Immediately, a blessed calm.
I bite my thumb as I try to think what to do. “At the moment I am still too much the girl to handle all this magic,” I tell them when I finally realize that I have only one option. “I’m going to have to draw on some of my power. But please, no more illusions, okay? Just tell me what you want from me.”
One of the monsters puffs out a riff of spiked scales framing its lizard-like face.
Right. Guess I’ll take that as a yes.
I close my eyes, inhale slowly. Exhale. Focus my mind. Wait.
When I open my eyes, the world is green and breathing and the earth shimmers around me in an endless, low hum. Time slows and then stops as the physical boundaries between myself and the planet I inhabit melt away and I begin to lose myself in a lustrous wholeness, a vast symphony of swirling bright colors and deep, thrumming—–
“Ssssssisssssterrr.”
A discordant note pulls me back, preventing me from diving deeper into that beautiful abyss. The sound is both ugly and wrong: human words put into the warped mouth of a snake.
Reluctantly, I turn my attention to that dissonant voice. But it is almost impossible to focus on the curious creature: the waves of energy it emits keep wavering and then shattering into a peculiar, unpleasing chaos, so that I’m left with little more than a disconcerting impression of rotten scales, boated limbs, and elongated ribs covered by decaying membranes.
More than that I cannot make out—–as if the very existence of this creature distorts the rich order of the spectrum of life itself.
“Ssssisssterrr. Please…”
“We long for death!
“We beg of you. Help us die.”
“Only you can help us die!”
There are more of them, I realize, each with its separate parts so incongruent to the whole that my mind can make no sense of it. I count them in disbelieving fascination—– three, four, five, six—– then shudder with horror as realization finally dawns.
There are too many of them!
These creatures could not have been created in the cruel, miraculous womb of this planet, where individual mutations are a necessary part of the unending stream of life, which flows with an unstoppable, boundless energy into whichever form fits best at the time.
No. These are no natural aberrations—–they are something else entirely.
Not born but made.
I look closer, sinking deeper into my earthmagic until the world begins to spin around me, seductive and whole and astonishing. And now it is easy to see that these poor creatures were created from a magic not so different from mine: a magic that twisted the logic of the life within them into something rotten and unnatural and wrong.
These monsters were made by an earthmaster!
A weak and arrogant and talentless earthmaster, whose magic had but a fraction of the power of my own.
I laugh joyfully when I realize what I must do.
These beings are only malformed on the outside; on the inside, they are so extraordinary as to be indestructible.
Of course.
At their core, these monsters aren’t monsters.
They are dragons, and my task is not to kill them but to set them free.
*
By the time I finish, the world has shifted on its axis and the night is black around me.
I have been using my earthmagic, carefully and meticulously, for hours on end, dissolving what was so clumsily stitched together, repairing what was broken, tearing down the barriers blocking the flow of their power, and instead constructing the delicate channels and intricate systems needed to re-connect their physical selves to the life of this planet.
The process took more magic than I’d ever used before—–for the first few hours I had to consciously drench myself in my power, drawing deeper and deeper with every minute that passed, until I was exhausted and shaking and sweating with the effort.
But then, mysteriously, something lifted from me, or maybe it dissolved within me, I’m not sure, and instead of channeling the power, the power began to channel me. It was a relief, like when you stop trying to swim against the tide and simply allow it to sweep you away: the magic flowed through me, strong and pure and true and completely effortless, as if my body was nothing but a conduit, and it felt…
Right.
It felt absolutely, one hundred percent right.
I look down at my handiwork and I smile. Then I look up.
I am standing on the shore of a lake in the darkness, all alone.
I am a girl now—–not much more than a girl—–and I am tired beyond all imagining.
For the first time I wonder what happened to the others.
Gunn. Zig. Ingrid. Jonathan.
The names come to me, eventually, and I vaguely recall a certain background noise: raised voices and screams and the dull, thudding sounds of physical violence.
But I’m too tired to wonder about it for long.
Everything hurts and my body is shaking.
I sit down on the rocky shore, groaning with the effort. Then I lie down, carefully.
Then I sleep.
Chapter 23
The Resting State is when a Juvenile is at her most vulnerable. During this stage the doorways between the different planes of existence remain completely closed so that the fragile human body can recharge and heal from the extreme exertions demanded by the use of magic.
From Elements of Knowledge: An Instruction into Selected Wisdoms of the Black Clan (1823); translated from the original French by Genevieve Bernard (2006)
I don’t get to sleep for long.
It feels as if I’ve barely closed my eyes when Gunn gently shakes me awake. “Jess. Wake up. We need to go.”
I’m too exhausted to open my eyes, but when I try to protest, I can only manage an almost inaudible groan.
“I know this is hard, but we need to get you out of here.” His voice comes from miles away, and when he tries to get me to sit up, my body flops down bonelessly. “Come on, Jess, please. You know I can’t move you while you’re resting.”
His words somehow manage to pierce the thick fog around my brain. I move my lips, trying to tell him that I can’t do it again. That I won’t. The agony of remaining awake when you need to be in your resting state is like nothing else on earth. I’ve experienced it once before and it was worse than torture, worse than anything I ever imagined, like being burnt alive and surviving without skin and flesh and organs in a boiling cauldron of pure pain simply because you have no other choice.
No. Not again. I can’t.
He forces me to sit up and places a warm blanket around my shoulders. The heat helps a little although the scratchy feel of blanket against my skin stings like sandpaper on a raw wound.
I try to open my eyes. I try to speak. Nothing happens.
“Okay,” he says calmly. “I’m going to lift you now. It’s going to hurt but I’ll be as gentle as I can.” He puts one arm under my knees and one around my shoulders before scooping me up in one smooth movement. The pain is so excruciating that I scream out loud, but only a whimpering moan escapes my lips.
“Shhh. It’s going to be okay, I promise.” As he carries me away, Gunn tries to soothe me with calm sounds and gentle words, the way you’d comfort a child. “I know this must hurt, but it’s going to be okay. Shhh.”
Every step is a shock of pain. A world of pain. An abyss. I start crying helplessly, my tears like drops of boiling water against my over-sensitized skin.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Shhh. I know you must be terrified but it won’t be like last time, I promise. You only need to stay awake for half an hour. Less than that. It will be over before you know it. We just need to get you home. Shhh. It’s almost over.”
The pain gets worse with every step but his words make it slightly easier to breathe. Half an hour. When we escaped from the desert I had to stay awake for days and days.
Only half an hour.
I can handle it.
&nb
sp; Anyone can handle anything for half an hour.
This is what I tell myself. What I try to tell myself. But the truth is that pain has no understanding of time. Once you put your hand on a hot stove, your body doesn’t care whether you’re keeping it there for five seconds or five minutes or five hours. There’s no way for the brain to bargain with the body, no way to convince yourself that “you can handle it.”
Once the pain becomes too much, the body wants out, and it wants out now.
Oh, God. Oh, Jesus.
Everything hurts. Everything burns.
With every second that passes the pain gets worse until it’s as if I’m pressing my entire body against a hot stove. Was it this bad last time? I can’t remember. All I know is that I can’t stand it. Not for half an hour. Not for half a minute.
Half a second.
I’m drowning in a flood of pain.
A river.
Oceans
there are no
After a while—–it could be minutes or years, I have no idea—–I feel my mind sliding loose from my body like a balloon slipping from a child’s hand to disappear into the endless sky above.
“No! Please. Try to hang on.”
Above me there is an open sky and freedom. Below me there is only pain.
Pain and…
A voice.
“Come back to me, Jess. Please!”
There are certain things you only learn when everything else is stripped away from you—–every defense, every excuse, every justification, every self-deceiving barefaced lie.
This is what I learn tonight: if that voice calls to me, I will answer.
No matter what I try to tell myself, the truth is that I’ll always come when he calls.
Always.
I force my mind back into my burning body.
I put my hand on the stove and I keep it there.
*
“Ingrid! Ingrid! Where the hell are you?”
“I’m here. Put her down. Goddammit, she’s closer to the edge than I expected.”
A lurching, swaying agony too much to bear.
“Give me her hand.”
“Just do it!”
Someone grips my hand tightly, a hammer smashing bones.
And then, in an instant, relief.
A cool and soothing energy flows at me from everywhere, all at once, like ice water on a scorching burn, to leave me shuddering in a helpless, mute ecstasy. Dear God, the utter bliss of the sudden absence of pain! Somewhere, as if from far away, I hear Gunn and Ingrid talking. And then another voice, very deep.
“It’s dangerous to give her more. You need to stop.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re not as young as you used to be. Let your nephew do it.”
“You have no sway over Black’s affairs. Sigurd.”
A low whistle. “So it’s true. He isn’t shielded against her. For pity’s sake, Ingrid, have you lost your mind?”
“She told you to stay out of it. It’s none of your business.”
“Of course it’s my business, you young fool. Don’t you realize what you’ve done?”
“Stop it, both of you. This is not the time.”
Beyond my eyelids bright lights are shining. I can smell people and blood and chemicals; I must be back at the Pendragon mansion.
“I won’t allow her to suck you dry, Ingrid.”
“Don’t concern yourself about me. The important thing now is to get her home.”
I have a sudden, vivid memory of Ingrid lying helpless on a bed, her body nothing but a dried-out husk.
“Ingrid?” I open my eyes carefully, relieved to find the world relatively stable despite its fuzzy colors and blurred edges.
We’re in the Pendragon pool house. I’m lying on a couch, and Ingrid is sitting next to me, holding my hand.
“Little one?” Ingrid’s lips are grey and her face is a sickly pale green color. “Are you okay?”
I nod, the small movement making the room spin.
“Thank God.”
“You can let go now.”
“I’m fine. Take as much as you need.”
“How long—–” I want to ask how long before I can rest, but I can’t get my mouth to form the words.
Fortunately, Ingrid grasps my meaning. “You only need to stay awake until we can get you home. It won’t be long. Twenty minutes at most.”
I lick my dry lips. “Home…?”
Her face tightens. “I’m talking about my house. We can’t stay here any longer. Every keeper in the world felt your power today, and now that the Pendragon women have been expunged, this place is entirely unprotected.”
Expunged?
As the room tilts and sways around me, I wonder what she means with that. Ingrid likes using big words; half the time I just nod and pretend to understand. But “expunged” sounds worryingly wrong somehow. As if I’ve erased the Pendragon women instead of Healing them.
“Why do you—–?”
Gunn interrupts before I can ask. “There are hundreds of keepers on their way here right now, half of which want you dead. Now that the Pendragons’ security has been…” he pauses, “… neutralized, this place isn’t safe anymore—–it’s too isolated. Ingrid’s house is right in the middle town, so the White Lady can’t do anything as drastic as dropping a bomb, and it’s protected by the Black clan’s spells, which counterbalances most forms of keeper magic. It’s not the best solution, but we can’t travel any further until after you’ve rested.”
Yes. I need to rest.
I gently pull my hand from Ingrid’s. “It’s okay.” My voice is a scratchy whisper. “I can make it home. Thanks for…” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence. I have no idea what it costs to pump your own spiritfire into someone else’s body, but I suspect the price must be staggeringly high.
When we break contact, the room makes a sharp turn and I have the distinct sensation of falling through space. After that I’m okay: feverish and shaky and too weak to move, but not in any real pain.
I try to sit up.
“No.” Gunn gently pushes me back. “Save your energy. I’ll carry you to the car.”
“Okay.”
“And try not to talk. The borrowed energy will be gone soon.”
I give a slight nod, determined not to squander a fraction of Ingrid’s gift, when a door slams loudly and Jonathan storms into the room. Through my burning, blurry eyes he looks different somehow, smaller and all wrong.
He explodes the moment he sees me. “You fucking bitch!”
Gunn steps his huge body in front of Jonathan’s, grabs him by the shoulders and wrestles him into a rear headlock. But for once there’s no aggression in the movement. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have said it almost looks as if Gunn is being gentle with Jonathan, or at least careful not to hurt him.
“You said they were your sisters! How could you!”
I swallow, try to get my mouth to work. “I did what… I had to...”
“You fucking butchered them!”
I close my eyes, too tired for this fight.
“Gunnar,” Ingrid says curtly. “Get him away from her. We don’t have time for this.”
“You bitch!” With my eyes closed I sense rather than hear them struggle. “I trusted you! They were my family.”
Jonathan sounds so utterly devastated that I give a silent little groan. I don’t know what he thinks I did, but the poor guy is obviously suffering. I’ll need to set this right.
“Wait,” I lift my head a fraction. “Gunn, stop.” With my eyes half-closed against the light I can barely make out the two vague figures. “Why is Jonathan so angry?”
My words enrage him even further. “What, are you playing dumb now? How stupid do you think I am? I watched my mother’s body crumble in my hands like it was made from fucking clay!” A raw, desperate sob. “I don’t even have anything to bury! They’re just dust now. Dirt. Nothing.”
Oh.
So that’s w
hat’s going on.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper weakly, trying to explain. “Those bodies weren’t real. They were illusions. Just… spiritless flesh animated by bloodmagic.”
The short speech is enough to leave me exhausted. I lean back again, close my eyes.
“You’re lying! You killed them!”
Damn.
It’s a really bad idea to have this conversation now; I need to conserve every scrap of energy. But I remember too clearly how I felt when my mom died to allow this misunderstanding to continue, especially as I’ll probably be in my resting state for months, unable to explain.
I grit my teeth. Open my eyes again. “I know those bodies… comforted you. But the illusion took too much magic. They couldn’t afford…the waste…if they wanted to be…whole.”
“What do you mean?” Ingrid asks sharply.
The words come harder now, my mouth too dry and my tongue too clumsy. “My earthmagic can only do so much… They’ll need… every drop of their own power.”
“Jess. What did you do?”
“I started the process… They must finish it.”
“No. Not good enough. Tell me exactly what you did.”
Shit. I can feel my energy draining with every word I speak, but if Ingrid doesn’t understand what happened, I probably have more explaining to do.
“They were… wrong. Sick and deformed. Someone… twisted them. I had to Heal…”
“You’re lying! You killed the half-dragons! Zig is still at the lake, trying to find enough pieces to bury! You’re a monster and I swear to you, I fucking swear to you, I’ll make you pay—–”
“She’s not lying.” Jonathan’s tirade is interrupted by Zig’s cold voice. The half-dragons aren’t dead.”
Thank God. Finally someone who understands.
I’m so relieved I could cry, but I know better than to waste any more energy.
“We saw her pull them apart with her bare hands.” Through the low humming buzz that’s starting in my ears, I recognize the deep voice of Zig’s grandfather.
“No,” Zig says. “We misunderstood. She didn’t pull them apart—–she took them apart.”
“She butchered them! I saw the rotting pieces!”
“Yes,” Zig says. “The animal parts on the shore are decomposing fast. But that’s not all she left behind. There seems to be some kind of core left inside the carcasses. A heavy mass of tissue that’s obviously still alive.”
Treasurekeeper Page 24