Storybound

by Marissa Burt

  Snow led her down the rickety stairs and across the classroom. Everything looked spookier at night, and Snow kept stopping to look over her shoulder. Was her mother following them?

  It wasn’t until they had reached the windswept plain around the tower that Una spoke. “Thank you, Snow.” She pulled the hood up on her cloak and started running toward the path.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” Snow demanded.

  “There’s no time,” Una called over her shoulder. “I’ve got to get to Peter.” She took off at a dead sprint.

  Snow didn’t wait to follow her. She wanted answers. And Una had them.

  Snow had to run hard to catch up. Una was much faster than she expected, especially considering she’d just woken from a faint. Snow saw her small form a little ways up the path, the bulging bag thumping against her back. She was close now. Una started across the bridge with Snow right behind her.

  In front of her a shadowy form darted out and reached for Una. The next moment, someone pummeled into Snow and knocked her to the ground. She heard Una’s scream, then a man’s groan.

  “She’s getting away,” he yelled.

  Snow didn’t even have the breath to scream. The cold started at the bottom of her spine and crept up and out to her fingertips. A hand grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. A masked face peered into hers.

  “It’s Thornhill’s brat,” he rasped, and yanked her to her feet. He twisted her arms around behind her, and Snow cried out in pain.

  Just then, her mother’s voice carried across the still air. “Leave her alone,” she said. It was commanding, as though every creature in the woods was compelled to obey her.

  But the masked man just laughed. It sounded like metal dragged over stone. He twisted harder on Snow’s wrists, and she gasped.

  Her mother lifted a pale hand, and a web of light shot out, blinding Snow. There was another flash of light, a brilliant collision that burned Snow’s eyes. She couldn’t see anything.

  She heard a thump. A moan. And then: “Bring her,” said the man with the rasping voice.

  Chapter 25

  Una tore through the underbrush. The satchel of books bumped against her side as she ran. Her heart was galloping in her chest. Every muscle in her body felt tense and alive. She sprinted in what she thought was the direction of Birchwood Hall. She had to get to Peter.

  Was it Thornhill who had grabbed her? Elton? Red? The cold air was sharp in her lungs. She tried to control her breathing, tried to listen for sounds of pursuit. But all she could hear was the crashing of her own feet as she sped through the leaves.

  She could see the glimmer of Birchwood’s lights up ahead. The Hall burst into sight, and she slowed to a walk, bending at her waist to catch her breath. A few students were out, but no one looked twice at her. Everyone was too busy cramming for tomorrow’s examination to notice one girl running through the woods.

  She found Peter in the Woodland Room. He was sitting in a leather chair by the fire, his boots propped up on a coffee table. She walked straight up to him.

  “Una.” He set his feet down and sat up. “You look like a mess.”

  “Peter! You’ve got to come with me.”

  “But the exam. I was just reviewing the unit on Showing versus Telling. I could really use a—”

  “We can’t wait any longer.” She plopped her bag down on the table with a thud. “We’re breaking into Elton’s study. We need answers about the Muses. Tonight.”

  The rocking of the wagon woke her. Snow opened her eyes. Then the pain hit. Her head throbbed, and with every jostle and bump she thought it might split open. She reached up to rub it, but her hands were firmly bound behind her. That was when she started to panic. Her ankles were also tied together. She threw her body backward, pulling hard against her bonds. The knots were strong, and she flopped about, bruising already sore muscles even more. Once her energy was spent, the pain in her head returned, heightened by the new, deeper paths the ropes were making in her flesh. She screwed her eyes shut, counted slowly to three, and opened them again.

  She was in a covered wagon, the hard slats of one side pressing into her back. Boxes of all sizes were strapped securely to the side opposite her, and a pile of old rags sat jumbled up against the driver’s seat. The rags twitched. Snow squinted her eyes in the dimness. More movement, and then Snow spotted the hair.

  “Mother!” she gasped, and her own voice sounded foreign and raw. What was her mother doing here? Then she remembered. The sprint through the darkened forest. The blinding flash of light. The rasping voice.

  The wagon was slowing down. Then it stopped.

  Peter glanced over his shoulder. The door to the Tale Master’s study flickered in the light of Peter’s travel lantern. Una was slumped in the outer-office desk chair, her head nodding as she dozed. At first, it had been hard to find a window in the building that would do. Some were too high up, and others were too small to squeeze through. Then Una had seen it. The tiniest crack. A wooden peg holding a basement pane open. After that, it had been easy to sneak through the deserted corridors and into Elton’s quarters.

  But that was hours ago. The satchel of books perched on the desk in front of her, its contents spread across the surface. All those books. “The Tales are wrong,” Una had said when she first started reading through them. “I know these stories. I’ve read them before—back in my old world—and these are different. Missing characters. Boring endings. Something isn’t right.”

  But Peter hadn’t had a good chance to look at them. He had been too busy with the door. Now Una’s head bobbed over the one book she clutched in her hands. That book had a dragon binding. Peter felt chills every time he touched it. What would happen if they opened it? After all this time, would the book even work? And what would they find if they arrived at Alethia’s house?

  The problem was that the book was locked. It wasn’t a matter of using the fire trick like they had on Jedediah’s Tale. This book wouldn’t even open. The dragon’s tail snaked around the side and clasped the pages securely shut. He and Una had argued about it, but neither could remember exactly how Jedediah had opened Sophia’s book.

  But that wasn’t their only problem. Peter had searched the entire outer office for a key but found nothing. The Tale Master’s study was shut fast against them. Peter studied the door’s surface. Above the old-fashioned-looking keyhole, an ornate metal-worked seal was fastened to the center of the thick wood planks. Peter lightly traced the intricate pattern. Black vines twisted around pieces of armor. Shields and helmets were tangled up with swords and spears. The strange weaponry formed a thick border around a collection of little iron books. He guessed it was supposed to represent how the Tale Master protected the old Tales.

  Peter leaned his forearms against the sharp surface of the seal and hung his head down between them with a sigh. We might as well go back to Birchwood before someone catches us. He pushed back to wake Una and tell her the bad news. That was when he heard the click. He jerked his head back and stared. A tiny helmet had moved a fraction of an inch toward the books.

  “Of course!” he shouted. “The seal is the lock!”

  Una woke with a groan. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “I’ve almost got it open!” Peter pushed hard against one of the vines, and it slid aside. “Una, what do you know about Elton? What kind of lock would he set?” His fingers worked faster now, shifting the moving parts across the seal. “Let’s see. He grew up in the Hollow. He’s in love with Professor Thornhill. What else?”

  Una came up behind him, rubbing her eyes. “Um. He’s the Tale Master,” she said in a sleepy voice.

  “Thanks, Una,” Peter said. “Really helpful. What—” He pushed away from the wall. “That’s it! This was someone else’s office long before it was Elton’s. The first Tale Master of Story, Archimago Mores.”

  He scanned the metal pieces until he found the sword he had seen earlier. He slowly maneuvered each of the pieces out of the way, until the s
word was right over the pile of books.

  Una sounded wide awake now. “Go on, Peter,” she said over his shoulder.

  Peter’s heart thumped hard in his chest. He shifted the sword down, and it sank into place on top of the stack of books. There was a loud click this time. “Gotcha,” he said, as he picked up the little lantern.

  “Very clever.” Una pushed the heavy door back. “Nice job, Peter.”

  Elton’s study looked bare and severe. Someone had been in recently to tidy up. Peter lifted his arm, but the little pool of light only illuminated a small circle in the midst of the dark room. Filing cabinets lined one wall. Opposite them was a cupboard, its doors hanging open and slightly askew. Next to that was a broken glass-fronted bookcase, but there was one thing they all had in common. Everything was empty.

  “Oh no!” Una cried. “We waited too long!” She clutched the dragon book to her chest. “Elton has cleared everything away! Now how will we learn why he’s bringing the Muses back? Or anything about the King?”

  Peter cleared his throat, but Una spun to face him.

  “Don’t bother to argue, Peter,” she said. “Every book in Thornhill’s room had that tree on it. I know—Peter, I know—this all has something to do with the King.”

  Peter swallowed. He wasn’t about to admit that he didn’t know what to believe anymore. Instead he said, “We only have one lantern.” He lifted it higher. “Come on. Maybe there’s some stuff left in his desk.”

  The Tale Master’s desk was also nearly empty, except that a few forgotten scraps of paper lay in the bottom drawer. Una snatched them up eagerly, but they were blank. Peter and Una carefully worked their way around the rest of Elton’s study. The room was quiet except for the sound of their soft footfalls on the old wood floor. They scanned everything for a single clue, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing.

  Peter sat down hard on a nearby chair. They had finally gotten into the Tale Master’s study. But we’re too late.

  “We can’t give up now,” Una said, taking the lantern from him and peering into the open cupboard, which was honeycombed with slots for scrolls. “Maybe he overlooked something.”

  They decided it must have been Elton himself who cleared the place out. Maybe he was worried that the people of Story might find out about the Muses. Or maybe he was afraid Talekeepers curious enough to try and break his enchantments might come nosing around other places as well. Whatever the reason, Peter was ready to go home.

  He thought he heard something and stopped to listen. All was silent. He put his head in his hands. This was pointless. They could search all night and still not find anything. This was as worthless as his trip to the Museum. He studied the pattern on the floorboards. He doubted that the Tale Masters—either Archimago or Elton—would have kept anything that told what really happened in the time before the Unbinding, anyway.

  If they wanted to open Alethia’s book, they were going to have to take the risk and ask for Professor Thornhill’s help. He was about to tell Una so when he noticed it. In the dim light of the lantern, he saw that the pattern on the wood floor wasn’t just any pattern. It seemed remarkably familiar. The space around him looked like the top of a flowering tree. Peter got down on his hands and knees. His brothers hid stuff under the floorboards of their old house. Maybe someone else had done the same. Someone who wanted to keep something hidden. He began wiggling the nearest boards.

  He was nearing the roots of the tree now, and the floorboard beneath his hand was a little loose. He grabbed an old fountain pen from the top of Elton’s desk and wedged it under splintering wood.

  “Bring the lantern over, Una,” he said with a grunt, as the panel came up.

  Una joined him, and the light illuminated a hidden rectangular compartment.

  “Under the Tale Master’s nose,” Peter said, and pulled out a slim scroll. It didn’t look like it had ever been opened. The center of it was tied with a cord and sealed with wax. In the middle of the wax was the tree.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He pulled out his pocketknife and began to ease it under the wax seal. Una hovered nearby, one hand holding the lantern aloft and the other clutching the dragon book. Would the scroll help them open it?

  Peter’s knife sliced through the last of the wax, and he gingerly spread the scroll out on the floor.

  The Last Confession of Archimago Mores was written in a spidery script across the top.

  “Archimago!” Una gasped.

  “He must have hidden it here,” Peter said and drew the lantern near. “I wonder why.” They knelt down, shoulder to shoulder. The first paragraph told about the reliable character of said Archimago Mores. Peter rolled his eyes. Why would Archimago hide a description of how wonderful he was?

  When he heard the noise this time, Peter was sure of it. Someone was walking around in the Talekeepers’ headquarters. He pulled out his pocket watch.

  “Una,” he said, yanking her to her feet. “It’s half past five in the morning! We’ve got to go.”

  Peter let the scroll roll up and slid it into his pocket. He shoved the floorboard back in place and followed after Una.

  “Elton will know someone’s been here for sure,” Una said as they hurried back through the Tale Master’s study and into the outer office. She was right. They had messed it up in their search for the combination, and there was no way they could put it back in order.

  “But he won’t know it was us,” Peter said as he helped Una cram Thornhill’s books back into her satchel. “And if we hurry, we’ll be in our practical before he even comes to work.”

  Chapter 26

  Una was sharing a desk with Peter while they waited for all of their classmates to arrive. They had made it through the Talekeepers’ headquarters without any trouble, and now they had a few minutes before their practical examination. The classroom entrance to the Tale station loomed behind Professor Edenberry’s withered frame.

  “Professor Thornhill has been unavoidably detained,” he said in a serious voice. “I will administer your practical today.” A low murmur went around the room, but Edenberry had nothing else to say about Thornhill’s absence. Una wondered if Thornhill knew she had taken Alethia’s book yet. If she suspected, surely the Villainy teacher would be here now to confront Una about it. She patted her satchel reassuringly. Nothing would make her give up that book.

  “Move closer,” Una whispered. Soon Professor Edenberry would start grouping students together and sending them into the exam. She and Peter spread The Last Confession of Archimago Mores out on their laps and tried to look inconspicuous. She skimmed the first paragraph and found the spot where Archimago’s testimony began.

  Of those who know what happened, three have lied, seven are bound, and the others are dead. I am one who lied. And, before they come for me, I record here for all time the way I’ve served the Enemy of Story. Fidelus was the Muse who Wrote me here.

  Una pointed at the line. “Archimago was a WI! Peter, what do you know about Fidelus? Or this Enemy?”

  “Nothing,” Peter said. “I’ve never heard of the Enemy before. Keep reading.”

  Fidelus trained me and taught me all he knew of Story. He told me he purposed me to lead the characters into a new era. And I believed him. But that was before he became the Enemy.

  Who was I to question him? His words seemed good to me, and I had no reason to doubt him. Fidelus taught me to fight. He wrote me adventures. And I became a Hero. Because of Fidelus, I became famous. Because of him, I won Story’s trust. Soon, I was the Hero the others came to with their troubles. When Fidelus told me the King would only enslave us when he returned, I believed him.

  “The King!” Una whispered. “I knew he was real! Why do you think he left Story?”

  “How should I know?” Peter sounded irritated. “Let’s just keep reading, okay?”

  I didn’t know then that he was a great deceiver.

  I became his servant, spewing his lies to all of Story. Fidelus started wars acros
s Story, and I blamed the Muses. He brought famine and suffering, and I laid it at their feet. Fidelus broke every oath he had taken, and I said it was all of them together. I said that the fault of everything that happened in those dark days belonged to the Muses, that their oath breaking led to the loss of so many character lives, when all the while every other Muse was fighting against Fidelus’s evil. I turned the characters of Story against the other Muses, the only ones who could save them.

  Una’s scalp prickled. Archimago’s testimony was no fairy tale with some happily-ever-after ending. And Peter had been right to be afraid of at least one of the Muses. No wonder Archimago called Fidelus the Enemy of Story.

  I will not write of Fidelus’s great betrayal. What happened there is to me as a dream, but one thing I can never forget. That night I saw what it was to anger a Muse. And I saw Fidelus for what he was. His face twisted ugly as he spewed his hate. How could I have suspected such a heroic frame to hide such a villainous heart? He boasted of his great evil. Of those he had killed. Of the others he had imprisoned. Of his lies.

  Students were filing into the classroom now. She hunched lower over the paper and continued reading.

  And his lies were his undoing. His oath bound him as surely as he himself was locked in a prison of his own making. Fidelus was lost to Story, and I thought his evil had come to an end. Though Story’s Enemy was bound, the terror and confusion he had wrought lived on. The Muses had disappeared, and no one mourned their absence. I had done my job well, for all of Story hated the Muses.

  My readers must know that I meant only good for Story. The land was in chaos. It needed a Hero. And who was better positioned to lead than I? The Red Enchantress came to me then. She claimed to want to rebuild Story, to undo the lies and evil we had done as the Enemy’s servants. Fool that I am! I should have known that she was an evil Enchantress. That her voice could fell the strongest warrior.