Thinking of Famine calling the Conqueror King White—Famine, who was now nothing more than a broken doll discarded on the ground—Billy Ballard let fly his poisoned arrow.
His aim was true. The shaft slammed into the Conqueror’s stomach and faded upon contact. Even as the White Rider snarled with fury, Billy shot a second arrow, and then a third, a fourth, one-two-three-four, all with the smooth precision of a master archer. The Bow’s power had awoken Billy’s confidence, and he welcomed it without reservation. They worked together, the White and Pestilence, as he unleashed disease.
Like Billy, the Conqueror didn’t try to get out of the way. Each arrow struck home, boring into his torso and chest, but instead of infecting the man, the attacks merely enraged him.
“Your fault,” he roared, throwing his arm back as if to pitch a fastball. “All your fault!”
The White rocketed at Billy, who barely got the Bow braced in time for impact. The bolt slammed into the black wood hard enough to knock him backwards.
“All of this, because of you!” the Conqueror screeched, hurling another blast, one that sent Billy to his knees. “You tricked me into leaving the Greenwood!”
Billy, off-balance and furious, shouted, “You don’t get to be mad at me! You’re the one who tricked me!” The words flew out of his mouth, desperate for freedom after simmering in venomous hatred for ten years, and he couldn’t control his tongue even if he tried. “You tricked me when I was a kid, got me to agree to something I didn’t understand! Grownups are supposed to protect kids, but you betrayed me!”
And the White Rider paused in his fury.
Billy clambered to his feet and nocked an arrow. “You betrayed me,” he said again, “and I didn’t even know you.” He let fly.
The Conqueror didn’t move as the arrow tore into him. He stared owlishly at Billy, peering at his face. “Yes,” he said slowly in his phlegm-filled voice. “I remember you, Billy Ballard.”
“You stole my future,” Billy spat, aiming another arrow.
“And you sealed my fate.” The Conqueror let out a bitter laugh. “You should have left me in the Greenwood.”
“And you should have left me alone to play in the sandbox.”
“Should, could, would.” Another laugh, this one tinged with madness. “Do you like the Bow, little boy Pestilence? Do you think you’ll grow into it?”
“I don’t want it,” Billy said tightly, still aiming at the Conqueror’s chest. “I never wanted any of this.”
“And I don’t want the world to end,” said the White Rider. “And yet here we are.”
“We’re here because of you,” shouted Billy. “Don’t you see that? What you’re doing now is going to kill everyone!”
And it was; Billy still felt the pressure of the White all around him, felt the bacteria and viruses and germs and carcinogens tainting the air, waiting impatiently to be released upon the world. The Conqueror might not have delivered his plague-o-gram yet, but he’d stuffed and sealed the envelope.
“Little boy Pestilence,” laughed the Conqueror. “You still don’t understand. I’ve seen the end of the world, and it arrives on a sheet of white. This sheet,” he said, stomping his foot on the snow-covered ground.
“Because of you,” Billy said. His fingers ached from keeping the tension in the bowstring, but he didn’t want to fire, not if he could keep the Conqueror talking, maybe get him to see that what he was trying to do couldn’t possibly work.
“Because of him,” said the Conqueror, his voice dropping to a hiss. “The world echoes his mood. When it warms, he is content with his lot. But when it grows colder, then despair, little boy Pestilence! Despair!”
So this is what it’s like to talk to a crazy person. “You’re not making sense,” Billy said.
“The world is nothing more than a reflection of his soul. And his soul is black and twisted and cold, so very cold. A sheet of ice.” The White Rider stomped his foot once more. “He gives everything life, and life begets all evils in the world.”
Billy was completely lost. “What are you talking about?”
“All of this,” the Conqueror said, motioning to the land and beyond, “is because of Death.”
Billy stared at the White Rider, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. How did he convince an insane Horseman that he was, in fact, insane?
“Death is here, right now,” said the Conqueror.
If only, Billy thought. His arms had begun to shake from the pressure of the bowstring, so he finally removed the arrow. It vanished as soon as it stopped touching the string. Maybe it popped into Pestilence’s quiver, wherever that was. Billy didn’t know, and he didn’t care; he was still working to keep the Bow itself raised in front of him. He didn’t dare lower it, in case the Conqueror decided to attack him again, but it was getting harder to keep his arms raised.
“Death is in all things,” the Conqueror continued, babbling now, his words like wasps in Billy’s ears. “He is the alpha and the omega, and we exist only on his whim. And he is done with whimsy! I’ve seen the end of the world,” shouted the White Rider, pointing to the icy ground, “and it begins with a sheet of white!”
“It begins with you,” Billy said through gritted teeth. “But you can stop it, Mita. Call back the White.”
A pause, and for a moment, Billy thought that his plea had actually worked. But then the Conqueror said, “No.”
“Call it back!”
“No.”
Brandishing the Bow, Billy demanded once more, “Mita! Call back the White!”
The Conqueror grinned hugely; on his brow, the Crown gleamed. “No!”
The word echoed over the frozen wasteland, slowly fading to the whine of arctic wind. The silence stretched taut; around them, disease pressed against the air, eager to fly free.
In Billy’s unsteady hands, the Bow waivered. What do I do now?
He was at a loss. He couldn’t stop the Conqueror; Billy knew that now, as surely as he knew his own name. The arrows were useless—after all, how could sickness affect the one person who controlled all health? Horror clutched at his heart, squeezing it in panic, and dread filled his stomach like acid. He’d failed. He’d come all this way, had pushed himself further than he’d ever gone, and it was all for nothing.
A small, still voice whispered: Focus.
Alone and afraid, Billy focused. He gripped the Bow tightly, felt the weight in his hands, how evenly balanced it was, how solid . . . and in that moment, he had an idea, born of equal parts revelation and desperation.
He lowered his weapon and closed the distance between himself and the mad king. His voice pitched low, he said, “Your daughter would be so disappointed.”
Rage warped the Conqueror’s pox-riddled face, twisting it into a grotesque lump of wax. “This is for my daughter,” he shrieked to the white-tinged sky, “for all daughters and sons! This is so that no one need ever die again! Sickness will take them all, and then I’ll save them, each and every one of them!” He raised his arms high, urging the plague to go forth. “The world will be bathed in White!”
Billy brought the Bow over his shoulder and lunged forward, swinging the Bow, going for the home run that would win the game. It connected solidly against the Conqueror’s head, denting his skull and knocking the Crown askew. With a shout that would have done War proud, Billy swung the Bow back again, smashing it against the White Rider’s misshapen head. The Bow splintered and cracked—and the Crown flew free. The silver circlet landed in the snow with an unceremonious thump.
The Ice Cream Man blinked, then raised his shaking his hands to touch the doughy mass of his bare forehead.
“Oh,” he breathed, a radiant smile softening the features of his ravaged face. “Plums.”
And then Mita, king of Phrygia, crumbled to ash.
Chapter 22
The White Rider Is Dead . . .
. . . Billy thought wildly, staring at the pile of ashes that had been a man. The Bow is broken and the White Ride
r is dead and I killed him, I killed him, oh God I killed him and I want to go home now. Please, can I go home now?
Around him, the White howled.
The shattered Bow slipped from his numb fingers and landed in the snow with a soft pfft. Billy barely noticed; he was still staring wide-eyed where Mita had died, staring at all that remained of him.
Ashes, ashes, sang five-year-old Billy, We all! Fall! Down!
Fifteen-year-old Billy sank to his knees. He’d stopped the Conqueror—Not stopped, no, I killed him, killed him dead—but it wasn’t enough. Or maybe it would have been enough, but he had run out of time. Even though the Conqueror was dead, Billy still felt the press of sickness upon the air, sensed each bacterium, each virus, felt the rising wave of disease swell higher and higher, a crescendo of pestilence that would drown the world.
His stomach lurched, and Billy vomited noisily on the snow.
You can simply live your life.
Could he walk away now, knowing what would happen if he did? Could he go home and pretend that the world wasn’t about to be blanketed with a plague of Biblical proportion?
The world is always about to end, William Ballard.
Maybe. But if he didn’t do anything about it, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.
He let out a croaking laugh as he wiped his mouth. Granted, he wouldn’t have to live with himself for very long, what with the world ending. Cold comfort, that. He stared at the silver circlet, which lay upon a bed of ice and snow. It looked tarnished, as if its contact with the Conqueror had stained it.
“Will you wear the Crown, Billy Ballard?”
Billy said, “A crown. Like a king?”
“This Crown,” said the Ice Cream Man, motioning to his forehead.
A spasm wracked him, and he shuddered violently. He didn’t want to do this.
“I don’t want to be Pestilence!”
“It matters little what you want. The Conqueror tricked you into agreeing to wear the Crown when the time came. That time is now.”
No, he didn’t want this at all. But it was his penance and his promise. He’d already made his choice—first when he was five and he let the Ice Cream Man tempt him with visions of white horses; and again the other week when he followed Death out of his house because the Pale Rider had asked for Billy’s help; and a third time, just a little while ago, when Death had once again come calling.
In the snow, the silver band winked.
“I can’t give you the White Rider’s Crown,” Death said, “because he wears it still. It would have made you the conqueror of health and sickness alike.”
No, Death couldn’t give him the Crown. But Billy could take it.
He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled over to the circlet that would change him forever. He wasn’t thinking of his mom or his absentee dad, wasn’t thinking of his grandfather—not the Gramps of the past, not the old man of the present. He wasn’t thinking of Marianne. No, Billy was thinking of a blue plush doll, worn with age and love, long packed away in a crate in his attic.
Saying goodbye to his childhood for the last time, he took a deep breath and reached for the Crown. It was a plain silver band, thin and unassuming, and it was surprisingly light in his hands.
Diseased air pressed down on him, squeezing him, making him dizzy. The plague raged within and all around, fighting against its cage, ready to tear its way free.
Billy Ballard placed the Crown upon his brow—
—and the power sears him scorches him burns him alive it’s alive in him in all things it’s everything it’s light it’s light it’s the White and it hurts oh God it hurts him so much and he can’t think past the pain he can’t control it can’t wield it can’t use it and all he wants is to make the pain stop stop stop—
—and light erupted from his skin, fountaining from his pores, his eyes, his mouth. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t hold it back, though he tried frantically; it was like trying to build sandcastles out of smoke as fire cooked his flesh. His body clenched and he threw his head back, giving voice to his agony as the White consumed him from within. He screamed until his throat was raw, and then he screamed anew. Only when his voice failed and his screams were nothing but excruciating silence did he hear Death whisper to him.
You wear the Crown, William. Don’t let the Crown wear you.
It hurts! he cried out. It hurts so much!
You’re fighting it, said Death. Stand tall, William.
I don’t know how!
Of course you do, Death replied, his cool voice like balm. Stand tall, and wear the Crown.
Billy struggled against the pain a moment longer, and then he stopped fighting and gave himself to the White. It wasn’t surrender as much as a leap of faith, the desperation of an atheist in front of a firing squad.
Billy Ballard stood tall.
The White still burned, but now it was a cleansing fire, a purifying flame that revealed his soul and the soul of all living things. He felt the light rush through him and he opened his eyes and saw the light of the world and saw disease starting to worm its way into the light, tainting what it touched, dimming the White and threatening to leech it pale. Billy reached for that infection, grasped it and held tight, but as he tried to destroy it the sickness squirmed out of his grip. He reached for it once more, but this time it eluded him, maneuvered around him as he flailed.
Focus.
Billy felt the White connecting him to all life, blood to blood, and he felt his own blood responding to the disease around him, felt white blood cells swarm and strike. He urged them on and led them to battle, and as they fought he reached deep within himself and summoned more cell soldiers, threw them at the infection that tried to eat the world.
And slowly, the disease weakened.
Strengthened by his success, Billy created more and more cellular warriors and fueled them for their surge. They rushed forward, surrounding the plague and attacking it, fighting until the infection trembled and began to die. If disease had a voice, it would have begged for mercy—and it would have discovered that Billy Ballard was no longer a boy with a silver circlet sloping on his brow; he was the Conqueror, wearing the Crown that gave him control over sickness and health.
Dying, the infection launched itself at its enemy.
Billy absorbed the blow and broke it down until there was nothing but White. It flared brilliantly, blinding the sky, and then the White settled into Billy, wrapped itself around him and clothed him, covered him with a shirt and coat and pants and boots, girding him to face the world.
He was the White Rider, and today the Apocalypse was just a word.
***
He’d done it. He’d stood tall and saved the world.
Drained, Billy sank to his knees. So much for the “standing tall” part. A manic laugh bubbled out of him, and the sound filled the air, taking up the space that just a moment ago had been filled with plague. Billy laughed with relief, with joy, with the pride of a job well done.
And then he saw the black horse nudging the still form of Famine.
His elation faded as he watched the steed nose its way into her coat pocket. It rooted there for a moment, then pulled back, revealing a sugar cube between its teeth. It gently placed the cube on Famine’s mouth, then stepped back and waited. The white confection sparkled like snowflakes in winter starlight, and there it stayed on the Black Rider’s lips, uneaten. The black horse chuffed, then it lowered its sleek head, its mane tangling in the arctic wind. Near it, the white horse nickered softly, but the other steed didn’t respond.
Billy tried to get up, but he couldn’t summon the energy. “Please,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please bring her to me.”
The black horse flattened its ears.
The white steed approached the other horse and blew out a quick burst of air, then nuzzled against the black’s neck. Famine’s steed swiveled to look at Billy, who saw such pain and loss in those glowing white eyes that it stole his breath.
The black horse sighed, in the way that horses do, and then it took one of the Black Rider’s sleeves in its mouth, and the white horse took the other, and together the steeds dragged Famine to where the Conqueror knelt in the snow.
He murmured a thank you as he gazed upon the Black Rider’s face. It was woefully gaunt and pale, and purple splotches stained her mouth and jaw. He whispered, “Plums,” and he didn’t know if that was his voice or Mita’s. He reached for the White, coaxed it to spark enough for him to sense the plague contaminating Famine’s body. She must have been dying even before he’d put on the Crown. Now there was almost nothing left to her but disease. He’d saved the world, but he’d been too late to help the Black Rider.
Mita’s daughter took one last strangled breath, and then she breathed no more.
Billy’s eyes narrowed, and his hands ball into fists. No. He refused to watch her die. He was exhausted, spent, too tired to even stand, but this was Famine, Lady Black, the one who had fascinated the White Rider for eons—the one who reminded Billy of a girl in black who waited for him at home.
He placed his hands upon her head and closed his eyes. And then he stoked the White into a blazing fire, and with it he burned away the disease that had eaten her body from within. It left her desiccated, wasted, and Billy told himself that was wrong, she was supposed to be healthy, and he heard Mita whisper to him, telling him how to turn a battle into a breath, how to stop fighting sickness and start nurturing the body left behind. Billy listened, and with the last of his strength, he dove into the Black Rider’s soul—
***
—and he’s hovering over the floe, looking down at himself working to save the woman in black, and he turns to face the Black Rider floating above him. Do you want me to heal you? he asks in a voice of smoke and spirit, and she gazes at him with black, black eyes and she says, Yes, and so he opens his arms wide and she moves into his embrace, and they merge, Black and White, swirling together until the world is filled with shades of gray—
***
The Black Rider took a shuddering breath, and then she opened her eyes.
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