Empire of Bones (Ashtown Burials #3)

by N. D. Wilson

  The glowing Quick Water wobbled on the table.

  Bells were ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

  Cyrus heard shouts in the hall outside his door, and he froze.

  “Cyrus.” Arachne’s voice was tiny and thin. “Cyrus! Stand still, or come closer. This is hard enough as it is.”

  “Cyrus?” The voice was Antigone’s. “Cy? Are you—” His sister gurgled silent.

  Cyrus stepped back to the table and dropped into a crouch, staring at the blob on the table. He had lumped Sterling’s little drop in with the rest, but it was still a small sphere.

  Arachne’s pale, distorted face bobbed inside it. Warped and magnified spiders raced across it.

  “Divide the orb, Cyrus.” Arachne’s voice was sharp and clear. “And press the halves flat against a wall. I will do the rest.”

  Cyrus split the clear jelly sphere and looked around. There wasn’t much in the way of open wall space. He stepped over to a bookshelf and squelched both little balls flat against the leather spines of Rupert’s books. Jelly oozed out between his fingers, but then slurped quickly back through. Letting go, he backed away.

  Two silver splatters clung to Rupert’s books. They swirled and sagged, dripped and climbed back up. Eventually, they flattened. Almost. The liquid was ridged with the spines of the books, but the books themselves faded away behind the water. On the right side, Cyrus was looking at a ripply Arachne, and Dennis was peering over her shoulder. They were in Llewellyn’s lodge or somewhere like it. On the left side, he was looking at Antigone, Dan, and Diana. Nolan lurked in the background with his arms crossed. They were in what looked like a cafeteria with painted metal walls and caged flickering lights above them.

  “There,” Arachne said, and the liquid rippled. “This is easier.”

  “Cy?” Antigone said. “Can you hear me? What’s that ringing? The water keeps rippling.”

  “Alarm bells,” Cyrus said. “Bells of summoning. I don’t know. It’s crazy right now. Rupert shut me in here and now he’s off being Rupert. I don’t know how long I can talk, so let me get this all out. First, is Mom okay? Everybody good?”

  Antigone nodded. Diana retreated and Cyrus’s mother leaned into view, her dark eyes even bigger and brighter in the warped liquid, her raven hair even shorter. She smiled slightly and puckered Cyrus a quick kiss.

  “Where are you, my son? Is it safe? Will you be safe? You should come here where it is warm. This air makes me stronger.”

  Cyrus blinked, surprised at how he felt, at how much he suddenly wanted to be with his mom. He had risked never seeing her again more than once today, and bigger risks were coming. Everyone was watching him. Dennis and Diana and Nolan and Dan. He coughed, unsure of what to say. He was badly out of Mom practice.

  “Love you,” he said quietly.

  “And you,” she said. “Be safe.”

  Cyrus nodded, and his mother retreated. He was sure she could still hear him, but saying what he needed to say was suddenly easier.

  “Right.” Cyrus coughed again and then filled his lungs for a quick rundown. He told them about the attack in the chapel, about Niffy and Rupert attacking the Brendan’s rooms and Bellamy Cook dying and what he had said before he went out the window. “So Radu Bey is on his way, and he’s planning to destroy Ashtown and open all the Burials. We still don’t know where Phoenix is or if he’s going to come and try to tame Radu Bey. I think he’s coming, or else Bellamy wouldn’t have said he was going to be Reborn. He was expecting Phoenix to get his body.”

  Cyrus paused. Dan didn’t look surprised at all. Of course, for all Cyrus knew, everything he was saying was just confirming some dream of his brother’s. Antigone’s mouth was open. Diana was covering hers with her hand.

  Nolan stepped forward. “When?” he asked. “How much time do we have?”

  Cyrus shook his head. “Not enough. That’s all I know. Rupert is gathering everyone still here who isn’t running. He’s telling them everything, and fingers crossed they don’t kill him on the spot. But here’s what we need.” Cyrus turned to Arachne’s silver face. Dennis was blinking in shock behind her, his mouth drooping. “Arachne, Gil has to fight for us. We need him—and the Captain—here as soon as possible.” He looked back at the cafeteria. “Diana?” Diana Boone slipped forward. Dan leaned away to let her get closer. “Could you have your dad pick up Arachne and her crew and get them to Ashtown right away? He should come, too, with his biggest guns and every last one of his crotchety friends who don’t want to see the Burials opened.”

  Diana nodded. “I’ll try. It might not be easy.”

  Cyrus knew that already. And he knew what he was asking them to risk. None of this was from Rupert. This was all from him. Every spent life would be on his shoulders. Cyrus ignored the cold lead settling in his gut, swallowed hard, and pushed on.

  “If your dad can’t get to Llew’s camp, you’ll have to do it, Di, and right away. But it would be better if you all started collecting absolutely as many of Skelton’s weapons as you can find and came straight here. Are there any there?”

  “Yeah,” Antigone said. “But, Cyrus …”

  Nolan pushed forward. “Cyrus—”

  “Good,” Cyrus said. “Start now. Get here as soon as you can. Like, by sunrise, and pray that Bellamy was wrong and they’re not planning to hit us tonight.”

  Someone began pounding on the door to Rupert’s little room. Cyrus jumped to his feet.

  “Di, get someone to Llew’s. Tigs, weapons. And put your Angel Skin back on. Love you, Mom!” Cyrus swiped the liquid off the books and dropped the slopping ball into the little pouch Rupert had used to carry it.

  “Cyrus!” Niffy bellowed through the locked door. “Needed! Now!”

  Cyrus slid an iron bolt and pulled the door open.

  “How’d it go?” Cyrus asked.

  Niffy shook his head. “Not well. The goodies already trickled away under Bellamy. The baddies already had the word to run. A few bounced us in the hall, but Rupert tapped a pint of rage and they scattered. Most of the remainder are staff, and they seem to be looting and leaving, but Rupert hasn’t given up yet. I need you to get me to the zoo. Crypto wing. Little lad called Jax. Rupert wants his giant turtle.”

  Antigone watched the two separate sheets of Quick Water slurp toward each other and wobble into one. Arachne’s face was still waiting when the rippling stopped. Cyrus was gone.

  Antigone said nothing. Dan groaned, dragging his hands down his face. Diana turned, looking for Lemon.

  “Do you have a phone or something like one?” Diana asked.

  Antigone didn’t hear Lemon’s answer. Her older brother leaned in tight, whispering through her hair. “We can’t keep moving Mom like this,” Dan said. “I’ll go. You stay here with her.”

  Antigone thought about the tall, smooth-skinned man with the stone face and the hard eyes, with the chains on his wrists and ankles and the bloody dragon on his chest. She thought about the huge dragon he had become—the hot breath that had parted around her face, the stumps where wings should have been, the spiked tail he’d used to hurl balls of fire … the dragon’s voice crawling through her head.

  She would need to put back on her Angel Skin.

  “I’ll go,” Antigone said. “Mom will feel safer with you. She’ll be safer with you.” She glanced at her brother. Dan’s eyebrows were up. “I have a better chance of controlling Cyrus than you do,” Antigone added. “And I know Ashtown.”

  Dan nodded. Antigone looked around. Katie Smith was watching her with worried eyes. Antigone tried to smile, but it felt like a lie. She let it fall off her face. Diana and Lemon were gone. Horace was sitting at Katie’s table with his short legs crossed, scribbling in a small notebook with a pencil too small to keep a bowling score. Nolan leaned against the back wall with his arms crossed.

  Antigone turned in her seat and met the boy’s time-polished eyes.

  “Nolan,” she said, “I know you don’t like it, but we need weapons that can s
care a transmortal. That’s the whole point. Not evil stuff, just … awful.”

  Nolan turned his head and slowly scratched the side of his neck. The tips of his fingers were red and pink. He’d been chewing his nails.

  She went on. “If Radu tries to kill Cyrus, I don’t care if I make him scream for a year.”

  “You don’t understand,” Nolan said quietly. “Some of these things … Fight devilry with devilry and it doesn’t matter who wins. Devils triumph either way. You become what you defeat.”

  Antigone scrunched her lips. “So find us some angels, Nolan.”

  Nolan smiled sadly. “That is what we are meant to be, what the O of B has sometimes been.”

  Arachne’s watery voice slipped out of the Quick Water, and Antigone jumped in surprise. She’d forgotten Arachne was still watching.

  “Some tools corrupt the user. Others are redeemed in holy use. Assess the weapons fairly, Nolan.”

  The pale boy yawned slowly, stretched, nodded, and finally turned away.

  Antigone looked back at Arachne’s silver face.

  “Now for the storm,” Arachne said. “And an end.”

  sixteen

  REMNANT

  THE LAWNS WERE DOTTED with bobbing flashlights and lamps. Shouting men and fretting women and a few children were lugging bags and packs and overflowing pillowcases toward the crowded grassy airstrip. Some passed it, heading toward the dark harbor.

  One plane after another bounced down the airstrip and then climbed into the night as dozens more were wheeled out of the underground hangars or sat idling outside the doors.

  “Zoo!” Niffy shouted. The thick monk slapped him between the shoulder blades. “Focus, lad!”

  Cyrus jerked back into the moment and began moving again. Most of these people had always been distant to him, some even unfriendly, but there were a few faces that had been kind to him in the halls, faces that had grinned and laughed with Rupert Greeves. And they were running. Running like none of it—the O of B, the vows, the history, the darkness Ashtown quarantined—really mattered. Cyrus understood the families that had avoided Ashtown under Bellamy Cook, but this was different. This was an evacuation. This was surrender. The war was lost before the fighting had even started. To these fleeing people, the O of B was a club, not a calling. Asking them to stand and fight, to stand and possibly die to prevent the taking of Ashtown, would be like asking someone to die for a neighborhood baseball team. They just didn’t care. Not when their lives were at risk.

  The fear was contagious. Cyrus could feel it in the air, feel it prickling his skin as men shouted at each other, as taxiing planes cut each other off—tails smacking wings—to race down the grassy strip and veer away into the night. They were risking their lives so they wouldn’t have to risk their lives.

  He looked back and up at the mountains of stone of Ashtown. By the light of the moon and the low flicker of fires, he could see smoke still rising from the ruined rooms of the dead Brendan.

  “These people,” Cyrus said. “What was the point of everything if they won’t stay now?”

  “The point,” Niffy said, “was to live comfortably in the way that they saw fit. The point now is to continue doing the same thing elsewhere and as soon as bloody possible.”

  “But if the Burials are opened, if all the transmortals are freed …” Cyrus trailed off. It was hard to imagine a world made in the image of Radu Bey. Or Phoenix.

  The charred and bloody monk grew more serious as they walked. “In every herd, many stampede, while only a few turn to face the lions. Cowards live for the sake of living, but for heroes, life is a weapon, a thing to be spent, a gift to be given to the weak and the lost and the weary, even to the foolish and the cowardly.”

  Cyrus slowed to a stop. The stone and steel shape of the zoo loomed in the trees ahead, its glass roofs higher than the highest leaves. He looked back at the scattered and fleeing members of the O of B. Two young men scurried past, dragging four packs each.

  “Aye, even them,” the monk said. “When mothers lay down their lives for children, when brothers die for sisters and sisters for brothers, when fathers die for wives and children, when heroes die for strangers on the street, they do not pour out their blood because the one they save deserves such a sacrifice. Nah, lad. Love burns hotter than justice, and its roar is thunder. Beside love, even wrath whispers. Not one of us snatching breath with mortal lungs deserves such a gift, and yet every day such a gift is given.” He thumped Cyrus in the shoulder with a heavy fist. “To love is to be selfless. To be selfless is to be fearless. To be fearless is to strip your enemies of their greatest weapon. Even if they break our bodies and drain our blood, we are unvanquished. Our goal was never to live; our goal is to love. It is the goal of all truly noble men and women. Give all that can be given. Give even your life itself.” Niffy stretched one open hand out toward the crowded airstrip, the blinking lights, and the shouting. He splayed his burnt fingers like he was dispensing a blessing. “What do they deserve, lad? A flogging. The old bamboo rod in the hand of the late Abbot. Death. And yet Rupert Greeves would gladly die even for the least of these. For you. For your sister. For me. Do we deserve that gift?” He laughed and turned, looking straight into Cyrus’s eyes from beneath his own sooty brows. “There is only one Rupert Greeves, Cyrus Smith, and many undeserving fools who need him. He walks the boneyard path, following in the steps of the one Mortal from whom even the Reaper fled in fear. That path runs beneath headstones, down through the lightless cold of lonely loss, through the dark valleys where death was borne down to the black soul river and the final battle line. Only love can set a man’s feet on such a path. Only love can see him through, into rest and the hot light of the sun.”

  Cyrus blinked. Niffy smiled slowly, still staring. The blistered and soot-covered monk didn’t look at all like someone ready with a homily on love. In the dark, he looked barely alive. Which, Cyrus figured, was his point. Niffy was very willing to die for others. That had been clear from the beginning.

  “Right,” Cyrus said. “Honestly, I don’t care about those people at all right now. They can go wherever and do whatever. There are people I care about protecting. And there are things that I hate. I want them dead no matter what.”

  Niffy’s smile disappeared. “Aye,” he said.

  Cyrus kept pace with the thick monk, his ankles slicing through tall, cool grass as they moved beneath the trees. People didn’t often come this way.

  “This morning in the chapel,” Cyrus said, “your own Abbot, the one with the gold patrik …”

  The monk cocked his blackened, mostly bald head. “What do you know about patriks?”

  Cyrus smiled. “I know that you didn’t take it from him, because they have to be given. If he’d died with it, that snake would go with him into the grave to live among his bones. I know that they aren’t mortal creatures, and that they are named after St. Patrick. I didn’t know that they could be controlled like that.”

  “How do you, lad, have opinions on their control?” Niffy asked. His voice was sharp. “I know only of the golden patrik—called the endless serpent—of the Brothers of the Voyager, and he is always held by the First Cryptkeeper of Monasterboice. And yes, the serpent passed from my master’s hands into my own before his death, as he passed from his master’s hands into his, and thus all the way back to the day of our beginning, when the serpent was first gifted to Brendan by Patrick himself.”

  “Well, I hope you know how to use him,” Cyrus said. “We’re going to need as much help as we can get. I wish we could just throw Radu Bey in the Crypto wing.”

  “He is the greater monster,” Niffy said. “Any beast would tremble before the dragon Azazel. We should be seeking the Brothers Below.”

  Cyrus stopped. They had reached the zoo. It climbed up from the darkness below the tree canopy and into the moonlight well above the highest branches. The uppermost level was entirely glass framed in black steel; below that, smooth stone plunged to the ground, decorated onl
y with smooth pillars and tarnished copper waterspouts that ended in open-mouthed beasts well out of Cyrus’s reach. Up close, it was like standing beside a small mountain sliced in half.

  There was a large wood and iron door in the center, beneath a stone arch. Cyrus veered away from it, toward a tiny one-story building attached to a corner.

  “The Brothers Below,” Cyrus said quietly. “Are they in a Burial? How do we wake them up?”

  “They are named Justice and Wrath, they are not people, and they are not in a Burial,” said Niffy. “Under their judgment, any impurity is cause for death. If my master knew of a way to rule them, he took it with him into death.”

  Cyrus nodded. He’d heard Rupert say that much in the chapel that morning. The moon shadows were dense, and the path to the corner of the zoo was rough and uneven. Patricia was still around his wrist. Cyrus slid his hand around the key ring that she carried, then slid his fingertips beneath the cool scaled body, pulling her invisible tail slowly out of her mouth.

  Patricia appeared in his hands. Cyrus looked up into Niffy’s surprised face, lit with silver. In a flash of gold, the monk’s snake appeared, quickly unwinding on his forearm, growing, extending, tongue flicking. Patricia writhed in Cyrus’s hands, crushing his fingers as she fought to disappear.

  Niffy’s mouth hung open.

  “Hey …,” Cyrus said, backing away.

  The golden snake struck.

  Cyrus jumped backward, tripped, fell onto his back in the long grass, and the hot, heavy golden body landed on top of him.

  Niffy was shouting. Cyrus rolled, shoving his hands and Patricia beneath him, but the snake was too quick. Powerful coils slid around him, crushing Cyrus’s arms to his sides. They lifted him, twisted him, and slammed him onto his back.

  Cyrus’s breath was gone. Bones were cracking in his hand where the now-invisible Patricia was still shrinking, squeezing, grinding the key ring into Cyrus’s knuckles.

  The golden snake forked Cyrus’s face with its tongue. It butted its hot nose into his chest, worming down along Cyrus’s arm toward his hands.