by Ted Sanders
They sailed into the heart of the city. Downtown Chicago rose around them like an electric forest. The tops of the tallest towers stood hundreds of feet above them, even as high as they already were. A few cars, tiny as toys, roamed the nighttime streets below.
Mrs. Hapsteade was on her feet now, peering down at the compass that would lead them to Mr. Meister. Maps were not especially Chloe’s strong suit, but from what she could tell, they were headed straight for the Warren. The Willis Tower loomed just ahead, off to the left, a chunky stack of dominoes. She’d never liked the looks of it. Its two huge white antennas rose like bleached bones, towering high overhead as they passed, just a block away.
“He’s still in the Warren, after all,” Chloe said.
But Mrs. Hapsteade shook her head. She laid a hand on Dailen’s arm. “Circle east. Take us to the lakeshore.”
Dailen nodded, and the mal’gama gently swerved. They sailed toward Grant Park, passing directly above the Art Institute’s glass roof and then out over the harbor. Rows of pale boats bobbed in the dark water like sleeping birds. With a gesture, Mrs. Hapsteade directed them north, toward Navy Pier, where the Ferris wheel glowed, motionless, shut down for the night.
But they weren’t headed there, either. Instead, with Mrs. Hapsteade guiding him, Dailen steered back toward shore, cruising over Streeterville between Michigan Avenue and the lakeshore. Everyone was on their feet now, gathered around Mrs. Hapsteade. The mal’gama circled tighter and tighter, the needle of the compass swinging. At last Mrs. Hapsteade raised her hand.
“Stop,” she said, and she pointed straight down. “He is here.”
The mal’gama eased to a stop, hovering. “Watch your step,” said Dailen.
The stones beneath their feet rustled and began to part, like water circling a drain. A wide hole opened in the mal’gama, revealing the city below. Chloe peered through it cautiously, Teokas at her side. Far beneath them, a rectangle of dark, undeveloped land jutted out into the water, just where Lake Michigan drained into the Chicago River. Lakeshore Drive was a pale golden band crossing high above the river, sprinkled with drifting cars, and in its shadow—directly below them on the dark spit of land—a great round hole yawned. A perfect circle a hundred feet across, black as pitch.
“There,” Mrs. Hapsteade said, pointing.
Chloe stared, hardly able to believe it. “The hell pit?” she said.
The hell pit was a notorious eyesore in the city. Years ago, there had been plans to build an enormous skyscraper here, one of the tallest in the world. But no sooner had the hole been dug for its foundations than the project was abandoned. The hole was never filled. It had been here for as long as Chloe could remember, plainly visible from above on Lakeshore Drive. The city had made an effort to disguise the hole—small hills had been built beside it, and trees now grew in the surrounding empty lot. But the pit was still there, barred by only a stout chain fence around the edge. Inside the pit, Chloe knew, the walls of the hole were lined with rusted steel girders. She had no idea how deep it went.
“You know this place?” Teokas asked.
“I mean, everyone knows this place,” said Chloe. “Kids tell stories about it. But no one actually goes there. It’s off-limits.”
“In other words,” said Dailen, “just the sort of place the Riven would love.”
The mal’gama swirled, becoming whole again. Smoothly Dailen steered them back out over the harbor, dropping low once they were in darkness. Then they came back ashore, skimming the water. They passed beneath the Outer Drive Bridge, a hulking rusty skeleton, out of sight of the traffic that crossed above. The mal’gama slid stealthily over a metal retaining wall at the shoreline and a white concrete fence beyond, settling into a shadowy patch of scrubby green between Lakeshore Drive and some apartment buildings to the west. The hell pit lay just a few hundred feet ahead in the darkness. Chloe’s heart began to pound. What would they find below?
Dailen removed the ring that controlled the mal’gama and handed it to Mrs. Hapsteade. She gave him the compass in return. “Du’gara jentro,” she said, shocking Chloe a bit. She had no idea the woman could speak Altari.
Dailen bowed low. “Ji mogra jentro duvra.” He reached down to clasp her hand. “Dak’fol ka laithen,” he added solemnly. “Tel tu’vra fal raethen.”
“Tel tu’vra fal raethen,” Mrs. Hapsteade repeated.
And though Chloe didn’t know the words, she recognized the ritual at once, and knew what they were saying.
Dak’fol ka laithen. Fear is the stone. Tel tu’vra fal raethen.
“May yours be light,” Chloe whispered.
Teokas nodded, her eyes shining. “May yours be light,” she said.
“They won’t be expecting us,” said Gabriel, thumping the ground with the tip of his staff. “Not so soon, and not here.”
Go’nesh stepped off the mal’gama. He hefted the Fairfrost Blade, big as a stop sign. “They certainly won’t be expecting me,” he growled, his voice rumbling like a platoon of bass drums. He looked down at Ravana. “It feels good to be out. Good not to hide.”
Ravana unlimbered her mighty bow, nodding. She pulled back on its thick string, testing it. For a moment a bloodred bolt of fire appeared, fuming in the dark. She eased up on the string and let it fade. “Good indeed,” she said.
“It’s time, then,” said Dailen, and suddenly there were two of him. Then four, and then eight, their little band effectively tripling. “Let’s go get our friend,” all the Dailens said together.
Chloe grinned, drinking deeply from the Alvalaithen’s song, letting herself go thin. Nothing could stop her, nothing could touch her. She looked around at the band of warriors with her now, mighty and magical.
“Now this is what I’m talking about,” she said.
Chapter Two
In the Pit
ALTHOUGH HE HAD BEEN BROUGHT HERE WEARING A BLINDFOLD, Joshua knew exactly where he was.
The Riven who had hustled him out of the Warren on Dr. Jericho’s orders apparently hadn’t realized that it was pointless to blindfold him. Dr. Jericho, who knew better, hadn’t bothered to stop them, laughing as he watched.
Despite not being able to see, Joshua had tracked the brief journey from the Warren in his mind. He knew they’d traveled almost exactly one mile east-northeast—traveling mostly underground before climbing up into the cool nighttime streets of the city for a few blocks. A dozen Riven traveled with him, slinking through the dark, forcing him onward. Several small Ravids were among them, hissing and popping in and out as they teleported, jumping forward like water striders flicking across the surface of a pond.
Joshua hadn’t needed to smell the water to know that they’d brought him to the lakeshore, just beside the Outer Drive Bridge. He hadn’t needed eyes to remind him that there was a huge round pit here, the leftover of some giant skyscraper that had never been built. Three Mordin, ten feet tall and stinking of brimstone, had brought Joshua deep into the great pit—carrying him at one point, as they climbed downward. A screeching doorway, a series of damp tunnels and stone stairs, and finally they’d removed his blindfold, here in this large dark chamber lit dimly with sickly brown lights. How deep they had come, Joshua couldn’t say, but despite the blindfold he could have plotted his current location on a map to within just a few feet.
Not that it mattered. Yes, he could track himself through space just as well as Horace could track himself through time. It was a talent Joshua used to be proud of.
But not anymore.
There was so much to worry about, so much to feel terrible about, that Joshua’s brain had gone numb, unable to decide even where to start. The secret location of the Warren had accidentally been revealed by Joshua himself when one of the Riven’s Auditors got inside his head, inside the Laithe of Teneves. The Warren had been invaded not long after, and had fallen.
During the attack, Mrs. Hapsteade had been forced to destroy many of the Tanu there, so that the precious devices wouldn’t fall into the h
ands of the Riven. Ingrid, the former Warden turned traitor, had been freed to join the Riven once more. Unbelievably, Mr. Meister himself had been captured, his leg broken. And as for Isabel, Chloe’s mother . . . it wasn’t clear yet what had happened to her when the Riven had stormed across the Maw and into the Great Burrow. Joshua could barely poke at his hopes when it came to Isabel. She’d done some good, yes, but also so much bad. Did he hope she was dead? Captured? Suffering? Escaped? Joshua had no idea. It wasn’t his place to hope.
Worst of all—though it was hard to explain why it was the worst—the Riven hadn’t taken the Laithe of Teneves from him. For some reason, they had let Joshua keep his Tan’ji.
He hated to think what this might mean.
The Laithe hovered beside him now, a perfect globe of the earth, alive with rippling water and drifting cloud and green forest. A meridian encircled it, a flat copper hoop inside which the globe floated, like Saturn inside its rings. With the Laithe, Joshua could have chosen any location on the planet and then—by tearing loose the meridian and spinning it wide open—created a portal to that location. A doorway. A gateway to anywhere on earth. An escape.
Not that he could have escaped. Not likely. The Riven hadn’t taken the Laithe, no, but they hadn’t left him alone with it either. The Mordin that had brought him here were still with him. Like all Riven, they were pale skinned and beady eyed, like ghoulish humans. They had long ghastly limbs that folded and unfolded like the legs of insects. The Mordin were hunters, taller than regular Riven, at least twice as tall as Joshua himself.
Two of the Mordin guarding him, Joshua had decided, were lazy and careless—obviously delighted that the secret sanctuary of the Wardens had been conquered, and feeling pleased with themselves. They sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, talking back and forth in low, harsh whispers. But the third Mordin was sharper, quieter, crouching warily and watching Joshua with a keen black stare. He reminded Joshua of Arthur the raven, gazing at some suspicious object.
And these three weren’t the only guards with him in the cold stone chamber. There was a fourth, the worst by far—busy with a prisoner all its own.
The golem filled one side of the room, a glistening hulk as big as a bus, made entirely of shining thumb-sized stones. Hanging open like the mouth of a cave, not bothering to disguise itself, the golem pulsed slightly with a faint rattle, as if breathing. Inside it, Mr. Meister hung like a tiny doll, his arms and legs buried in the golem’s grip, only his chest and his white-haired head hanging free. Unlike Joshua, the old man had not been allowed to keep his Tan’ji. He was still alive, so the instruments must still exist—but stripped of his red vest and his glasses now, Mr. Meister looked small and blind, completely helpless.
In the several hours since they’d been here—maybe even a full day?—Mr. Meister hadn’t spoken a word. He hadn’t so much as looked at Joshua since first laying eyes on him back at the Warren, after they’d been captured. And that was fine with Joshua, because the expression on the old man’s face as he realized Joshua hadn’t escaped had been . . .
Bad. Worse than disappointed.
He looked . . . frightened.
Joshua hadn’t even known Mr. Meister could be afraid.
I tried, Joshua had wanted to tell him. And it was true. Or at least, it was true that he’d tried to save the Laithe of Teneves. He’d tried to push the Laithe through its own portal, his grand plan once he’d realized the Warren was lost. He would send the little globe through the portal he’d opened into the green forest near Ka’hoka, two hundred and fifty miles away. He would protect the Laithe by sending it far away, into the hands of his friends, the other Wardens who had already escaped. He would protect those friends, too, by surrendering himself to the Riven, powerless and pointless. He’d already done so much harm.
But his plan had failed. He hadn’t even known enough about his own Tan’ji to know that the plan was doomed, that the Laithe didn’t work that way. The globe wouldn’t go through the portal without him. And now Joshua was captured, and the Laithe too. He’d failed in every way possible. Everything was ruined, all thanks to him.
Suddenly Mr. Meister lifted his head. “Kro’gesh jian tu,” he said, his hoarse voice echoing in the hollow chamber. For a moment Joshua thought he was speaking nonsense. But then one of the lazy Mordin laughed, and replied in the same dancing, hissing language.
“Gosht kota,” he said, still laughing. “Jian kell jo’thra tendu.”
“Kal nadra!” the sharp-eyed Mordin snapped.
The lazy Mordin fell silent, but went on chuckling softly to himself.
“What’s happening?” Joshua asked. “What’s he saying?”
The sharp-eyed Mordin stood slowly, like the growing shadow of a winter tree, and slid toward him.
“Nothing meant for your ears, obviously,” he said. “Isn’t it strange that when your friend finally speaks, he chooses a language you can’t understand?” The Mordin glanced over at Mr. Meister, whose head was hanging limply again. “Perhaps he has nothing to say to you. Not anymore. After all, you’re one of us now.”
“I’m not,” Joshua said, his face flushing.
The Mordin held up a long, gruesome finger, wagging it. Joshua noticed he wore a large black ring with a twisted bloodred stone. “I was there when we took the Warren,” the Mordin said. “I saw your portal. You could have escaped with the other Tinkers, but you didn’t. You chose to stay with us.” His voice was light and jingling, maddening.
“That’s not what I—” Gritting his teeth, Joshua turned to Mr. Meister. “I tried,” he said.
“Save your breath, Joshua,” Mr. Meister replied. “Don’t listen to their lies.”
“Lies?” said a new voice, billowing through the chamber like a black curtain, splendid and fiendish. Joshua froze.
Dr. Jericho strode elegantly out of the darkness, taller than the other Mordin by a foot at least. The sharp-eyed Mordin stepped back from Joshua alertly. The two guards sitting on the floor scrambled to their feet. Dr. Jericho ignored them all, gazing at Mr. Meister. “The Chief Taxonomer dares to accuse us of lying? He whose very purpose is to hide the truth from his so-called friends? How terribly rich.”
One of Dr. Jericho’s forearms was wrapped tightly in scarlet, and Joshua remembered the snap of bone as Neptune had plunged into the Mordin from high above, in the battle on April’s roof. The memory, and the sight of Dr. Jericho wounded now, brought him a stab of satisfaction.
But it quickly faded. A thin golden light seemed to shimmer and shift in the hallway behind Dr. Jericho, buried in a massive moving shadow, coming closer. Footsteps dragged heavily across the stone floor. The Mordin hadn’t come here alone.
An enormous figure shambled into the room, stooping as if carrying a great weight. Even bent over as it was, it stood half again as tall as Dr. Jericho. Mr. Meister let out a gasp of surprise, sending goose bumps up and down Joshua’s arms. The new arrival was a Riven, but not quite a Mordin, despite the huge size. This was something else.
Wide pale eyes, empty and unfocused. Ashen, drooping flesh, like an abandoned snakeskin. Slender arms that reached all the way to the floor. Hands that were almost creatures unto themselves, as broad as school desks, with fingers a foot long or more.
Worst of all, the creature was shirtless, and a large oval stone was buried in the sagging flesh of his chest—a Tan’ji. This was the source of the faint golden light Joshua had seen, somehow familiar. The stone glowed like the dim reflection of the sun on cloudy waters.
“Let me introduce you to Grooma,” Dr. Jericho said. “Keeper of Aored. He is Dorvala.” He turned and looked Joshua in the eye, obviously wanting to make sure that Joshua understood the word. “A Maker.”
A Maker. The same as Brian. That was why the creature’s Tan’ji looked so familiar—the oval stone buried in his chest was a Loomdaughter, just like Tunraden, but even larger. Aored, Dr. Jericho had named it. With it, this massive and miserable Grooma had the power to shape the Medium, to
create new Tanu.
Mr. Meister looked grim. Not afraid, exactly, but . . . resigned. Watching his face, Joshua slowly pieced together a worrisome thought. Makers were extremely rare. Only nine Loomdaughters had ever been made, and many had been destroyed. Every Tanu that ever existed had been created either with the Starlit Loom itself—the very first Tan’ji—or with one of the Nine. Brian, therefore, was one of the greatest secrets the Wardens had. Surely the Riven guarded Grooma just as carefully. The fact that Dr. Jericho was revealing the Dorvala now, letting Joshua and Mr. Meister see Aored . . .
It couldn’t mean anything good.
“Are you frightened?” Dr. Jericho asked Joshua, strolling over to him, bending down like a giant mantis.
“Yes,” Joshua said. His eyes drifted to Grooma, lurking hugely in the shadows.
“How strange it must be for you. Thrust into a war you barely understand, mere days before it will be won.”
“Or lost,” Mr. Meister called out.
“Do not be afraid of Grooma, Joshua,” Dr. Jericho murmured, almost sweetly. “Instead, fear the man who calls to you now. Fear the lies that spill from him like breath.” He spread his great hand against his own chest. “I will tell you no lies. I will tell you the truth.”
“I don’t believe you,” Joshua said. “I won’t.”
“What cannot be denied must be believed,” said Dr. Jericho. “And even Mr. Meister will not deny what I tell you now, though he never had the courage to tell you himself.”
“Tell me what?”
“Do you know why we fight, Joshua? Why we Kesh’kiri—the Riven, as you call us—battle the Wardens at every turn?”
“I don’t care why,” Joshua lied.
Dr. Jericho went on as if he hadn’t heard. “The conflict is a simple one. The Wardens believe that the Mothergates are fated to die. They guard the Mothergates, refusing to heal them, refusing to keep the source of the Medium alive. The Wardens are determined instead to perish alongside the Mothergates—to wither away as the Medium ceases to flow and the bond of every Tan’ji breaks forever, dispossessing us all.” He leaned down into Joshua’s face. “We Kesh’kiri, on the other hand, recognize that the Wardens are fools.” Then he grinned, baring tiny white teeth as sharp as glass.