by Ted Sanders
Directly ahead, though, lay a third path. An opening as tall as an Altari, but scarcely three feet wide, cut into the stone. It stretched on far ahead, straight as an arrow and clean as glass. At the distant end, white light seemed to swim, pulsing irregularly, like ripples on water. Chloe stared down the narrow corridor—if it could even be called that—and Horace did too. He had no doubt that the Mothergate lay this way.
When Horace pulled himself away from the sight, he found Falo standing right in front of him. She squatted down. She came in so close to Horace he thought their noses might bump. He felt no urge to pull away. He wondered if she could sense the power of the Fel’Daera, coursing through his veins. She studied him intensely, reminding him of nothing so much as some tranquil woodland creature, fascinated by some unknown thing of man.
Finally she drew back.
“It is a strange thing, Horace Andrews, to encounter the Keeper who so fully brings all one’s hope to fruition. I plan and I design and I craft and I toil, but to see the fulfillment of all that effort, here in the flesh . . . it is one of the great pleasures of my life.”
Horace had no idea whether to say “Thank you,” or “You’re welcome.” Instead he just said, “That’s very nice.” He hoped she understood how much he meant it.
Falo sat in one of the giant chairs and gestured for Horace and Chloe to take two of the human-sized ones. “And yet,” she continued, “you are not the guests I expected to receive, when I sent Dailen out to find the Laithe.”
The Laithe, Horace thought as he sat. Joshua. Again, it all seemed so far away. “You knew something was wrong with the Laithe,” Horace said. “Because you made it. What can you feel, exactly?”
“I feel it when any of my creations are Tan’layn—unspoken. They are like . . . holes that need filling. Mouths that need feeding. Once they are Found, and as they become part of the Keeper who claimed them, my claim is gradually pushed aside. As it should be. Eventually, when the bond of Tan’ji is in harmony, I feel nothing.”
“What about Auditors?” Chloe said suddenly. “Can you feel them? They’re pretty unharmonious.”
All three Altari reacted to the name. Dailen growled. Teokas shivered. Falo made a childish face of disgust. “The Quaasa,” she spat. “Disgusting creatures. But no, I cannot feel them—no more than I can tell the difference between a face and its perfect reflection.”
“But it seems like you can feel more,” Horace said. “You knew where the Laithe was.”
“A peculiarity of the Laithe, because of its powers. And I only knew it because the first few portals made by its new Keeper were clumsy, creaking things. I felt them quite strongly.”
“Wait, so . . . can you feel it when I open the box, too?”
“At first I did, yes. But not anymore. The Fel’Daera belongs to you now.” She laid a giant hand on his knee, suddenly seeming very grandmotherly. “Your mastery of the box was very swift, very gratifying.” Her face got bright, eager. “Do you like the trick with the silver sun? The way the rays dim and brighten as you move the breach? I sometimes think it was an unnecessary flourish.”
To Horace’s surprise, she seemed genuinely interested in the answer. “No, I like it. It’s cool.” And somehow the purity of the question, the almost girlish excitement in her face as he replied, made this entire improbable encounter feel suddenly, comfortably real. Like . . . kitchen table real. These hands and this mind and these eyes, right before him, they had actually made the Fel’Daera. Real inspiration, real planning, real toil. The deed had happened, just like any deed, and this person—well, not person, but close enough—had been the doer.
“You are having the moment,” Falo said, watching him.
“What moment?” Chloe asked.
“The moment when he thinks of me as real.” Falo reached out and stroked Horace’s hair. It honestly wasn’t weird at all. “I encourage this kind of thinking. My life is filled with pedestals that couldn’t hold me.”
“And some that do,” said Dailen.
“I prefer the ground,” Falo said with a smile. “But back to the Laithe. Regarding the instruments I’ve created, you might say I only truly hear the act of . . . becoming. As the Find progresses, and if it progresses harmoniously, I become less and less aware. If it does not progress smoothly, however . . .” She grimaced. “Last night, I felt that the Laithe had been found. But I knew at once that this Finding was not harmonious. The Laithe did not willingly take a Keeper. It was simply taken.”
“Don’t blame Joshua,” said Horace. “It wasn’t his fault.”
“Joshua, that is his name? He is young, I think.”
“Yes, only eight or nine. But he’s very serious for his age.”
“Serious like a rock,” Chloe murmured.
“I would be foolish to blame young Joshua,” Falo said. “When these things happen, it can never be the Keeper’s fault. Someone else must interfere.”
She paused, and Horace realized she was letting the implied question hang there. Chloe’s eyes briefly touched Horace’s, then slid away. She wasn’t going to say it.
“I mean, it wasn’t us,” said Horace lamely.
“The thought had not occurred to me,” Falo said, sounding amused. She seemed to know Horace and Chloe were holding something back. “But however it came to pass, Joshua is improving. Impressively well, and on his own. Each portal he makes is quieter than the last. Earlier today, he opened a portal from the Warren back to the area Dailen found you last night. It was very swift, quite clean. Harmonious. I barely felt it, but I rather gathered it might have been a rescue.”
“A rescue!” said Horace. “So he got the others away?”
“I can’t say that for sure. But he came out of the Warren by portal and went back again quickly, as if he was gathering passengers. And I haven’t felt him use the Laithe since.”
Horace slumped back in his seat. He was surprised how much the news relieved him. He’d been the one that put them all in danger, leading them to the meadow without revealing their fates, and he’d remained committed to that path. But now his friends were safe, and he felt a huge hitch in his chest unexpectedly unravel. He’d been clinging to his worries harder than he thought.
Chloe pressed her foot against his without looking at him. She seemed to know it too. He heard a small, tinkling chuckle of pleasure and looked up. Teokas was wiggling her mesmerizing eyebrows at him. Horace pulled his foot away.
“These are strange times,” said Dailen. “A Lostling becomes the rightful Keeper of the Laithe of Teneves, in less than a day’s time.”
“And the Fel’Daera lives,” Teokas added. “Despite the rumors.”
“I am sorry I lied to you, Teokas,” Falo said. “I told no one but the Taxonomer. But I hope you will agree that the end has justified the means.”
“The end,” Horace repeated. “Back in the Proving Room, you said that I was the Fel’Daera’s rightful end. Why did you say that? Why am I the end?”
Falo let loose a long, woeful sigh. “All things are coming to an end, Horace,” she said. “The Mothergates are dying, as I think you know by now.”
Chloe glanced down the narrow corridor, filled with flickering light. “They don’t feel like they’re dying.”
“Mothergates are not fires. They will not wane and gradually sputter out. They are more like . . . me or you, or any living thing. When they die—if they die—it will be sudden, and absolute.” She smiled sadly at them. “I do not relish telling you this. But there can be no doubt—the Mothergates are dying.”
For Horace—in this place, of all places, with power and certainty and promise raging through the Fel’Daera—what Falo was telling them seemed both preposterous and horrifying. It sounded like she was saying the Mothergates could die at any second.
“And then what?” said Chloe. Falo didn’t answer her. Chloe looked around the room, frantic. “And then what?” she said again. Dailen only looked down at the floor. Teokas sat there shimmering with silence, watching Chlo
e. And Chloe, of course, already knew the answer. All Tanu—every Tan’ji, every Tan’kindi—got its power from the Mothergates. And if the Mothergates ceased to exist . . .
“How long?” Horace made himself ask.
“I cannot count the days. I do not know. In all likelihood, you will be the last Keeper of the Box of Promises.” She slid her celestial gaze to Chloe. “You, the last Keeper of the Alvalaithen. Me, the last Keeper of the Starlit Loom.”
Chloe shook her head, her fingers worrying the Alvalaithen. “You say that like there’s nothing we can do. Like it can’t be stopped.”
In the corner, Dailen shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, arms folded across his chest.
“I do not say that, precisely,” Falo said.
“Then what do you say?”
Falo hesitated. Teokas got up from her seat and slid in next to her. She took the older Altari’s hand in hers. Their long fingers intertwined. Falo smiled at Teokas gratefully.
“The words are not easy to find,” said Falo. “You are so young, and I—”
She cut herself short. She dropped Teokas’s hand and shot to her feet, cocking her head and squinting her deep eyes, as if she were listening to a distant sound.
“What is it?” said Dailen.
“Something is amiss.” She looked straight up into the air. “A new portal has been made, from the Warren to our grounds above.”
A great bell began to ring, shaking the very ground beneath them. It came from everywhere. Dailen sprinted out of the room, back the way they’d first come in.
“What’s happening?” Chloe demanded.
“Someone is sounding the alarm,” said Teokas. “We have unexpected visitors, somewhere aboveground.”
“What kind of visitors? Wardens? Is it the others?”
Falo spun in a circle, still gazing up. “I cannot say who comes,” she said. “But someone does.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
This Fragile Hold
“RUN!” MR. MEISTER CRIED. HE HAULED APRIL TO HER FEET as the Mordin poured into the far end of Sanguine Hall, beneath the billowing golem. And now April saw that the Mordin weren’t alone—there were much smaller Riven with them too, not much bigger than herself. They scampered swiftly on all fours.
Arthur took flight, fleeing. The sa’halvasa swirled angrily and flocked toward the coming Riven, but the golem met it first. The two swarms collided head-on in a blistering shower of stone and steel. The cloud of the sa’halvasa was larger, but the golem denser and heavier by far, and it drove through the brittle blades like a plow through snow.
Some of the blades still found the Riven below, and wherever they did, the Mordin fought back angrily, and were cut. Other Mordin made it through untouched, galloping toward April and the rest. But somehow most frightening of all were the smaller Riven, fast and hard to follow. April watched as one vanished into thin air with a hiss, rematerializing in a soft burst ten feet on.
“Ravids!” Mr. Meister shouted. “We must flee!”
He lifted his hand and fired his tiny black weapon. The air split with a crack! One of the creepy little Ravids was thrown back like a rag doll. Mr. Meister fired again, and a Mordin was blown off its feet. At his side, Jessica had her harp out. She plucked wildly at the stings, and another Mordin tumbled to the ground, keening. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
Arthur was flying straight at April. Someone grabbed April and tried to shove her through the brick wall. She fought free, calling for the raven. Miraculously, he alit on her shoulder, digging his talons into the leather perch there. He was terrified, flapping his great wings. She stumbled backward through the bricks, taking him with her.
On the far side of the wall, still staggering—the roars of battle suddenly muted and distant—April abruptly found herself in midair. She’d staggered clean off the ledge at the top of the laddered shaft. She shrieked as she fell. Almost immediately someone caught her weight, slowing her, and for a second she thought what an impossible thing it was for Arthur to have done. But then she realized she had no weight, and Arthur had leapt free. Above her, Neptune had her by one hand, clutching the tail of her cloak with the other, slowing their fall.
“I’ve got you,” Neptune said. “We’re going to go down fast, but we’ll land soft, okay?” Her voice was calm, but her eyes were wide with terror.
“Where are the others?”
“Jessica is here. Mr. Meister won’t be far behind.”
“Those Ravids . . . what are they?”
“Trouble.”
April spotted Arthur, fluttering heavily down the shaft. And now she saw Jessica, scrambling down the iron rungs of the ladder. Soon she and Neptune had left them both behind.
They hit the ground—soft for Neptune, maybe, but not for April. Her breath left her as her knees buckled jarringly. She forced herself to her feet and looked up.
Jessica was still coming, practically falling from rung to rung. At the top of the shaft, a tiny white light shone like a star. Mr. Meister. Neptune launched herself up after him. The hammering of the golem in Sanguine Hall made the earth tremble. She couldn’t see Arthur, but felt him overhead, saw herself in his eyes, tiny and frightened. She took in his fear, letting it soothe her. Everyone was afraid. It was okay to be afraid. The Warren was falling.
From ten feet up, Jessica leapt to the ground. She staggered and then wrapped a hand around the back of April’s neck.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, her eyes wild. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I . . . I’m fine.”
Arthur landed noisily beside them. Jessica yanked open the sturdy wooden door that led to the Gallery, and the raven skipped madly through it.
“Go on,” Jessica said. “Warn the others. I’ll stay here and help.”
“Not alone, you won’t.”
“You can’t help with this. Go and—”
Another explosion, this time directly above. A deadly cascade of rock and brick began to tumble down the shaft. Jessica yanked April into the doorway as the debris showered down around them, as gritty dust rose into their faces. The golem had broken through the wall above. A moment later, Neptune and Mr. Meister landed brutally hard—apparently the old man was a shade too heavy for the tourminda. The pair crumpled awkwardly onto the ground even as little rocks continued to rain down on them. Mr. Meister cried out, grabbing his leg.
Neptune tried to haul him up, but he fought her off. “It’s broken,” he said, still clutching his leg. “Leave me. Get them out.” He ripped his glowing jithandra free and smashed it against the ground. It shattered and went out.
“No,” Neptune said. “I’ll carry you.”
“There’s no time,” Mr. Meister said. Suddenly one of the awful Ravids popped up right next to him, out of nowhere. Neptune roared, heaving a rock the size of a cardboard box at it, but the creature simply skipped aside, flickering from one spot to the next. It was a Riven, for sure, with beady black eyes and long pale limbs, but it moved like no Riven could. It spun and reached for Mr. Meister, hissing. And then it fell, blank eyed and writhing, as Jessica plucked the strings of her harp.
Mr. Meister reached up and shoved Neptune, hard. She stumbled back and fell into the hallway. “Take the light away, Neptune. Take the door away, and buy them some time.”
Now a roar from above, not falling rocks this time but the golem itself, pouring down the shaft like black water down a pipe. Neptune scrambled to her feet and tried to go back to Mr. Meister, but Jessica grabbed her. The old man reached into a vest pocket and pulled a small silver star out of his vest—the backjack. He threw it into his mouth and swallowed it, wincing. From another pocket he pulled out a small disc, and tossed it at Jessica. Jessica snatched it nimbly out of the air, and April almost gasped. It was the compass, its red needle pointing directly at Mr. Meister. “Fear is the stone,” he said, his eyes clinging to Jessica’s. “Tell Dorothy to look for me.”
And then the black avalanche of the golem thundered down a
nd swallowed him up.
Jessica yanked April into the hall as the golem landed, then spun and heaved her body against the wooden door, slamming it shut. “Put the light out!” Jessica shouted at Neptune. “Lose the door!”
Dazed, Neptune just stared at her. April tore the purple jithandra from around the girl’s neck and threw it to the ground, crushing it under her heel. As the light flickered out, the door disappeared, and they plunged into darkness. The golem pounded against the stone wall like a battering ram, deafening.
“Go!” Jessica yelled. Faint light flickered in her hand, the shimmering strings of her harp. “We don’t have much time.”
They ran through the Gallery blindly, stumbling in the dark. Neptune wept. Behind them, the golem went on raging, tearing at the stone.
JOSHUA SAT IN the Great Burrow at the edge of the Maw, the Laithe floating by his side. He knew, even if the others didn’t yet. He knew.
The Riven were coming. The Riven were already here.
He watched the balcony on other side of the Maw, waiting for April to return. For Neptune and Horace’s mom and Mr. Meister. For Arthur. It was all his fault. Coming here in the first place, helping Isabel steal Brian away, using the Laithe and—stupid, bad—coming back through the rooftop portal with the terrible Auditor still his head. And he hadn’t told. He hadn’t said. Not soon enough, anyway—if there even was a soon enough. He’d been too scared and too ashamed.
All his fault.
And then he heard it. A dull and distant impact, stone on stone. It came again, louder, drifting out of the tunnel across the Maw and rising on the breeze. Joshua wasn’t even scared. Or he was so scared that there was nothing but fear. It didn’t matter.
He heard footsteps. He turned and saw the others running toward him, drawn by the sound—Gabriel and Mrs. Hapsteade and Brian, and even Isabel. Isabel who was no good, Isabel who’d started all of this. He should have known better. He should never have let her take him away.