The Portal and the Veil

by Ted Sanders

  “This is heavy stuff,” Chloe whispered, the tremble in her voice unmistakable. “I think we’re seeing the big boys play now.”

  Horace couldn’t speak. He tugged her sleeve and forced himself to turn and run.

  Chloe followed him. They stumbled through the long grass. Horace did his best to ignore Dr. Jericho’s blade-sharp howls, and the growing rumble that told him the second golem had joined the battle.

  And then suddenly Dailen was with them—one of him, anyway, loping easily alongside. “Head for that tall willow tree at the meadow’s edge,” he said, pointing. “There’s a creek. Hide and wait for me there. Don’t use your instruments.”

  “What are you going to do?” Horace asked him, breathless, but before he even finished the sentence, Dailen winked out of existence.

  “How does he do that?” Horace asked, marveling.

  “Don’t know, don’t want to know,” Chloe said.

  They ran for the creek. It was farther than it looked, the willow Dailen had pointed to much taller than it seemed. At last they reached the creek, a spindly little thing. A farm field lay beyond it, acres of soybeans stretched out beneath the starlight. They hunkered down beneath the dangled crown of the great willow, breathing hard.

  “Now what?” said Chloe.

  “Now we wait. We hope for the best.”

  “Professionally speaking, Horace, that’s a terrible comment coming from someone who can see the future.”

  They’d come a long ways, far from the battle behind. Horace couldn’t see a thing. But by the sound of it, the Riven were spreading out across the meadow. Suddenly, something came running at them from up the creek bed. Horace whirled around just as April’s dog trotted up. He splashed happily across the water, wagging his tail and snuffling at them.

  “April’s dog,” Chloe said.

  “Baron,” said Horace. “Hey, Baron. Where’s April?”

  Chloe peered around, as if April might be close by.

  Horace didn’t think so. He and Chloe had made a commotion, sprinting over here. But it occurred to him that April might be in the dog’s head right now. And if she was, she’d be able to hear them.

  “Hello?” he said to the dog, feeling a little insane. “Can you hear us?”

  Chloe frowned as if he really were as insane as he felt, but then her mouth became an O. “I get it. Walkie-talkie dog.” She leaned over Baron. “April? Are you there?”

  “We’re being dumb,” Horace said. “The dog can’t talk. Questions won’t help.” He grabbed the dog gently by the jowls, turning its head to and fro. “We’re in the creek,” he explained. “Under this big willow, if you can see it. We found a friend. Get here if you can.”

  Baron tolerated it for a few seconds, but then he wrenched his head away, staring back up the creek. He gave a little whine, and then sprinted off the way he’d come.

  “You think she’s okay?” said Chloe, watching him go.

  “I don’t know.”

  Out in the meadow, the battle sounds had died away, but he could still hear the golem rumbling over the grass. Twice, a Riven’s shout cut through the night air.

  “You told that dog we found a friend,” Chloe said.

  “He got us away from the Riven. What would you call him?”

  “You trust him?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “He killed that Mordin,” said Chloe. “He slammed it to the ground, but its Tan’ji was still pinned in the air. It tore clean out of its body.”

  Horace tried not to imagine it. “Seems like that should make us trust him more,” he said, half to himself.

  Chloe didn’t respond. He let silence fill their waiting. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. At last footsteps approached, crunching through the grass. The stride was far too long and heavy to be human. Horace gripped the phalanx hard.

  “Keepers?” said a soft voice, questing. Dailen.

  Horace stood up, stepping out of the shadows. “Here.”

  “You are safe? And your instruments too?”

  “We’re fine,” said Horace.

  “Across the creek, then. Not far now.”

  “Not far till what?” said Chloe.

  Dailen didn’t answer. He stepped across the little creek in a single stride. Horace and Chloe followed, wading into the leafy green soybean plants beyond.

  “What happened with the Riven?”

  “I scattered them as wide as I could, luring them in different directions, but they’ll figure it out. They will find our trail soon enough.”

  “What about Dr. Jericho?” Chloe said.

  Dailen shook his head. “I cannot defeat Ja’raka Sevlo alone, even when I diverge,” he said. “I can only mislead him—for a little while, at least. And I ran into other difficulties, too. There is an Auditor with them. And the golem.”

  Horace looked back, half expecting to see a white-haired Auditor looming out of the darkness, or perhaps the thin man’s gaping mouth and bristling shoulders. “Why did Dr. Jericho look like that?” he asked. “I’ve never seen him look so . . . horrible before.”

  “He revealed himself as he truly is. He was too angry to keep up even the semblance of a disguise.” Dailen touched a great hand to his chest as he walked, then looked down at his palm. “Far too angry.” When he dropped his arm again, Horace saw a dark stain on his fingers.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, remembering how Dr. Jericho had seemed to swipe the Altari’s chest. “But . . . that wasn’t really you, was it?”

  “I am always really myself,” Dailen replied absently, waving Horace off. “But sometimes I do not stop being myself quite quickly enough.” He came to a halt. “We are there.”

  “We’re where?” said Chloe. There was nothing ahead of them but wide-open field, acre upon acre of low, leafy soybeans.

  And then an enormous rustle hissed in Horace’s ears, like a whispering crowd. Just ahead, the ground seemed to come to life and lift into the air. A mossy green mass rose to the top of the soybeans, a kind of latticework forty feet long and forty feet wide. Swiftly it resolved itself into a kind of platform, filling in the gaps and rippling like water in slow motion.

  Horace, mesmerized, went up close. The shifting slab, two feet thick, was made of tiny not-quite-round shapes, thousands of them. It whispered swishily, like a forest full of leaves rubbing together. For the second time tonight, Horace was reminded of the golem. But this time—unlike with the scythewings in Sanguine Hall—Horace felt no sense of dread. Far from it.

  Dailen strode past him and stepped up onto the green platform. It seemed to give just slightly under his feet, but held firm. He walked to the middle and sat, folding his great legs beneath him. He watched them with his brightly ringed eyes, waiting silently.

  From far behind them, harsh shouting. Unmistakably the Riven again, speaking in their own slashing tongue. Now distant footsteps, and the crashing rumble of the golem, coming closer.

  “Are you going to fight the golem?” Chloe asked. “You and this . . . thing?”

  “The mal’gama was not made for fighting. Hurry now. Come to the center.”

  Horace climbed onto the sliding blanket of stones. They were slightly fuzzy, almost furred. He crawled across them on his hands and knees to Dailen’s side. Chloe, meanwhile, marched onto the platform and then refused to sit, looking back at the approaching Mordin behind, their dark swift shapes visible now. Out in front, the golem was a thundering brute, surging toward them like a giant molten bear.

  “They’re coming,” Chloe said. “Is this thing going to protect us, or what?” At her chest, the Alvalaithen came suddenly to life, wings blurring madly.

  “The mal’gama will protect us, yes,” Dailen sang. “But just to be safe, I recommend not using your particular Tan’ji just now. I also recommend sitting.”

  Chloe scowled. The dragonfly’s wings went still, but she remained standing. Behind them, the golem crashed through the little creek, spraying water and flinging mud. The towering form of Dr. Jericho ra
n at its side, eating up the ground with huge, furious strides, his monstrous teeth bared.

  “You better be right about this,” Chloe said.

  “I think he is,” said Horace.

  “Thank you, Keeper,” Dailen said calmly. “I believe I am.”

  The next instant, the mal’gama launched itself into the air, taking them with it in a burst of speed that shoved Horace’s breath down into his chest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Stranded

  APRIL CROUCHED ON THE CREEK BANK WITH BARON, NOT SURE what to believe. The humour was gone, and there were no humans inside—no Joshua, no Brian, no Gabriel. The Mordin on the ground was still crying out in pain. Beside him, Dr. Jericho stood tall, seeming to stare intently at something right in front of him.

  And then April spotted it. She could barely see it. A glittering ring of gold, hanging in the air. She knew at once it was a portal.

  As she watched, the portal began to shrink. Suddenly she understood—whichever of her friends had been in the humour before it came down, they were gone now. Escaped through the portal. Dr. Jericho watched the portal shrink too, apparently unable to stop it, and then he threw his head back, tearing off his jacket and shirt. He let out an enraged roar that made her cower, even here, far away. She caught a glint of blue on his back. Somehow he seemed to grow even taller. Meanwhile the portal kept shrinking, and before long April couldn’t see it at all.

  The portal was closed. The others had vanished. She’d been left behind.

  Dr. Jericho, towering and mad, went on roaring.

  April wanted to roar too. The others had left without her. Joshua, at the very least, had escaped from the barn and gotten out through a portal in the humour. Probably Brian too, and Mr. Meister. And even Gabriel—had the humour disappeared because he was gone now?

  She wasn’t sure if she was outraged at being left behind, or relieved that at least someone got away. She watched as the Mordin advanced into the meadow, some of them at a run. She saw the hated Auditor among them. There were almost a dozen Riven headed deeper into the meadow now, and she found herself hoping that the blue light she’d seen out there hadn’t been Horace after all.

  Two of the Riven, including the injured one, stayed behind near the barn. April realized with a sinking heart—losing a hope she hadn’t even thought to have yet—that they must be guarding the falkrete circle. She didn’t have much chance of getting home that way.

  The wreckage of the barn began to creak ominously. Slowly, terribly, the golem April and Isabel had battled rose up out of the remains, like smoke out of the remnants of a fire. Baron lifted his head and let out the tiniest bark. She laid a hand on him, watching the golem gather itself and tumble into the meadow after the Mordin. As she watched it creep, the sounds of battle broke out, downstream and far out in the meadow. The Riven were shouting and roaring, their strange harsh language slashing across the field. But who were they fighting?

  Baron whined. His tail thumped against her leg. April turned just as a shadow leapt down into the creek bed beside them. She flinched so hard she rolled halfway into the water, drenching her legs.

  Isabel crouched down to peer at her. “You got out of the barn,” she said, not even bothering to apologize for scaring April. Her cheek bore a nasty, fresh scrape, and her tangled red hair was a briar patch.

  “Yes,” April managed. “So did you. I’m glad.” The words came out easily, even if April wasn’t sure how true they were. “Thank you for saving me back there.” She owed the woman that much, at least.

  “I was just doing what I was told,” Isabel murmured. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t do more harm to that beast. There’s no death too cruel for him.” April knew she meant Dr. Jericho. Isabel turned her frantic, wounded eyes to April. “I was close. Brian was fixing me. It was happening, but then . . .”

  April had no idea if that was true or not. But she found a pool of pity stirring in her gut, despite everything Isabel had done. The woman was desperately—or angrily?—clutching the round white object April had seen earlier. A harp, she realized now. “I heard what happened to Miradel,” said April. “At least you found a replacement pretty quickly.”

  “Replacement,” Isabel laughed bitterly. “A consolation prize from Mr. Meister. I can’t do anything with it. I can’t cleave. My severings last only a second, not long enough to even down a Mordin. The best I can do is stagger them.”

  Being severed for too long, April had learned, could lead to dispossession and death. Human Keepers could endure being severed for a matter of minutes, an hour at most. But for the Riven, whose Tan’ji were literally a part of them, being severed for only a few seconds might prove fatal.

  “Well, you saved me,” April said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  Isabel gazed out over the meadow. “Meister left, didn’t he? He took Joshua and Brian with him, I’ll bet. What about Chloe?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I saw Horace down in the meadow, but . . .”

  “We need to find Gabriel,” said Isabel.

  “I don’t even know if he’s still here.”

  “You’re still here,” said Isabel firmly. “He’s still here.”

  And then April remembered the words Gabriel had said to her just before she left the humour. “I will not leave without you, April.”

  Brave Gabriel. He’d saved her once already tonight.

  And it made sense—maybe the humour hadn’t vanished completely, but had just been made tiny. Gabriel would be huddled inside, blind to the outside world, using just a trickle of the Staff of Obro’s power so as not to be detected by the Tan’ji-hunting Mordin. But she knew from experience that if the humour was very small right now, she had no chance of spotting it. Not with her human eyes, anyway, or with Baron’s.

  “Use the vine,” Isabel said, seeming to read her thoughts.

  “That’s crazy,” April said, nodding at the two Mordin fifty yards away.

  “Be quick. Be quiet. Eyes only. If you can spot the humour, and we can get close to it, I’ll be able to sense it.”

  That was a bit of a surprise, but April had learned not to underestimate what Isabel could do, even without Miradel. She collected herself, trying to forge the next step. All in all, she was impressed by her own calmness. She wasn’t sure who, exactly, had let her down the most on this long evening, but it wasn’t herself. And she believed that the best way to feel better about things having gone against you was to bring them back for you.

  Carefully, she accessed the vine. Just a thin stream to see who or what was around. Baron was here, nearly spent. And there were plenty of crawdads. Toads too, lots of them. Before the vine, she’d never realized how many toads there were in the world. But she needed something else, and within seconds she found it. A surly, slow-moving mind, high in a tree fifty feet downstream. She focused on it, opening the vine just a little wider. Yes. A possum. She just needed to borrow its eyes, very gently.

  “Quiet now,” said Isabel.

  April ignored her. She let the possum’s senses come into her own. Taste and smell came first, foremost on the creature’s mind. He was eating something, wet and foul. She stuck out her tongue and pushed the sensation away. She closed her eyes and narrowed the stream, letting his vision swim up in her mind instead. It was stunningly bright—she’d known possums had excellent night vision, but of course had never experienced it before. In his busy hands she saw his meal now, a pile of wet innards. A toad, she was pretty sure. Terrific.

  From the possum’s perch, she could see out over the meadow. Possums were stubborn creatures, a personality trait that she usually admired, but she had never cared for possums much. She thought of them as zombie raccoons. But now she was glad this pigheaded specimen had elected not to be disturbed by all the night’s calamities.

  Sadly, although the possum’s wide pupils drank in the starlight as though it were sunshine, his distant vision was lacking. She could see the meadow, could see figures moving around it—far more than she wou
ld have thought possible—but it was so blurry she couldn’t tell whether she was seeing humans or Riven. She guessed Riven, based on the smell and the sound. But she was really on the lookout for just one thing. One unseeable thing.

  The telltale stitch of the humour.

  She’d seen the humour this way before, earlier tonight, but that had been through Arthur’s keen eyes. To spot it now, she’d have to get—

  Lucky.

  There it was, a stitch in the possum’s sight, a strange sliver in the meadow. A patch of unsight, scarcely bigger than Gabriel himself. The possum himself was unaware of it, still hungrily devouring his meal.

  “I found him,” she whispered. He wasn’t terribly far, either, less than a hundred feet away, about halfway to where the Mordin were guarding the falkretes. He wasn’t moving, and with good reason. If he moved, he would be—to use an expression—traveling blind, wholly unaware of what transpired outside the confines of the humour. She had wanted to find him for her own protection, but as she saw his tiny, lonely shelter out there, she realized she maybe had it backward. Gabriel needed her. With her help, the vine’s help, he could see outside. He could move the humour safely away.

  The shouting continued, out in the meadow. Riven—louder by the second, agitated. And the rustling thunder of the golem. For some reason, though, they seemed to be spread wide across the meadow, battling or pursuing multiple mysterious foes. What was happening?

  Baron lurched to his feet. He’d heard something, she realized. Voices, farther downstream along the creek. Whispers. She couldn’t make them out at all, but before she could speak or get a hand on the dog, he trotted off to investigate. Sound. People.

  People? Could it possibly be—

  “That’s enough,” Isabel said. “If you found Gabriel, note the spot and get me close. Enough with the vine.”

  Reluctantly, April pushed Baron from her mind. Taking one last look at the humour’s location through the possum, she let him go too, releasing the vine completely.