by N. D. Wilson
Rupert tapped Lilly’s head, and Cyrus grabbed a gulp of air, tucking his snorkel back between his lips.
The big shark dove.
Deep water. Cold water. Lightless water. With one arm over Lilly’s back, Cyrus kept himself glued to the swaying sandpaper body. He could feel Rupert’s arm thrown over his own, pressing down, pushing left, tugging right, guiding the animal beside an underwater cliff and finally into a tunnel. Cyrus pressed his forehead into Lilly’s side, hoping there would be no rocks, no jagged walls.
Lilly surfaced. Cyrus blew his snorkel empty, filled his lungs, and they were diving again. Another tunnel. Thirty seconds and they had resurfaced to the echoing roar of running water. Lilly was still working hard, but Cyrus wasn’t sure they were moving. His feet skidded around on something hard and slick. The bottom? Could it be that shallow?
“Stay with her!” Rupert shouted.
What did that mean? What else would he do? What was Rupert doing?
“Rupe?” Cyrus asked. “Rupert!”
Electricity crackled. Large naked lightbulbs fluttered and then burned, hanging from an arched brown brick ceiling. The black water wasn’t deep, but it was racing down a steep incline and seething up on itself below Cyrus, where the tunnel narrowed. Rupert was standing on a narrow brick walkway, his hand inside an open electrical box.
“Cut loose and send her off,” Rupert said. “We’re on our own from here.”
Cyrus drew the long knife from the small of his back and slid the blade through the wet rope looped through his belt. While Lilly lashed her thick tail, swimming in place, Cyrus climbed up over her back toward Rupert. His Keeper crouched and held out his hand. Cyrus sheathed his knife and then jumped.
The downhill current swept out Cyrus’s legs, but Rupert’s hand clamped around his forearm, and the big man used the momentum of the water to swing Cyrus up onto the little walkway. Lilly twisted and slapped her tail against the side of the tunnel, flinging a wall of water over Cyrus. Crawling up to his knees, he spat and blinked and watched the big shark slide down into the froth and disappear.
“Llew was right,” Rupert said. “She’s a love.” He pulled Cyrus onto his feet. “You sound? We’ve got a jog ahead.”
Water beaded on Cyrus’s sleeves and gloves and on the waxy black surface of his shirt and leggings. He shook it off and rubbed his hands through his hair.
“I’m ready,” he said. “I’ve been in this tunnel before, haven’t I?”
“You have,” Rupert said. He turned and walked up the little walkway toward a crooked and broken narrow flight of brick stairs. “You and sister came through this tunnel when you first arrived in Ashtown, dragging poor, bloody Horace between you. But you got out further upstream, before this drop-off.”
Rupert raced up the uneven brick steps two and three at a time. Cyrus paused at the bottom. The bricks were slick with moisture. Green slime coated the mortar. He took one tentative hop and then another, expecting to slide. His black booties didn’t budge, and he let himself stride. Rupert disappeared over the top of the stairs without a glance back. Cyrus raced up after him.
At the top, a small black tunnel mouth waited for Cyrus, and he didn’t hesitate. The brick ceiling was low but arched, and the walls grazed Cyrus’s arms as he climbed. He stretched out his hands, letting his palms bounce along the sides in front of him. There was no light at all, but the stairs grew more even as he moved away from the water, and Cyrus kept a steady pace, matching strides with each breath.
“Cartography!” Rupert’s voice poured down the narrow stairwell. “Draw everything in your head as we go, tracing from the outside in, counting your strides! Draw it in reverse, all over again with every new turn or junction.”
Cyrus kept climbing. What? So he would start where? He pictured the harbor, the smell of biscuits, the shark dive. That was hopeless. So he started at the downhill river tunnel, the short walkway, the stairs up, and then the turn into the tunnel stairs. How on earth was he supposed to count and remember his strides?
His hands suddenly slid out into air. The stairs stopped and Cyrus’s final stride slammed awkwardly down onto smooth stone. Cyrus turned in place, fighting the loudness of his breath, the thrumming of his heart, trying to hear any trace of Rupert. Down the tunnel behind him, he could hear the water running. Ahead of him … nothing.
“Start again.” Cyrus jolted. Rupert’s voice was right in his ear. Cyrus could smell the smoked fish on his breath from yesterday. He backed away.
“What do you mean?” Cyrus asked.
“I mean, start counting strides,” Rupert said. “And keep track of the sequence in reverse order. Begin training your mind.”
Cyrus said nothing. His chest still heaved.
“I have been in this place only one time,” Rupert said in the darkness. “Years ago, when my own Keeper was the Avengel. From here, fifty-three strides down will take me to the river tunnel. With high current, almost fifty seconds’ held breath will carry me out into the lake. Fifteen more seconds to surface. A quarter-mile swim to the harbor wall. He made me memorize every route in Ashtown—every route he knew.”
“Because he was mean?” Cyrus asked.
Rupert laughed. “It’s useful now, Cyrus Smith. And once your mind grows accustomed to the game, any new place and every new maze is memorized easily.”
“ ‘The game,’ ” Cyrus said. “Right. You’re not a normal person, Rupe.”
“Nor are you,” Rupert said. “Follow me and count. I’ll quiz you along the way, but stay close.”
Cyrus tracked the sound of Rupert’s jogging. And he counted. At the end of every stretch, Rupert made him repeat a string of numbers and directions that would lead them back the way they had come.
Forty-nine, slight left, ten stairs down, right turn, thirty-three, full left.
They stepped out into another river tunnel, but the sound of the water was more like a trickle. Cyrus wished he could look around. His eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head, they’d been in total darkness for so long. And every step he took, something inside him was expecting to fall. He stayed close to Rupert’s footsteps and heard the sound of wooden planks squealing.
“Add the landmark,” Rupert said. “Count it back.”
Cyrus followed Rupert across the invisible bridge, counting his steps, praying that the squeaking wouldn’t turn to cracking. At the other side, Cyrus rattled off the directions.
“Bridge, fourteen, forty-nine, slight left, ten stairs down, right turn, thirty-three, full left.”
“Good,” Rupert said. “Now we climb.”
Cyrus walked into a wall.
“Over here,” Rupert said. “Count, but we’re not rushing these. Stay close to the rail. Wood doesn’t always last.”
Tread twenty-six of twenty-nine was missing, but Rupert made him note which one it would be when counting down. Tread four. At the top, they wound through a large room full of thick brick-and-plaster pillars and the smell of animals. Hay scuffed around Cyrus’s feet.
Cyrus memorized and repeated the route, a little surprised that he still could. But the numbers weren’t as random as he had thought they would be. Each one meant a different space, and each space, even in complete darkness, had felt a little different. But he still hoped Rupert wasn’t going to make him draw it all out when they got back from … wherever they were going next.
Light. Rupert pushed open a doorway, and Cyrus blinked at the brightness of what was actually a dim orange flicker. Rupert led Cyrus through the door and between rough plank walls hidden behind bales of hay. The light was coming down through open wooden traps in the ceiling. Cyrus stared up past two floors at the beamed ceiling of a massive barn. The smell of cow surrounded him.
“Keep count in your head,” Rupert whispered. “Silence from here in.”
Cows made their cow noises. Hooves stamped on boards above Cyrus’s head. Stink rained down. Men in the barn were mumbling Latin. One moved by an open trap in the ceiling and Cyrus saw that
he was robed and hooded. The Brendanites. He wasn’t at all fond of them, not since his first week at Ashtown. But he’d never complained about their cheeses. Or their ice cream. Or even the yogurt. Nolan had promised Cyrus that one day he would also come to appreciate the monks’ beer. According to the pale transmortal, the Brendanites were some of the only people to actually serve a purpose at Ashtown. That purpose was dairy. And brew.
For the first time, Cyrus had lost count. He bit down on his lip and took a guess, feeling like he was off by ten steps. In either direction. He recited the rest to himself.
Rupert peeked through a door and nodded at Cyrus to follow. They were leaving the barn’s basement and entering a wide plastered brick hallway lined with oil lamps.
Cyrus began to count his steps. The hallway dropped, but only down three steps. It dropped again, but this time four. Cyrus didn’t bother counting them.
Voices. The walls were now dotted with small alcoves loaded with candles and glaciers of molten wax in front of glistening tile mosaics of men with fingers longer than sloth claws and cheeks gaunt enough to belong to a Jolly Roger.
The passage rounded a slow corner and ended in a large wooden door with wrought-iron hinges. Cyrus whispered his steps aloud. Rupert took him by the shoulder and directed him into an alcove that held a miniature door instead of a mosaic. Behind the door, stairs. Tiny, extremely worn stairs, and a ceiling so low that Cyrus put his hands on the stone steps in front of him and practically had to crawl. Rupert’s broad shoulders scraped slowly against both sides behind Cyrus.
As they rose, so did the voices.
Cyrus’s head and shoulders emerged onto a tiny balcony, behind a stone railing. He wormed forward, but not all the way up out of the stairs. He was in a large, circular underground chapel. The domed ceiling was covered with bright mosaics depicting the slaughter of various bright-red monsters by monks with black swords. Twelve sculpted pillars ran up from the floor, through the tiny ring balcony that belted the room. The pillars were all people in robes—men and women—but every inch of them had been covered with inscriptions.
The floor of the chapel itself appeared to be a mosaic of the world, done in white and black and gold and jungle-bird blue. But it was hard for Cyrus to tell, because the floor was also covered with monks, clustered into murmuring groups, with their hoods on.
At the far end of the floor, there was a gold altar beneath a gold cross. Sitting alone on the floor beside the altar, with his thick white legs splayed out and his hood thrown back revealing his short Mohawk, Niffy was eating a biscuit.
A bell rang, and Niffy hopped to his feet, brushing crumbs off his robe. The monks quietly formed up in lines, and Niffy slid to the end of the front row, flipping his hood over his head.
Rupert tapped on Cyrus’s back. Cyrus crawled along the cool stone floor behind the rail, grateful for his dark clothes. Rupert slid up beside him, squeezing between Cyrus and the wall.
The bell rang again and the monks on the floor began to sing. The words were Latin and the voices flowed in slow unison, even the echoes keeping perfect time.
“Niffy is down there,” Cyrus whispered.
Rupert nodded. “We’re in time.”
“For what?” Cyrus asked.
The bell rang a third time and the voices stopped suddenly. The last echoes rippled around the domed ceiling and died. Behind the altar, the wall with the golden cross opened and three hooded monks in black walked out, shoulder to shoulder. All three held drawn black-bladed swords with gold hilts. Cyrus had seen a picture of a sword just like them back in Llewellyn’s camp. His mother’s native brother had been wearing it in his belt.
The monks laid the blades across the altar, bowed, and backed away, chanting as they did.
“Only one is real,” Rupert whispered.
Cyrus looked at him, confused.
“The blades,” Rupert said. “The other two are replicas.”
Cyrus wasn’t sure what that meant or why it mattered, so long as the edges were sharp. Two more men walked out from behind the altar. One man was old and large, hobbling from side to side, breathing hard. His hood was off and his bald head shone with sweat above his red face. Cyrus didn’t know his name. He had only ever heard him called the Abbot, though his rank in the O of B was technically Sage.
The other man was the lean, wrinkled Irishman who had collected Niffy from the camp. His hood was also off and his scruffy white ring of hair made his spotted scalp look like an oversize leathery egg. His golden patrik slid slowly around his right arm, stretching from his shoulder to his wrist, visible to the room and glowing.
Cyrus felt Patricia tightening around his neck, and he quickly hooked his fingers beneath her.
“Easy,” he whispered. He slid her off his neck and let her recoil around his left wrist. “Easy. He’s down there. He can’t see us.”
The Abbot raised his hands to the room and wheezed in Latin. Cyrus’s mind tried to keep up. He knew the usual holy words, but then …
Uh … blessings … and something something brightness belonging to, no, originating in, or maybe descending down from sailors? From a sailor dream?
“He welcomes the Irish,” Rupert whispered. “The Brothers of the Voyager, their coming is ‘as blessed as the rising light of the sun to men trapped in nightmare.’ ”
The Abbot continued. Cyrus knew most of the words, but they were coming too fast for him.
“ ‘The day has come, my sons and brothers,’ ” Rupert whispered. “ ‘The day long awaited and long feared, the day of abomination.’ ” He looked at Cyrus and rolled his eyes. “Brilliant.”
The monk with the golden patrik stepped forward and took over. His Latin was quicker, his pronunciations archaic, and his accent made it sound almost like a song. Cyrus understood maybe one word in five. Rupert was listening intently, no longer translating.
Cyrus tapped his Keeper on the shoulder.
Rupert glanced back. “The old words,” he whispered. “He’s quoting the original covenant between the monks and the O of B.” The force of the monk’s voice rose. The old man’s words were angry and slow.
“Now all the ways the O of B has broken that covenant,” Rupert whispered. He shrugged. “And he’s not wrong.” The monk threw his arms into the air and began to shout, gold light from his snake haloing his wild hair. “ ‘Enemies rise,’ ” Rupert translated in a low monotone. “ ‘Dragons and flesh-mixing devils once again take root among men while the Order sleeps in its own rot and filth. Let fires burn away the dross. Let the storm winds rid us of the chaff. Let the Order once more raise holy hands; let us wear the robes and wield the tools of Reapers. Cleanse Ashtown of her impurity, empty her halls of vain unbelievers, open the terrible armories of the forgotten wars, rouse the Brothers Below, let every man feel the cold Breath of Brendan and tremble before our Justice and Wrath.’ ”
The monk dropped his arms and the room was silent.
“Wow,” Cyrus mouthed.
“If this goes badly,” Rupert whispered, rising to his knees, “you know the way out. Don’t linger. Get to the plane.”
Rupert ruffled Cyrus’s damp hair, and then he stood.
“What are you doing?” Cyrus whispered. “Rupe!”
Rupert hopped up over Cyrus onto the stone railing, and he crossed his big black-sleeved arms. Cyrus bit his lip and pressed himself down against the floor.
The Abbot had once again waddled forward. His red face had paled while the monk with the patrik had spoken.
“Don’t get too courageous, there, Irish!” Rupert’s voice filled the domed room. “Or this lot might have to fight someone.”
With that, Rupert turned and dropped, catching his hands on the rail. He winked at Cyrus and dropped again, down into the crowd of gasping monks below.
ten
TWO BELLS
THE MONKS PARTED AS RUPERT WALKED toward the altar, his sleeved feet silent on the bright map tiles beneath. The old monk with the patrik tightened his lips and smiled. T
he fat Abbot wiped his forehead.
“Mr. Greeves,” the Abbot said. “How did you … Why?” His Latin was gone.
Rupert laughed. “I am the Avengel, Abbot. I know every door into every one of your little chapels. I know your calendars and rituals and liturgies. I know your covenants with the O of B, and I know what recourse lies before you if, as dear Father Patrick of Monasterboice just informed us so eloquently, those covenants have indeed been broken.”
“You have no standing in this gathering,” the old Irish monk growled. Niffy, thick and hooded, inched toward Rupert.
“But I am standing in this gathering,” Rupert said. He stopped in front of the altar. “And despite the lawless efforts of this Order’s current Brendan, I have managed to retain my office and rank within the rule of law.” He bowed to the Abbot. “But if the Abbot chooses to side with Bellamy ‘Blasphemy’ Cook, if he believes the office of Avengel was truly abolished and that our current Brendan is not, in fact, a lackey of Phoenix, then I will beg your pardon and make my exit.” He faced the Abbot and bowed his head, waiting. After a moment of silence, he glanced up. “Abbot, I await your judgment.”
Cyrus smiled. Rupert was enjoying himself. Niffy took another silent step forward. Cyrus opened his mouth to yell, and then clamped it shut. Not yet.
The Abbot stammered. Rupert kept his eyes on him but cleared his throat loudly.
“Brother Niffy,” Rupert said. “If you touch me here, it will be no puppy scuffle.”
Niffy froze where he stood. Cyrus saw him look up at the old monk Rupert had called Father Patrick. Patrick nodded slightly, and Niffy backed away.
“Right!” Rupert turned and faced the crowd. “As the Abbot has no objections, I ask that you, my cowled brothers, hear my proposal before you elect to burn Ashtown into a ruin. Bellamy Cook was duly appointed by the Sages of this Order.” The monks began to grumble, but Rupert raised his gloved hands for silence. “Aye, he was elected when the O of B was under duress. He was elected with threats hanging in the air. And he serves at the pleasure of Phoenix, not the members of the Order.”