The Chestnut King

by N. D. Wilson

  And then it twisted, bent sharply, and doubled back.

  Henry stopped, breathing heavily, coughing on the stale air and dust. The hall ran straight in front of him, straight as far as his flashlight could shine, straight and sloping down.

  Henrietta panted behind him. “Henry, I have no idea what you did back there, but those were not normal dandelions.”

  Zeke laughed, coughing. “You think?”

  “They looked like they were made of fire. And one shot some rock in my eye.”

  Henry moved forward slowly, shining his flashlight into doorways. He didn’t want to be moving down, not even down a slight slope. He wanted stairs. He sneezed and rubbed his nose on his sleeve, and then his forehead with the back of his hand. He was sweating. “All dandelions are made of fire.”

  “Is the guy with the witch in him going to die?” Henrietta asked. “I’d think anyone would with fire dandelions growing in his chest.”

  Henry leaned into an arch. Stairs. A tight little spiral, but going down.

  “He won’t die,” he said. Henrietta was leaning her backpack against a wall, with fingers locked on top of her head. “And we have to hurry. He’ll be following us soon. He’s a fingerling.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” Henrietta said. “But you should have killed him.”

  Henry stopped. They’d left Coradin on his hands and knees. He could have cut the finger off. The hatchet was right there on the floor. But he hadn’t expected his knife to work so well, and he hadn’t known what would happen when he connected his fire to his father’s old vines. He’d been in a rush to get out of that awful crypt and nothing more.

  She was right. Henry knew he wouldn’t be feeling nearly as frantic if Coradin were dead. But he couldn’t worry about that now. He spotlit a doorway on the other side. Stairs. And this time, going the right direction.

  “Right,” Henry said. “We’ll try this.”

  “Henry,” Zeke said, pointing his light down the hall. “Look.”

  Henry lifted his own flashlight. A group of shrunken people, huddling together, were inching toward them. Henry handed his cousin the pyramid and dropped his backpack. He pulled out three more pieces of jerky and whipped them down the floor of the hall.

  The little group froze, all sniffing. And then, scuffling and shrieking like gulls over bread, they began to fight.

  “You know,” Henrietta said, “we might need those. Next time toss one of the sandwiches.”

  Henry pulled off his cloak, folded it roughly, and rammed it under a strap on his backpack. Pulling the pack back on, he took the pyramid from Henrietta and pointed his flashlight at the stairs.

  “Up,” he said. “Hope it goes all the way up.”

  Henrietta put a hand on Henry’s backpack, and Zeke put a hand on hers. Henry stepped into the cramped, tunneled spiral, and he began to climb.

  The stairway was not much wider than his shoulders, and the ceiling, peaked in the center, was only a foot above his head. The stairs themselves were shallow, four inches each at most, but worn even thinner in the center. A coat of dust had settled over it all, and Henry swirled up a cloud as he went, quick-stepping at a pace he hoped he wouldn’t have to keep up for long. Zeke began sneezing first, and then Henrietta, but Henry didn’t slow down. Twisting around a central stone column, they climbed, and Henry dragged his fingers along the wall, brushing them over rotting wood doors, or flicking his flashlight into openings as they passed, hoping for some sign that they were no longer belowground. His legs felt like they were filling with sand and grew heavier with each twist, with each new doorway he left behind, with every step and every new cloud of dust.

  They wouldn’t exactly be hard for Coradin to track. Not that he would need a stairwell breathing out an endless cloud of dust, or the three sets of footprints that had plowed it up. He had something better. He had gray strings that would track Henry wherever he went. Coradin would track the smell and the rot of Nimiane’s blood in Henry’s flesh.

  Henry bit his lip and pushed his tired legs on. How far underground had they been? Six stories? Seven? He should have killed Coradin. Caleb would have. His dad would have. Anastasia probably would have. But Henry had run away, and now he had to keep running. He had to run until he faced Coradin and cut his puppet strings. Until he faced the other fingerlings and cut theirs. And then, when the witch made more, he’d have to face them. Unless his scar grew first, and his face turned gray and his eyes went glassy and the witch could speak out of his mouth like she had out of Coradin’s. Unless she gave him his own finger. Henry knew that he would be running until the witch died. The undying witch. Even if his father trapped her again. Even if she was resealed back into Nimroth’s foul crypt beneath the ancient streets of Endor, her blood would still send down its roots through Henry’s body.

  Henry lifted his foot for another stair and staggered forward onto a landing. Henrietta let go of his backpack and dug a knuckle into her side. Both she and Zeke had pulled their shirts up over their noses and mouths. Their foreheads were gray except where drips of sweat had drawn clean lines.

  As the dust caught up to him, Henry coughed.

  “You throw up quite a wake,” Zeke said.

  Henry swung his light around the room. “Sorry. You want to trade?”

  “There’s more?” Henrietta groaned.

  Henry nodded at the walls. “Maybe. What do you think?”

  The room was an octagon of black stone. The stairway down was on one face, and stairs continued up directly beside it. The other six faces held doorways, all of them open, all of them small, all of them leading down narrow halls.

  Henrietta walked to the center of the small room and looked into each door. “I don’t know. I don’t see daylight anywhere. That’s what I’m really hoping for. You think we’re still belowground?”

  Zeke stepped into one of the low doorways. “Long and straight,” he said. “No light and no fresh air.” He moved to the next one. “Same.”

  Henry set the pyramid down and watched the dust curl up beneath it. “Okay,” he said. “I know that the undying Endorians all went crazy, and their kids and grandkids built a huge network of crypts and sealed them up so they wouldn’t have to deal with them. It makes sense that Nimroth and his family would be in one of the deepest—nobody would want him around. But we’ve been climbing for a while.”

  Henrietta sat down.

  “We have to hurry.” Henry kicked the bottom of her shoe. “I really hope he is, but somehow I don’t think Coradin can be too far behind us.” He wiped his forehead on his arm. “Man, I wish I knew how to seal doors. He’d be stuck right now. And Nimroth and Nimiane’s crazy sister are loose now, too, though I doubt they’ll follow us.”

  Zeke turned back from the last door. “Coradin’s the one who followed us through the cupboard?”

  “Right,” Henry said. “He has three notches in his left ear.”

  “And a dandelion in his chest.” Henrietta puffed loose curls out of her face, but she didn’t stand up. “How do you know all this, Henry?”

  “He told me his name when he tried to catch me in Hylfing,” Henry said. “And I have dreams. But we really need to decide which way to go.”

  “Whatever you think, Henry,” Zeke said. “I don’t know the first thing about any of this. We’ll do what you tell us.”

  Henrietta snorted. “Will we?” she asked.

  Zeke looked at her. “Yeah. We will.”

  Henrietta raised her eyebrows. “Maybe Henry should tell us a little more first, then we could help him decide.”

  Zeke shook his head and looked at Henry. “Which is it? Pick a doorway or keep climbing?”

  Henrietta pushed herself up and crossed her arms. Her eyebrows were still high, creasing the dust on her forehead.

  Henry turned around in the center of the room. Dust piles drifted around his shoes. “Up,” he said. “Henrietta, you can go first this time.”

  “You go first,” Zeke said. “Same as last time.�
�

  Henry looked at Zeke and then at Henrietta. She shrugged at him and nodded at the stairs. Henry picked up the pyramid, moved into the stairwell, and waited for Henrietta.

  She stared at Zeke for a moment and then pulled the collar of her shirt up over her nose and mouth and stepped into place. “Watch yourself, Ezekiel Johnson,” she said quietly.

  Zeke smiled. “I’m pretty sure you’ll do that for me.”

  Henry tried not to kick up as much dust, but it was hopeless. He couldn’t move at all without ashen clouds swirling up around his legs. He felt bad for Henrietta and worse for Zeke and not just because they were breathing dust. Neither of them seemed to have a sense of what they were in for. Yeah, they’d been willing to crawl through the black cupboard, and they’d already been trapped in Nimiane’s crypt, but he should have told them about the fingerlings. He should have realized that they would still be following, that he was no better than a fish on a line. He had gray strands trailing him, blood in him that they could sense.

  Suddenly, relief surged over him, relief that they hadn’t stayed in Kansas longer. If Coradin had come through the crypt cupboard, that meant that he’d found Henry’s Kansas door in the cistern in Hylfing and gone into the attic. If Henry had stayed in Zeke’s house, Coradin would have come to him there. He sneezed. How far could they track him? Through worlds? Could they find him in Boston? How many cupboards would he have to jump to throw Coradin and the other eight off his scent? Or could he ever shake them?

  Had they climbed another four stories? Five?

  A window loomed in the wall beside Henry. A window filled with smooth stone, but still a window. Were they close? Another one. Henry slowed and pushed on it, but it was as firm as the wall itself.

  “Are these windows?” Henrietta asked behind him.

  “Yeah,” Henry said. “I think we’re close.”

  Henry dragged his fingers across three more as the stairs twisted on, and then he stopped. His hand was on a fourth, and the stone was cracked. Even better, dust was moving slowly down the stairs toward him. The air was moving. It didn’t smell fresh—at least not Kansas fresh—but there probably wasn’t such a thing in this place.

  “What is it?” Zeke asked.

  “The air’s moving.”

  “Well, hurry up,” Henrietta said. “I’d like to breathe again.”

  Henry forgot his rubber legs and hurried forward. Another window, and around the next twist … he was pushing through rubble and found himself standing on a stone octagon, a small platform. But this time, they stood beneath a night sky. There were no stars, and only the faintest hint of moonlight managed to filter through a blanket of clouds. Cool air drifted freely around them, and on every side, the walls were gapped or missing entirely. Rotten beams from what had once been a ceiling sprawled across the floor. Beneath them, bent and angled, there lay a huge bell, tarnished and green.

  Henrietta and Zeke squeezed up beside Henry and stood silently surveying the situation with flashlights.

  “Um,” Henrietta said. “Henry, are we in a bell tower?” She climbed over a beam, walked to the edge of the platform, and looked down. She sighed and turned her flashlight on Henry’s face. “We’re higher than I’ve ever been before.” She swung her flashlight around, and its light caught the spires of neighboring towers and the distant teeth of rooflines.

  Henry followed her to the edge, leaned over the low rubble, and pointed his flashlight down the side of the black tower. It fell away smoothly, spotted only with dust and windows, until its rounded surface seamed into the wall of a bigger building and eventually, at the very bottom, reached a pale street. The thin gray street ran on a little ways and then emptied into a city circle, just visible from their perch. The buildings around them were a few stories shorter, and the flashlights brushed over silent windows and gaping doors.

  Henry sat on a beam and put his head in his hands. “Turn it off,” he said, and flipped the switch on his own flashlight. “Anyone watching will know we’re here.”

  Henrietta and Zeke both killed their lights. Henrietta turned. Henry could barely make out her shape. Or he thought he could. “Well,” she said. “On the bright side, we are definitely aboveground. And we don’t have to climb any more stairs. For some reason, I thought we’d have some daylight. I’m kind of glad we’re not down in those streets right now. Ouch.” Henry heard rocks crack together, and then she sat beside him. “Now give me a piece of jerky.”

  Henry set the pyramid on the beam beside him and unzipped his backpack. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This really isn’t good.” He handed Henrietta the jerky.

  “Jerky doesn’t go bad,” she said, and he heard her rip it with her teeth.

  “No.” He smiled despite himself. “I’m sure the jerky’s fine. Everyone here seems to like it.”

  “I think this is as good a place as any,” Zeke said from the dark. “It’s not exactly expected. We could stick here until daylight and then look for your dad.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Henry said. “We can’t stop. We can’t stick. Not until we’re ready to fight. Coradin can find me anywhere. And there’s eight others who can, too.”

  “How?” Henrietta asked.

  “The witch’s blood,” Henry said. He tapped his jaw. “It’s in me. I shouldn’t have brought you here, but I didn’t want to come alone. I’m sorry.”

  Zeke and Henrietta were both silent.

  “Okay,” Henrietta said. “I need to know. What is a fingerling?”

  Henry massaged his cheekbones. He was such an idiot. What had he been planning to do? How would he possibly find his father in an enormous, pitch-black city? It had seemed so easy, like it would all just fall into place. He pulled the necklace out of his shirt and gripped it tight. Now he was sitting at the top of a tower, waiting. Coradin was on the stairs somewhere, climbing. The only question was how far he had come already.

  Henry cleared his throat, and as quickly and as painlessly as he could, he described his dream of the men in the garden and the gray strands he could see growing from the fingerlings’ heads

  “That’s pretty sick,” Henrietta said. “Are they wizards?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said. “Could be, but their power seems more like hers. I want you both to go.”

  “Where?” Zeke asked.

  Henrietta laughed. “Henry, I am not walking back down those stairs. My legs are fried, and some guy with notches in his ear and a finger on his head is coming up the other way.”

  Henry dug through his backpack until he found his own kitchen knife, borrowed from Mrs. Johnson. He’d thrown Henrietta’s. Holding the knife, he stood up.

  “There’s nowhere to go,” Zeke said.

  Henry flicked on his flashlight. Henrietta and Zeke both blinked. He pointed his light down, down on the little pyramid, then he bent over and flipped open the triangle door. “You’re going back to Kansas,” he said.

  Zeke stood up. “Not a chance, Henry.”

  Henrietta laughed. “Now who’s the boss?”

  Henry ignored her. “Listen,” he said. “The witch only cares about me. If you leave, you’ll be fine.”

  “Or,” Henrietta said, “we could throw you off the tower. Then we’d be fine, too. Right?”

  Zeke crossed his arms. “We’re not going anywhere.” He looked at Henrietta. “At least I’m not.”

  “We’re not,” Henrietta said.

  Henry pointed his light down the stairwell. “This was a horrible idea.”

  “There weren’t any better ones,” Zeke said. “You need to find your father.”

  Henrietta hugged herself and shivered. “Now what? Wait?”

  Henry pulled his wadded-up cloak off his backpack and tossed it to his cousin. “I don’t think we should wait. I think we should go down. Maybe he was slow getting out of the crypt.”

  “Maybe we got lucky and Nia ate him,” Henrietta said. “Is this a baseball in your pocket?”

  Henry looked back at his cousin. She
held the ball up in the light.

  “Why do you have a baseball in your pocket? That’s not your handwriting. Henry York Maccabee.” She grinned at Henry. “Richard wrote your name on the ball?”

  Henry nodded and reached out for it. “I took it with me for luck when I went out with Fat Frank before … well, before everything.” Henrietta handed it to him; he gripped the leather and the strings and tucked it into his sweatshirt pouch.

  “I’m sure Richard would love to be here right now,” Henrietta said. “He’s worse than the raggant.”

  “Henry,” Zeke said, stepping closer to the stair mouth. “Listen.”

  Henry clicked off his light, and the three of them held as still as the stone. A dry breeze shifted the ash and dust around their feet. Night, black and heavy, swallowed them.

  Drifting out of the stairwell came the sound of shuffling feet. Henry’s ears strained, and he swallowed hard. Now was the time. Coradin would die here on top of a ruined bell tower. He would have to. Henry didn’t want to think about the other option. He blinked. Something about the sound was strange. There were more than two feet.

  “Is that an echo?” Henrietta whispered. “Please tell me that’s an echo.”

  The shuffling grew louder. Feet tromping in and out of sync. Lots of feet. Henry’s heart sank. His skin went clammy.

  “That’s not an echo,” Zeke said.

  Voices rose out of the stairs.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Anastasia looked back over her shoulder at the city. The pale walls and spires were glowing in the moonlight. Two galleys stood out in the silvered water of the harbor.

  They were going to see someone the pirate faeries called the Chestnut King. That much she understood. But whether he was a real king or not, she hadn’t expected this. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but definitely not a long walk into the hills.

  The faeries had invisibly led them through the streets, through the square, and out the rear gate. She’d been surprised to see red-shirted soldiers still in the square and around the hall. She’d been surprised to see a three-bodied serpent still flapping over the city.