The dark band of forest was disorienting, and they emerged from the trees on the road a short distance away from the clearing where the motorhome and Charger were parked. Merl was waiting there, the beam from the flashlight in his hand locating Arti and Lance as they approached. The light bounced from one to the other, probing, searching. When it finally settled on Lance’s bloody face, the questions came.
“The book? Gwen?”
Lance shook his head, and Merl knew right away the mission had failed. And judging by the young man’s appearance, quite badly. “Oh, no,” he groaned, “Come inside, and tell me everything.”
Arti climbed the stairs and looked back at where she expected Gal to be. The bed was empty, except for the blanket and the blood-spotted bandage strewn across it. She spun around at Merl. “Where’s Gal?”
Merl lowered his head, knowing the explanation would be difficult. “She left,” he said. “And I let her. I’ll tell you why after you tell me what happened at the castle. Sit down.”
Arti objected, firing a number of angry questions at him, but the old librarian cut her off. “Sit down! Now!”
Lance took his place in the booth beneath the weak dome light, keeping his injured arm crossed at his chest. Swallowing back her anger and worry, Arti also found her seat, removing the pen and inkwell from her pocket, plunking them down on the Grail Tome dominating the round table between them. She stared at the book, thinking about how close she had been to its twin tonight—to the final page. Then her eyes went to the name inscribed on the table in front of her: Artia Bendi. Arti the Blessed. Excalibri couldn’t have been more wrong.
As requested by Merl, Lance provided a detailed description of the night’s events, ending with a concise summation: “Without the key, we could not get the book. Gwen insisted on staying to free any prisoners in the dungeon.” He glanced at Arti, knowing it was her parents who inspired the rescue, and she could see the deep worry in his eyes. “I agreed to get Arti out, and we fled while the castle was under attack.”
Merl nodded soberly. “So Mordred is …dead?’
“Yes,” said Lance, seeing something in the old man’s eyes that resembled regret.
Arti understood what Lance didn’t. As awful as the Incendi captain had been, Mordred was Merl’s child, his flesh and blood. Morgan Fay had stolen much more than a book from the old librarian.
“He deserved no better,” said Merl. Water pooled in his blue eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss, Lance. I will grieve for Vivian.” He studied the young Ferencian’s bloody face, the broken nose, the deep gash on his cheek, more concerned with the injury he couldn’t see. “Are you alright?”
“I will heal,” said Lance, waving away his concern. “Those who attacked the castle tonight, do you know who they are?”
“No,” answered Merl, “but from what I saw on the vidlink before it went black, there was a lot of them, and they were armed with lighters.” He leaned back and covered his face in his gloved hands. “Why did they have to do this tonight, of all nights?”
“I believe it is for the same reason we tried for the tome,” offered Lance. “They knew Morgan Fay would be outside the castle, that she would be vulnerable.”
“But there’s no way to know what’s happened,” said Merl, rubbing his eyes wearily. “She may have escaped, or they may have caught her. The final page of The History may still be empty, or she may be writing it now.” He bowed his head. “And the Archive is burning. Oh, I’ve made a terrible mess of this.”
Arti had waited long enough. “Why did Gal leave?” she asked, sternly.
Before Merl could answer, the motorhome door flipped open, and the familiar wedge-shaped cap appeared on the stairs. Slowly climbing the steps, Gal looked even more ill than before, half of her face a deep purpley black. Arti lunged from the booth, just in time to catch her as she collapsed.
“Cuz I needed to,” she moaned, surrendering to Arti’s arms. “’Case you screwed up.” Gal swayed for a moment before she noticed Lance’s face. “You look like crap.”
“Let’s get you back to bed,” said Arti. She scowled at Merl for allowing Gal to leave in such condition, “What were you thinking?”
“Apparently, my theory was wrong,” he said. “I…I shouldn’t have let her go. I’m sorry.”
“I ain’t goin’ back to bed,” objected Gal. “I’m gonna sit at the table.” She pulled away from Arti and plopped herself down on the edge of the booth’s cushioned seat, flopping sideways until she was in the place marked with the cryptic words Siegea Perilisi. Drained by the effort, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Arti gave up, taking her own seat again, shaking her head at her stubborn friend. Why did she have to be so difficult? Wasn’t tonight bad enough? It was then she noticed the queer look on Merl’s face. His eyes went from Gal to the table, then back again, his brow knitted in thought.
“What…theory?” asked Arti.
Gal squinted through the fog of another piercing headache, watching as Merl pointed at the script on the table in front of her. “I’ve read those words before,” he said, “from an ancient edict that first mentioned the Finding Swords. Like the one that led Gwen to us. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” said Arti. “You thought the swords were a myth. That someone made it up.”
“But I was wrong,” said Merl. “Gwen’s arrival at the Camel Lot proved it. And it made me wonder if the legend I read about those words could also be true. Why else would Excalibri write them?
“Siegea Perilisi does not mean what you think, Arti. It does not mean ‘perilous siege.’ I had to let you and Gwen believe that. I had to wait and see.” He shook his head, “But I’m afraid my theory was wrong. It…it can’t be true.”
“What can’t be true?” demanded Arti. “I’m sick of your secrets! What do the words mean? Just tell us!”
Lance interrupted, “I wondered why they were written there.” He looked at Arti, innocently. “I could have translated them for you. Like the words in the book, it is Old Ferencian. It means perilous seat.”
“Yes,” said Merl. “It is a term whose origin comes from the earliest days of the Order of Librarians, when they first enlisted the Knights of Maren. It was a secret, even then, and whereas the legend of the Finding Swords has survived, the true meaning of the perilous seat has long since been forgotten.”
“So, what’s its true meaning?” begged Arti.
“The Order believed the perilous seat belonged to the one knight who could complete the quest for the Grail Tome and deliver its final page to the wielder of a great pen. It was silly of me to think it was true. But the Finding Sword was real, so I had to take a chance.” His eyes pleaded with Arti. “I had to hope Gal could do it.”
“Gal? What does she have to do with it?” Arti looked across at her friend who, despite the pain in her head, was listening intently.
Merl sat back with a huff. “It doesn’t matter. She’s returned empty handed, so I’ve been proven wrong. Again.” He sighed, “Morgan is going to write the final page, and there’s nothing we can do to stop her.”
CHAPTER 27
Morgan Fay arrived at the castle tower’s arching door, oblivious to the violence and chaos around her, unaware of the troopers escorting her to safety. She was in a state of shock, of utter disbelief. The goal for which she had dedicated most of her life had just been ripped away. Stolen.
You failed, Morgan.
Merl was alive, and he had rescued the second Grail Tome from the fire she set so long ago, its final page written by another. The future Fay had envisioned, the destiny that had taken her a thousand drafts to craft into words, would never be realized. The fighting on the clifftop was proof of her downfall, irrefutable evidence that Merl had prevailed, that she was paying the ultimate price for ignoring the warnings he gave her so many years before.
There are rules. The books are dangerous.
As Fay climbed the tower stairs, guards in front and back, she tried to decide how she w
ould end her life. The fate prescribed by the Penderhagen girl would certainly include her punishment, but she would not allow herself to be treated like a common criminal, preferring death to disgrace. Her impending mortality made her think of her son, Mordred. She wished he was with her now, that she could share her last moments with him. That she could say good-bye.
Mordred’s absence spoke volumes. He had failed to find the Challenger in time. He had failed in his promise. But where was he, she wondered? How close had he come?
Her questions were answered at the top of the stairs.
Looking past the lead troopers, Fay’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the black fedora resting at the foot of the iron door. There were dark red smears on the stone floor around it, hand and foot prints stamped on its wet surface. Blood!
“He was here!” Fay shouted. “Mordred was here!”
Her eyes went from her son’s fedora to the iron door, then back again. But why? He’d been hunting the Penderhagen girl and promised not to return until he found her. He would never have given up.
The sudden understanding made Fay hysterical. “Get out of the way!” she screamed. “I need to open the door!” The confused troopers scrambled to let her by.
“Post two of your men on the stairs,” Fay ordered her lieutenant. “No one is to pass. No one, do you hear me? And I want you to lead a search of the castle grounds with as many men as you can muster. You’re looking for a fourteen-year-old girl. She could not have gotten far. Find her!”
The lead trooper bowed obediently, wondering what had inspired the strange orders. He kept the question to himself, curtly repeating the instructions to his men.
Ignoring the blood at her feet, Fay frantically lifted her gown and removed the key strapped to her leg. Her hands were shaking as she inserted it into the narrow slot above the iron door’s handle. She prayed that her hunch was right.
Mordred had been on the Penderhagen girl’s trail when Fay had spoken to him through The Mind’s Eye, giving him the information he needed to find her. The only thing that would bring him back to the castle would be his prey.
The girl was here!
Fay’s mind raced as she tried to make sense of it all. As she turned the key and pulled the heavy door open, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. If what Merl had told her was true, that the Penderhagen girl had already written the final page, she’d have no reason to come anywhere near the castle. The fact that Merl had spoken to Fay through The Meditations had fooled her into thinking she’d been beaten, that the Challenger had already stolen her glory.
“He was lying!” hissed Fay. She remembered the last time she saw Merl alive, the devastation on his face, the look of betrayal as he stared back at her through the flames. It was a miracle he had survived the savage fire, but he could not have escaped unscathed. Nor, she guessed, could the Grail Tome he rescued. He has it, but it must be damaged. He sent her for mine.
When Fay saw the key resting on the stone floor a few feet past the threshold, it confirmed her theory. Merl’s key. The girl tried to get in, but Mordred stopped her. She remembered her son’s report after his quarry eluded him at the school: She had help. An old man. And another…trained in the Art.
Tears welled in Fay’s eyes when she saw her Grail Tome still open on the desk where she left it. The words on The History’s penultimate page were coming faster than ever before. An hour ago, they had just started to appear on the top of the cream-colored sheet, and now they had almost filled it. She could see the long edge of The History’s final page beneath it, peeking out, waiting patiently for her hand.
Collapsing into her chair, Fay watched the last word form in the bottom right corner of the page and realized it completed a sentence, the only one to appear since the book had first warned her of the Challenger’s arrival on the island.
A pagea ultime estam oblige. To the final page we are bound.
Fay’s breath was ragged, and her heart pounded in her chest. Reaching for the small box next the tome, she removed Wyzera’s golden pen, smiling as the weak light of the wall sconces played upon its beautifully etched surface, igniting the swirling lines like flaming serpents. With her free hand, she reached for the matching inkwell, delicately opening its ornate lid. She carefully lowered the tip of the pen’s blade into the vessel, watching as the dark ink adhered to the nib like congealing blood. She focused her thoughts, remembering the words. They were there, ready to answer her will.
Fay took a deep breath and turned the page.
Merl shook his head at Gal, “I should have known it was impossible. You could never have carried away a book that size—not in your condition. Even if you could get to it without being seen.”
“You never said it had to be the whole book,” protested Gal. She reached into her jacket and removed a folded sheet of creamy white paper. “The final page is all you said Arti needed, so that’s all I got.” She slapped it down on the round table next to the inkwell and the wooden case holding Excalibri.
There was stunned silence.
“But…but how?” gasped Arti. “How did you get to the tome? The door was locked…and Mordred was there…and the guards…and we never saw you.”
Gal peeked up at Arti from under her cap. “I watched you leave, then I followed you. I wanted to make sure you got into the Witch’s room. I knew you wouldn’t let me go with you, so I snuck out when he was in the trance, mumblin’ and stuff.” Gal looked suspiciously at Merl. “But you were fakin’, wurncha?”
“I had to make you think you were getting away without me noticing,” said Merl, lifting the folded sheet of paper, scowling at the state of it.
Arti was incredulous. “So you were behind us on the hill? And when we entered the castle?”
“I just kept far ‘nuff away so you wouldn’t notice,” said Gal. “Then I hid for a bit when the troopers came, and I heard Lance beat the crap outa them. I wish I coulda seen it.
“By the time I got to the tower, you were comin’ back down. I didn’t know the Flame was up there.” Gal smiled admiringly at Lance, “But you beat him, too. I knew you would.”
“I had help,” said Lance, with a nod to Arti. “But you have not explained how you entered Morgan Fay’s room, how you got to the book without a key.”
“Well, when I heard you comin’ back down, I had to hide again.” She frowned at Arti, “I knew you’d be pissed that I followed you. The only door nearby was the black one with the flame on it—and it wasn’t locked.” She looked pleased with herself. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from scroungin’ buildins, it’s that rooms can be connected in ways you wouldn’t ‘spect.”
Arti looked back at the cardboard ad featuring the happy family, leaning on the shelf above Gal’s bed with The King’s Errand pressed against it. She remembered that Gal had kept it in the records room at the school, wedged into the tines of a large air vent. A light bulb went on in Arti’s mind, and she immediately knew how her young friend had done it, how she had found a way into Fay’s tower suite. It was the same way she had discovered a way into the records room.
You never asked me how I got in here with the door locked.
“A vent,” said Arti. “You found a vent connecting Incendi Headquarters to Fay’s office.”
“Yep,” said Gal, proudly. “It was a tight fit and a hard climb—‘specially with my fingers messed up—but it led right up to it. The book was sittin’ on a big desk, opened to the second last page. Words were formin’ on it real fast. It wasn’t quite full, but I bet it is by now.”
“So you tore this page out,” said Merl, appalled. He had unfolded the sheet and was examining its blank canvas. “What did you think we could do with it?”
“It’s the final page,” explained Gal, as if the old librarian was simple. “Arti can write on it, and all this crap’s over.” Seeing that Merl wasn’t satisfied, she added, “Don’t worry, I tore ‘nother page out from the middle of the Witch’s book and stuck it in the back to fool her.” Gal grinne
d, “Boy, is she gonna be pissed when she turns to it.”
Merl pressed the broad page down on the back of the damaged Grail Tome where the original sheet would have been. “It was a clever ruse, but it won’t work. The final page is useless if it’s not connected to the book.” He sighed, knowing she only did what she thought was right. Gal sank back into her seat, confused and deflated.
“At least Fay doesn’t have it,” he added. “I cringe at the thought of the future she planned to write.” The old librarian smiled weakly, “You denied her that, Gal, and it’s a victory worth celebrating. But she’s going to be very, very angry.”
The vidlink propped on the counter came back to life, flashing three times before the picture and sound were restored. There was a view of the clifftop from overhead, floodlights bathing the stage and the grounds surrounding it. Even a wide swath of the hill was illuminated.
“We apologize for the technical difficulties,” said the newsflash reporter. “We are back, and we are live! There has been an attempt by a criminal mob to disrupt our Corporation Night’s Lighting. As you can see, our heroes in black have the terrorists surrounded. Rest assured, they will answer for their crimes.”
The camera zoomed in on a group of men standing on the stage in front of the pyre. They were holding electroshock batons, aiming them out at converging squads of Incendi. In the center of the group stood a short, stocky man yelling orders to those around him. The base of the platform at his back was smoldering, but most of the books piled there were still undamaged.
“That’s Big Billy!” shouted Gal, pointing her splinted fingers at the vidlink.
“Who?” asked Merl, leaning closer to the tiny screen, surprised to see the Archive was still intact.
“Billy Johnson,” answered Arti. “The owner of the Cauldron. He runs the island, the docks, the saloons, everything.”
“The one Aunt Vivian sent me to see,” said Lance. “He arranged my fight with the big man. Now we know who was behind the attack on the castle.”
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