Gabriel fell silent and stared at the fire. He saw how he’d been gripping the bowl and slowly unclenched his fingers and set it down.
“But there is another reason,” the old woman said. “Something has come loose in the fabric of the world. It began long ago, but recently, the unraveling has quickened. If it is not fixed, and soon, there will be a cataclysm none can contain. The Books alone can prevent this disaster. All of Pym’s thoughts bend toward this one point.”
Gabriel looked at her, and the scar that ran down the side of his face throbbed. “So the children are to be sacrificed.”
“Perhaps,” the old woman said. “And perhaps not. Prophecies are tricky things.”
“You mean there may be a way to save them?”
“I do not know. But I choose to believe there is.” She placed a warm hand on his arm. “You care for all the children, but the youngest, she is the daughter you never had. You would do anything for her.”
At the old woman’s words, Gabriel found himself thinking of Emma, and the morning, years before, after he’d saved the three of them from the Countess’s wolves, how she had followed him into the woods and watched as he’d stalked and killed a deer. The way she had mastered her fear. It had moved him, and a desire to protect her, a love, had entered his heart and never gone away.
He nodded, but said nothing.
“You must speak to Pym,” the old woman said. “Do not give up on him. He too cares for the children. Now, let us look at your leaf.”
She rose and shuffled past him to the table. When she returned, she was carrying the pot, only now a foot-tall plant was sprouting from the soil. It had a narrow, spiny stalk and long, jagged leaves. Granny Peet placed it beside the fire, then knelt down, cupping its branches, lowering her face to the leaves, and inhaling deeply.
“Clear, high air. Mountains. Iron and sulfur. Mars in the spring sky. The urine of blue sheep. Bones of a tyrannosaurus. Anger. Hatred. Death.” She broke one of the leaves and rubbed the moisture between her fingers. “Search eastward. Look for a place where three rivers meet and there are fields of mint. You remember how to detect an enchantment?”
Gabriel nodded and began to rise, but the old woman clucked her tongue.
“Tomorrow, boy. Even you must sleep.”
“Not while she is held prisoner.”
He’d gotten as far as the door when the old woman said his name. Gabriel turned to see her sorting through a jumble of objects in one corner of the hut. She pulled something free and came toward him. The object was three feet long and wrapped in a soiled, dark cloth. She held it out in both hands.
“At least take this. I know you need a weapon. And this one you will not lose.”
Again, Gabriel didn’t ask how the old woman knew what she did, but it was true: the razor-edge falchion he had carried through countless battles, that had felt like an extension of his own arm, was now in a volcano in Antarctica. He took the object from her and undid the wrapping at one end, exposing a hilt of worn leather and bone. He slid out four inches of steel, and the metal seemed to gather the meager light from the fire and reflect it back tenfold. He returned the blade to the sheath and nodded his thanks.
The old woman placed both hands on his arms.
“She is the daughter you never had, and you are the child of my heart. Go well.”
She turned away before he could respond. For a long moment, Gabriel looked at her, standing beside the fire in the same pose as when he’d entered; then he walked out and through the village, leaving as quietly as he had come.
CHAPTER FOUR
Chocolate Coke
Emma heard the thud of footsteps ascending the tower stairs, recognized who they belonged to, and sat up. The sky through the windows was dark, and the drumming and shrieking from the army in the valley had reached its nightly fever pitch.
She was standing when Rourke, holding a torch, opened the door.
“Come with me.”
“Why?”
“He wants to see you.”
He didn’t bother explaining who “he” was. Emma thought of refusing but knew that if she did, Rourke would just lift her and throw her over his shoulder.
She had been a prisoner for four days. Nothing particularly bad had happened; if anything, her days and nights had an almost tedious sameness. Every morning, a pair of pinch-faced gnomes would bring her breakfast, which she ate dutifully, telling herself she would need her strength when she was rescued (she’d tried several times to dart past the gnomes and each time she’d been pinned to the ground and her arms and fingers were twisted about painfully; the little creatures were much stronger than they looked, and utterly vicious). At some point, an hour, two hours, three hours later, Rourke would come and take her for a walk on the ramparts, blathering on about how great his master was and how, very soon, Emma would help them find the Reckoning. Then, in the evening, two more gnomes would bring her dinner (she had just as much luck getting past them); and as darkness fell, the drumming and shrieking coming from the army would rise up, and Emma would sit there with her hands pressed to her ears, telling herself that Kate and Michael were safe, that Dr. Pym would protect them, that Gabriel would rescue her, that everything would be okay. And just as the sky was growing light and the noise was abating, Emma would fall asleep.
Rourke was silent as he led her down the twisting stairs of the tower. The air was cold, and there were more torches burning in the iron brackets on the wall. When they reached the main corridor, rather than turning right, they went down another set of stairs, and soon Rourke was leading her through the courtyard and out a gate, leaving the fortress behind.
“You see the fires?”
She and Rourke were walking along a steep, wide path that wound down to the valley floor. Below them, hundreds of fires lit the darkness, but it was clear which ones he meant, a few of them being many times larger than the others.
“Those are portals. Our army uses them to jump around the world. We appear without warning, sow death and terror. Then vanish.”
“Like a bunch of cowards.”
Rourke smiled but said nothing.
All the time they’d been descending the path, the drumming had grown louder. Now, Emma could feel the vibrations in her chest, and it was making her whole body thrum with fear. But she forced herself to keep pace with Rourke.
Then they reached the valley floor and were swallowed up by the army.
Strangely, what struck her first was the stench. It wasn’t just the morum cadi; over the past four days, Emma had become almost used to their constant, moldering reek. But the press of thousands of the half-dead creatures along with the smell of heated metal and sweat and blood and burning meat created an almost tangible fug, and every breath—she took as few as she could—brought the rot inside her.
And then there was the sheer loudness, for the drumming and shrieking was now joined with snarls and growls and oaths and the constant clamor of shouting and fighting, and Emma fought the urge to press her hands to her ears.
There was no order that she could see. Small fires burned on all sides of them, and around each fire would be a group of morum cadi or Imps or, now and then, trolls. The creatures were eating, drinking, sharpening weapons, fighting—sometimes all at once. Emma saw one twelve-foot troll roasting an entire cow on a spit and licking his lips with an enormous purple tongue. They passed blacksmiths pounding away, the clink-clink-clink of their hammers as steady as the beating of the drums. And there were humans too, which shocked Emma, men and women, black-garbed and thuggish, crowded about fires and speaking in harsh languages that Emma had never heard.
And then, finally, there were the red-robed figures. In some ways, they were the most frightening of all. She and Rourke passed close by a trio that was huddled around a smoking, bubbling pot like witches in a fairy tale. Hoods covered their faces, but they seemed to be human, and Emma noticed how even the Screechers and the Imps gave them a wide berth. One of the figures turned to look at Emma as she pa
ssed; he was a very old man with a long, twisted nose and stringy gray hair. He was leaning on a staff, and one of his eyes was completely white.
“Who’re they?” she asked quietly.
“The necromati. Mages and wizards who serve the master. Most come to him eager for power, which he gives in exchange for their loyalty. Others are former enemies he has broken and bent to his will. They serve as reminders to all who would stand against him.”
Emma couldn’t stop staring at the old man and his creepy white eye, and she was peering back over her shoulder when she collided with something hard and was knocked to the ground.
“Ohh!”
Emma found herself looking up into the face—if you could call it that—of an equally surprised Imp. The creature held a half-eaten drumstick in one hand.
“What—” the Imp began. And then Rourke stuck a knife in its throat and shoved the body casually beside.
He yanked Emma to her feet. “Watch where you’re going.”
He dragged her onward through the camp, then abruptly pulled her into the doorway of a large tent. Once inside, Emma found herself in a hushed, almost sweet-smelling space, as if the clamor and stench of the camp couldn’t penetrate the canvas walls. Lanterns strung from chains illuminated a wooden table, on which were strewn a jumbled collection of books, maps, and half-rolled parchments. There was a small camp bed against one wall. Otherwise, the tent was bare, and its sole occupant appeared to be a cloaked figure kneeling in the center of the floor.
And the figure was on fire.
Or perhaps not on fire, as he did not appear to be burning. Yet Emma could feel the heat against her own skin; the flames were real.
“Wait,” Rourke said, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder.
The cloaked figure remained motionless, his head hooded and bowed, as the flames traveled over his body. It seemed to Emma that she could see shapes moving in the flames, but though she tried, she couldn’t make the shapes resolve into anything specific.
And then, quite suddenly, the flames died away and the figure stood. He moved toward the back of the tent, gesturing with his hand.
“Walk.” Rourke pushed her forward.
Emma moved deeper into the tent, passing over the spot where the fire had wreathed the figure, noting that the floor, covered with overlapping rugs, was unharmed. Emma could feel her heart beating all through her body, pulsing down to the tips of her fingers. The cloaked figure stood before a shallow silver bowl that was supported, waist-high, on three iron legs.
He turned as Emma approached.
“Hello.”
Emma had been prepared; she’d told herself she was prepared, but still she was taken aback. Standing there, staring at her, was a boy. But boy was the wrong word. He was in that place when he was no longer a boy, and yet not quite a man. She guessed he was perhaps a year older than Kate, maybe sixteen. He had unkempt dark hair, wide-set cheekbones, a nose that was slightly bent, and he was grinning, as if this was all somehow enjoyable. There was something wild about him, and his grin was like that of the wolf in a fairy tale.
His eyes were the most brilliant emerald green imaginable.
“I’m Rafe,” he said, and put out his hand.
Emma just looked at it. “You’re the Dire Magnus, aren’t you?”
He shrugged and took his hand back, not seeming offended. “If you like. But it’s kind of a mouthful. Rafe’s easier. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”
Emma tried to make sense of what was happening. This was the Dire Magnus; she was certain. He was the same boy—she couldn’t stop using the word even while admitting it wasn’t totally accurate—who’d stepped from the flaming portal in Antarctica. But he was hardly older than she was! How could he be the Dire Magnus? And why was he acting, so…normal?
“C’mere. I want to show you something.”
Emma felt her legs move her forward, and she came to a stop on the other side of the iron stand, so that the wide silver bowl was between them. She kept her arms at her sides, resisting the urge to cross them over her chest, knowing that would make her appear defensive and fearful.
She realized that he was still staring at her, and still grinning.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing, just, it’s funny.”
She waited for him to go on.
“At first, I thought you didn’t look like her at all. I couldn’t even see how you were sisters. But now that I see you closer, there’s something there. It’s interesting.”
He reached across as if to touch her face, but Emma pulled back, her body rigid with alarm.
“What’re you talking about?”
“What do you think I’m talking about?” He said it in the same mildly sarcastic way any boy his age might have said it. “How much you look like Kate. Or don’t. Depending on how you see it.”
“How…do you know my sister?”
Emma had been preparing herself for threats. For him to try to scare her. She’d even tried to imagine him torturing her. She had been prepared for anything but this seemingly normal, almost friendly boy. She felt utterly at sea.
He pushed back his hood, and he smiled in a knowing way that made Emma furious. “It’s kind of a long story. Better for another time.”
“You’re lying.”
“If that’s what you want to think.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“I never said you were.”
“You’re trying to trick me somehow. So I’ll help you find the book.”
He seemed to consider what Emma was saying, and he gave a shrugging nod. “Maybe. I certainly do want your help. But I’m not lying to you. Kate and I…” He trailed off and seemed for a moment to be somewhere else. Then he looked back at her. “Like I said, it’s a long story. One she and I will have to work out ourselves. But I brought you here for another reason. Look.”
He moved his hand over the dish—Emma had realized by now that it was a scrying bowl, like the one that she and Michael had used in Antarctica; it allowed you to see things that were far away—and as she looked into it, an image appeared in the half-inch of water in the bottom. Emma leaned closer, craning her neck to bring the image right-side up. She gasped, grabbing the sides of the dish so that a tremor rippled through the water.
“Miss Crumley! That’s Miss Crumley!”
It was indeed Miss Crumley, the woman who, as head of the Edgar Allan Poe Home for Hopeless and Incorrigible Orphans, had done as much as anyone to make Emma’s and her brother’s and sister’s lives miserable. Selfish, greedy, short-tempered, and small-minded, she’d seemed to actively dislike children, and Emma and her siblings in particular. Just looking at the woman, Emma felt her anger and resentment rise up, and she gripped the dish so hard that her knuckles turned white.
The woman was sitting at her desk, apparently working through an entire chocolate cake all by herself. Leaning closer, Emma saw that written on the cake were the words Happy Birthday, Neil. She didn’t know who Neil was, but it was no surprise that Miss Crumley had stolen his birthday cake. She hoped the woman choked on it.
“Is that what you want?”
Emma looked up sharply. “What?”
“To have her choke. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to read your mind, but some thoughts are so loud you might as well shout them. So, should we?”
“What’re you talking about?”
For the first time, the boy looked annoyed. “You said you’re not stupid, so don’t act like you are. You know what I mean: Should we make her pay for all she’s done to you, to your brother and sister, and to every other child who had the bad luck to cross her path? She deserves it.”
He was serious, Emma realized, and she glanced back down at Miss Crumley, who from the way she was shoveling in chocolate cake was most likely going to choke with no help from anyone else. It was true, Emma had dreamed of revenge. When Miss Crumley had made them take cold showers in the winter while her office hummed like a sauna. When they ate the same soggy be
ans and gray meat day after day while she had elaborate meals in her private dining room, waited on by children who were punished if they stole so much as a single piece of bread. If anyone deserved it, she did.
Emma could feel the boy waiting, watching her. Her hands trembled as she lifted them from the dish.
“No.”
The boy said nothing. Emma forced herself to meet his eyes.
“I said no.”
He sighed. “Rourke tells me you’re a fighter. But there’s one fight you’ll never win.”
Emma tensed, expecting him to say that she and Gabriel and Kate and Michael and Dr. Pym would never defeat him. But again, he surprised her.
“The one against your own nature. Trust me, I’ve gone down that road, and it’s a dead end. You’ve got anger inside you. Let it out. Deny it, and you just deny yourself.” He looked into the bowl. “And the fact is, there are those who deserve to be punished.”
He moved his hand, and Miss Crumley dropped her fork and grabbed at her throat.
“What’re you doing? I said no!”
Miss Crumley tried to rise up, lurching about this way and that. Her face was quickly turning purple.
“Stop it! You said—”
“I didn’t promise anything.” His eyes burned bright green. “I gave you a chance to do some actual good. You didn’t take it. I did.”
Frantic, Emma looked down at the awful, silent scene before her. She knew she had to do something, but what? In the end, she just stood there, watching as Miss Crumley pitched forward onto her desk and lay still, facedown in the smashed remains of the cake.
“I didn’t…,” Emma said quietly. “I didn’t want that.”
“Yes, you did. The sooner you accept that, the better.” He gestured to Rourke, saying to Emma, “And next time, call me Rafe. I want us to be friends.”
—
Later, after leading Emma back to her cell, Rourke returned to the tent. He stood quietly, letting the boy speak first.
The Black Reckoning Page 4