abilities work quickly.”

  “I don’t mean your injuries.” Enzio looked back toward the villa. “I’ve been up there watching you pacing these hills all afternoon. Something’s bothering you.”

  “It’s Ugalino,” Zanobius admitted, but he kept what he’d heard in the Wellspring to himself for fear the others might believe his master still held some sway over him. “He used to say that once he was gone, it would be the end of me too.”

  “He only told you that so you would be dependent on him.” Enzio leaned against one of the stones. “My father used that trick on me all the time. If I ever spoke up against him, he threatened to throw me out on the street, promising I wouldn’t last a day without his generosity. But here I am, doing fine without him. And you don’t need Ugalino, either.”

  That was easy for Enzio to say. Defiance seemed to be in his nature. Zanobius had witnessed the boy denouncing his own father and withstanding Ugalino’s power, surviving an attack that should have killed him. Enzio possessed reserves of inner strength Zanobius could only hope to find within himself.

  He looked down at the stump where Ozo had sliced off his arm. “My healing abilities only go so far. He was the one who always put me back together again.”

  A beautiful tune floated on the breeze, catching Zanobius’s attention.

  Enzio gazed off in the direction of the music. “You want to prove you’re truly free from Ugalino?”

  “Yes. It’s the only way I’ll find any peace.”

  “Then figure out a way to get your arm back without him.”

  Zanobius followed the music until he found Aaminah playing the lute for Giacomo, who was reclining against the trunk of an ancient oak. While he basked in Luna’s healing light, Giacomo drew in his sketchbook. Back at the Cave of Alessio, Zanobius had watched Aaminah’s beautiful music bring Enzio back from the brink of death. It seemed her talents extended to Tulpas.

  Zanobius waited for Aaminah’s final note to trail off before he approached her. “I was wondering, since Ugalino’s gone, do you think your music can help me?” Zanobius held up the stump of his amputated arm.

  Aaminah looked hesitant. “I’ve never created a body part out of nothing.”

  “How about if you had a new arm to attach?” Zanobius asked.

  * * *

  Zanobius tracked down Savino, who was sitting on part of the villa’s broken wall and whittling a piece of wood, his Genius stationed at his side.

  Initially, Savino scoffed at Zanobius’s request to sculpt him a new arm. But after some gentle prodding from Giacomo and Aaminah, he relented.

  “Fine. I guess it’ll give me something to do while Giacomo figures out where the Straightedge is.” Savino headed inside to gather art supplies and get Niccolo’s permission to carve up one of the monoliths.

  “Find me when you’re ready,” Aaminah said to Zanobius, strumming the lute. “Once Savino’s done with the arm,
hopefully my music can bond it to your body.” She skipped off.

  Savino returned a few minutes later with a long measuring stick, a hammer and chisel, and some good news. “Niccolo gave me these and said we can use whatever block of stone we want.”

  Zanobius was surprised to hear that Niccolo had agreed to help and wondered if he was getting used to having a couple of Tulpas under his roof.

  Zanobius followed Savino around the grounds while he studied the different stones.

  “Too big … too small … too many cracks…” Finally, Savino settled on a pale rock about waist high that was smooth on one side and rough on the other. He tapped his pencil against his pursed lips and said, “The color won’t match your skin exactly, but I can work with this.”

  Zanobius lifted the stone and carried it closer to the villa, then placed it carefully on a tree stump.

  Savino measured the lengths and widths of one of Zanobius’s arms and hands for comparison, then sketched it from different angles and in various positions. “I have to say, Ugalino may have been a terrible person, but he was an amazing artist. I’ll do my best to match your other arms.”

  “Thank you for taking the time to do this,” Zanobius said, rotating his wrist so Savino could get a better view of the good arm. “I know you’re still adjusting to my being around, so I didn’t think you’d agree to it.”

  “Milena thinks I need to start being more open-minded about you.”

  “I see … So you’re trying to impress her?” Zanobius asked innocently.

  The tip of Savino’s pencil snapped. “What? No, it’s not like that.” He sharpened his pencil with a knife. “Now, quit moving, you’re messing up my drawings.”

  Once he was ready to start sculpting, Savino traded pencil and sketchbook for the hammer and chisel. Zanobius had often watched Ugalino work and was fascinated by how an artist could begin with nothing but a blank canvas or a mound of clay and transform it into something beautiful. He stood by, eagerly waiting for Savino to begin chiseling away.

  Instead, Savino circled around one side of the stone, then back again, over and over. He kept referring to the studies he’d made in his sketchbook, looking unsure of himself. “I’ve never worked with such an intimidating piece of stone before. I usually mold clay until I figure out the form.”