by Ted Sanders
Horace frowned up at Gabriel. “How come you never told me about Samuel?” he said. He tried to sound causal, but listening to his own voice echoing softly in the hall, he sounded grim.
Gabriel turned his sightless gaze toward him. “I never met Samuel. He was gone before I was born.”
“But you knew about him. You knew the story.”
“Bits, yes. This is not the place to tell it.”
And it wasn’t, obviously. But Horace hadn’t come here to use the Fel’Daera, and holding it now made it impossible not to think of the boy—or man?—who had held it last.
“Tell me one thing,” Horace said. “Tell me the shortest version you know.”
Gabriel considered a moment. He tapped the Staff of Obro against the ground. “This is the short version: Samuel wanted to fix everything. He reasoned that if the problem was caused by the tangles between multiple universes, the fix was simple. Let there be only one universe.”
Horace almost dropped the box. One universe. One future. One willed path. A single future, constantly known, and all the others erased. “But he couldn’t do that, could he?”
“The doing of an impossible thing is never the danger,” Gabriel said. “It is the trying.” He nodded in the direction of the Fel’Daera. “I listen well, Horace. I know things Mr. Meister thinks I do not. I know why you are afraid to use the Fel’Daera now, and I respect those fears. But the time for such fears is long past.”
Horace opened the box, being careful not to look inside. “Thank you,” he said. “But that’s not for you to decide.”
He thrust the open box toward April. “Here. This is the best I can do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Crickets. We’ll send the crickets. They’ll arrive right before we come back, and they won’t have time to scatter far. You’ll be able to listen to them, right here.”
Gabriel started laughing. Not in a mean way, Horace thought. Meanwhile April pressed the jar of crickets to her belly.
“That’s so . . . strangely brilliant,” she said.
“I think that’s maybe my specialty.” He blushed as he said it.
“And they’ll survive?” she asked.
“Yes, but . . .” Horace reasoned it through, thinking back to the nights with Rip van Twinkle, the firefly he’d sent through the Fel’Daera, several nights in a row. The little bug remained the only living thing Horace had ever sent traveling, and he had retired in good health. “But I think you will not want to be in the heads of these crickets when I close the box.”
“I think you’re right,” April said. Still frowning faintly, she unscrewed the lid of the jar and tipped it into the Fel’Daera. Four or five crickets tumbled onto the smooth blue glass, skittering. One of them hopped out before Horace got the lid closed. And when it closed, the familiar tingle shivered up his arms. They were gone.
“Twenty minutes,” he said.
April fiddled her fingers at the floor. “And then it’ll rain crickets.”
“It sounds lovely,” said Gabriel. “Let us go.”
They walked slowly through Sanguine Hall. The golem had torn at the walls in its frenzy to get to the Wardens, and the floor was coated in grit and raw chunks of rock. As they walked, Horace began to notice shining bits of metal strewn among the debris, tiny carved blades like serrated scimitars. Thousands of them.
The sa’halvasa. A Tanu like the golem and the mal’gama, the massive cloud of tiny, scythe-winged creatures had once been the protector of Sanguine Hall. There was no Nevren here like there was at the Warren’s main entrance, but the Wardens—Mr. Meister, to be honest—foolishly thought the sa’halvasa would be enough. Having survived the sa’halvasa himself, Horace could understand why. The little scythewings fed on the energy of Tan’ji, descending in a swarm on any Keeper who tried to make it through the corridor. And if you panicked—if you even moved—they would cut you to ribbons. Horace reached up to touch his cheek, where his own hard-earned cut was still healing. But now the fearsome sa’halvasa was dead, destroyed in a furious battle with the golem.
When they reached the hall’s end, they stopped and sent a second batch of crickets through the Fel’Daera, at April’s suggestion—the range of the Ravenvine was limited, less than a hundred feet or so. Then they stepped through another massive breach in the stone, more of the golem’s handiwork, and onto a precarious ledge over a narrow shaft. One of the Wardens’ warm amber lights burned gently from the ceiling overhead, spilling a spiral of soft illumination into the pit below. Scarcely wider than a man, but well over a hundred feet deep, the shaft descended into darkness. A wrought-iron ladder that Horace remembered well clung to one side. At the bottom of the shaft lay the Gallery, and within it, the entrance to the hall of kairotics.
“We don’t know what’s down there,” Horace said.
“Let me go first,” said Gabriel, reaching out with his staff to find the ladder.
“No, let me go,” April said. She unscrewed the jar of crickets and reached out over the ledge, sprinkling it gently. Three crickets tumbled free and dropped into the darkness below. Her eyes went hazy and distant.
“Whoa,” she said. “It’s weird to be falling off a cliff and not be freaking out about it. It’s kind of nice—not that I’ve ever fallen off a cliff.” She jumped a little, her eyes widening. “Okay, they’re down.”
“Did it hurt?” Horace asked.
“Not remotely. I see the doorway to the Gallery. Or what used to be the doorway. It’s just another hole now.” A wrinkle of dismay swept across her face. This was the door she had closed on Mr. Meister after he’d broken his leg, leaving him to the golem. Horace knew it wasn’t a pleasant memory.
April rubbed her arm. “I’m sorry I’m not better at this, you guys. I was nervous about coming back here, and I should have practiced more. This ears-in-my-elbows thing is pretty weird.” She flexed her arm, and her jaw for some reason. “I hear Riven down there, in the Gallery. I’m not sure how far.”
“Keep listening,” Gabriel said. “Let us head down.”
One after the other they descended the steep ladder that led down the shaft. Going down was much easier than up, much to Horace’s relief, though the rungs were still painfully far apart.
As they climbed, the smell of brimstone grew strong, and Horace could hear the Mordin now himself, talking and laughing in low tones somewhere in the Gallery. They dismounted at the bottom, into a pile of rubble. Now Horace saw the opening the golem had torn through the wall into the Gallery. The Mordin weren’t close, but it was impossible to say how far, or whether they were the only Riven that lay ahead. Dumping a cricket or two into her hand, April crept to the opening and tossed them through. One of them began to chirp rhythmically, making them all freeze.
“You brought a boy,” Horace whispered.
“I can hear that, Horace,” April hissed back.
They listened, waiting, the chirping of the cricket like a tiny alarm. “The Mordin are off to the left,” April reported. “They’re not paying any attention. Not yet.”
After twelve tense seconds, the cricket stopped.
“Okay, go,” April said gruffly. “Go now.”
Gabriel gathered them together, holding the Staff of Obro in front of him. “Stay close,” he said. “Stay low. I’ll keep you hidden.”
And then the humour enveloped them.
Horace was used to the humour by now, and it had saved him more than once, but he still dreaded it. Sightless gray, and sounds drifting as though they were underwater. He trusted Gabriel, and Gabriel’s perfect knowledge of everything that was happening in the humour, but even the Keeper of the Staff of Obro had no idea what was happening beyond its borders. In a battle, Gabriel could throw the humour wide, enveloping the hapless enemies within. But now the goal was to keep the humour small, and to trust that the Mordin outside wouldn’t see the slippery wrinkle that indicated its presence.
They crept into the Gallery, Horace struggling to find purchase through
the rubble on feet he could not see. He kept a small, firm grip on Gabriel’s shirt, letting the Keeper lead. Behind him, April clung steadily to his other hand.
Gabriel guided them into the Gallery, which was a long corridor stretching left and right. They found the far wall and pressed themselves against it.
“I can’t tell what’s going on,” said April. “My crickets are like . . . looking at a wall or something. I can hear the Mordin still, but I can’t tell where they are. I need another cricket.” Through the humour, Horace heard the jar cracking open. “They call me the Cook County cricket flicker,” April murmured. Then a soft tik, crisp and sharp. Horace pictured the cricket appearing out of nowhere, tumbling into the Gallery. “Okay,” April said. “Oh god.”
“What is it?” said Gabriel.
“There’s a Mordin right outside. He saw the cricket. He’s looking at it. He’s looking around.”
Suddenly a strong arm wrapped itself around Horace’s shoulders. He cried out.
“It’s only me,” said Gabriel. “Get close. Get tight. I’m making the humour as small as I can.” Gabriel squeezed, crushing Horace against another body. April. Her hair caught in his mouth. He tasted grass.
“Stay still,” Gabriel said. “April?”
“He’s still looking. He’s coming closer—” Suddenly she spasmed violently. She gagged, grunting, and then started to groan.
“What happened?” said Horace.
“He stepped on the cricket. Killed her. While I was in her head. Oh my . . .” She gagged again.
“Sit tight,” Gabriel said. “Be calm.”
But April obviously wasn’t satisfied being blind. The jar opened again, and there was another soft tik.
“Okay, better,” April said. “Oh, that was bad. That’s never happened to me before. I felt my guts, like, squish—”
“That’s okay,” said Horace. “Just tell us what’s happening.”
“The Mordin’s already moving on. We’re good. And we have a useful cricket. She’s looking down the hallway. Those Mordin I heard talking are headed toward the Maw. They’re leaving the Gallery. And so is the cricket killer.”
“Good,” said Gabriel. “Tell me when we’re clear, and I’ll take down the humour. Then Horace can use his jithandra to find the door.”
“How will I know where to find it?” Horace asked.
“Remember that the door is not really a door,” said Gabriel. “It is the idea of a door, and therefore it has no absolute location. But it always exists somewhere within the Gallery, and once the light of your jithandra falls upon it, it will reveal itself.”
“Wow, okay,” Horace said. “And then I just . . . have the idea of opening it?”
April laughed, but Gabriel made no sound.
“Uh,” Horace said. “Because it’s . . . you know . . . the idea of a door?”
“It opens like an ordinary door,” said Gabriel flatly.
“Okay,” Horace said. “Got it. And once we’re inside, how will we find the astrolabe?”
“If Mr. Meister did not tell you precisely where to find it, you’ll have to search. You’ll find all sorts of Tanu related to kairotics—to the altering of space and time—but I doubt if anyone’s been in there for months. Most of the halls in the Gallery are a mess. No one has had the time to catalog the inventory in years. You may have a hard time finding the astrolabe, but Mr. Meister would not have put it in a careless place.”
“You’re talking like you’re not coming in there with us,” Horace said.
“Are we in the clear?” Gabriel asked, not bothering to reply. “Are the Mordin gone?”
“Yes, we’re clear,” April said. “Are you coming with us?”
The humour came down with a soft ripple. The long hall of the Gallery stretched out to the right and left, dark and empty. Horace pulled his jithandra from his shirt, letting its blue light spill into the black. He was hoping he’d get lucky, that the door to the hall of kairotics would be right here. But no doorway appeared.
April turned to Gabriel. “Are you coming with us?” she asked again.
“I am not. There is another item here Mr. Meister wants me to retrieve.”
“What item?” Horace asked. “And from where?”
“It has no name. I expect to find it in Brian’s workshop.”
April pursed her lips mischievously. “Will we get to see this mystery item?”
Gabriel turned his milky blue eyes toward her, seeming to look right at her. “I do not expect to be able to hide it from you,” he said. And with that he vanished. Horace’s eyes slid over the spot where Gabriel had just been standing, refusing to see the humour that cloaked him now.
“I thought we were done with mysteries,” Horace said.
“It wouldn’t be the Warren without mysteries,” April replied.
By silent agreement, they turned and headed deeper into the Gallery, away from the Maw and the Great Burrow beyond. As they walked, the blue light of the jithandra shone along the walls. But there was nothing. Only stone.
And then, just as Horace was about to suggest they would have to double back, a doorway appeared, materializing out of nowhere. A towering slab of metal, with a heavy handle nearly at eye height—made for Altari, of course.
With a nod to April, Horace reached out, heaving. The handle turned with a soft screech, and the door opened onto blackness. Inside, the light of the jithandra was swallowed completely, illuminating nothing.
“How is this supposed to work?” Horace said.
“Maybe we have to go in,” April suggested. “Maybe the room won’t reveal itself until the door is closed. It’s just the idea of a door, remember?”
Horace didn’t like it, but it made as much sense as anything else. He stepped into the blackness, April at his side. The door swung closed behind them, trapping them in the utter dark. Caged in a void. Horace’s claustrophobia swelled up viciously. His heart swooned and pounded. He groped madly for the door.
And then the room slowly bloomed to life. A pleasant light swelled, faintly blue, revealing a round room with a domed ceiling rising high above. A great stone hawk was set in the dome’s peak—a leestone. The sight was a comfort, but right now Horace was far more comforted to see that the tall metal door was still there behind them.
“Wow,” said April. “Really wow.”
The place was packed. It reminded Horace of nothing so much as the House of Answers, but far less organized. No labeled bins here, just shelves and tables piled high, stacks of oddments, like a magician’s garage sale gone mad.
April didn’t hesitate. She waded right in and began digging around. Horace wandered in more slowly, surveying the mess. A glorious mess. He ambled along a stretch of dark cubbies and high shelves. They were packed with all manner of timepieces and other unrecognizable Tanu, from the mystifying to the merely odd, from the exquisitely pristine to the plainly busted.
An hourglass filled with black sand. The sand was gathered in the top chamber, pressed to the top, defying gravity. Horace itched to turn it over, but didn’t dare.
An orrery, a mechanical model of the solar system, with a glowing sun at the center. It wasn’t to scale—with a golf-ball sized sun like this, the earth should have been smaller than a period, and at least a dozen feet away. Neptune—the planet—should have been somewhere at the opposite end of the Warren, near Vithra’s Eye. But these inaccuracies were easy to overlook, because this orrery had no arms. The planets floated in their orbits around the fiery sun with no support whatsoever, each of them spinning slowly. It reminded Horace of the Laithe.
Leaning against the wall, a grandfather clock, clearly broken, its pendulum standing loose by its side. Inside the bob of the pendulum was another tiny clock, with a minuscule pendulum of its own.
A small brass top, standing upright atop a concave slab of glass. It looked motionless, but when Horace bent to get a better look, he realized the top was spinning. It balanced on a small spherical tip of gleaming red, like a ruby. He g
lanced over at April, who was rummaging swiftly but methodically through a massive set of tiny drawers that resembled a card catalog. Open, peek, and close. Open, peek, and close.
“Hey,” she said as she pulled out a glass sphere about the size of a baseball from one of the drawers.
Horace went over. Could this be the Altari version of an astrolabe? But no. Instead, inside the sphere, a tiny tree was growing before their eyes, sprouting branches and leaves. As they watched, a single flower bloomed on the tree and slowly became a fruit, plump and purple. The fruit ripened and dropped to the ground, and began to rot. The leaves of the tree browned and fell, and the tree withered. It toppled over, splintering, turning to dust. Within moments, where the fruit had fallen, a new sapling began to grow, starting the cycle again.
“What would even be the point of something like this?” Horace asked, awed but confused.
“Beauty is its own reward, Horace,” said April, her face alight as she watched the tree begin anew.
Horace blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” she replied. “I’m just saying, it’s important to appreciate the beautiful things. Especially now.” To Horace’s surprise, she tucked the everlasting tree into a pocket of her dress and then flicked her fingers at him, shooing him away. “Go find the whatsit. Gabriel will be back soon.”
Horace went on searching, growing more nervous by the moment. What if they couldn’t find the astrolabe? He encountered a magnifying glass as wide as a hula hoop, a toy train on a track shaped like a figure eight, a splendid dollhouse that looked disconcertingly real, a pile of broken pottery shards. He reached for the shards, curious. As soon as his hand got near, they sprang to life. In a flash, with a soft earthy rustle, they assembled themselves into a tall flask. Steam rose from the top. Horace pulled his hand away. The flask crumbled to pieces once more.
“What will it look like, again?” April called.
“Like a disk, probably.”