Castor seemed to accept Owen’s translation. “I am small. Not strong.” Jesse could hear the shame behind his simple words. Castor had turned red, not from anger, but from embarrassment. “All I have is words. Words and history. That is no great.” Then he straightened. “But I am son of Westlund. Now, I do what I need for my people. It is honor.”
“That’s what the Council said to me when I joined the Youth Guard,” Owen said. “No matter how good their words sounded, they were still evil. They wanted me to die.”
“They want all of us to die,” Jesse said. “I just never thought it would be like this.” He looked up at Castor, tapping the Forbidden Book, which was still lying on the table. “You asked earlier what this was about. It was written by people like your Head Watcher. Evil people.”
“Don’t bother,” Owen said, crossing his arms. “He can’t understand you. Or he doesn’t want to listen.”
“Yes, he can,” Jesse said, never looking away from Castor. “Castor, you have to hear me. This sacrifice is not right, just like what is written in this book is not right.”
Castor looked at him for a few seconds. Obviously, Castor’s mind was full of conflicting beliefs and inner struggles that he couldn’t express in his limited Amarian. Maybe no one could express it, not even the greatest of scholars.
Then Castor opened the Forbidden Book. His finger moved over the text, his mouth silently forming words.
“What’s he doing?” Owen demanded. “Feeling the words?”
“It must be easier for him to understand written Amarian than spoken,” Jesse explained. “To him, we probably have an accent.”
After a few pages, which Castor flipped through quickly—probably looking at the maps and pictures, Jesse decided—he abruptly stopped, an expression of deep surprise on his face.
He held the book up. “Leisel,” he said, pointing to a sketch of a beautiful young woman with dark hair and piercing eyes. She was wearing a silver butterfly necklace. The girl in the crypt.
Clearly, Castor knew the Amarian word written underneath the portrait, Leisel, was her name. For a moment he just stared at the book, which looked small in his thick hands.
Then he did the last thing that Jesse would have expected. He began to cry. His shoulders shook, and though no tears came out of his eyes, he rocked back and forth, staring at the book and moaning quietly.
“Great. What do you do with a crying giant?” Owen asked, backing away.
“Just what you would do with an Amarian or a Lidian or anyone else,” Jesse said, walking over to Castor. “You mourn with him.”
They couldn’t speak, at least not much. Jesse couldn’t tell him the reason Leisel had died or about the hope of heaven if she believed in God. But he could stand with Castor and feel the same pain he felt.
Jesse stared at Leisel’s face, realizing for the first time that every one of the hundreds of young people in the Forbidden Book had a name, a face, a story. And most of them, like Leisel’s, ended tragically.
The realization made him want to tear the pages from the Forbidden Book without looking at the faces or reading their stories. It made him want to storm out of the tunnels and go to King Selen’s castle in District One, raving about injustice and evil. It made him want to curl up in the corner and cry, cold and wet and confused.
Most of all, though, it made him want to ask God questions he hadn’t had the courage to pray before. How could you let them die? Are the Guard Riders stronger than you? Or do you even care? He had felt the same sensation when he was in the tar pit, struggling and sinking deeper and deeper.
It’s so senseless…hundreds of innocents dying. If I were God, I wouldn’t have let them die.
If I were God.
I am not God.
The thought came to Jesse as clearly as if someone had said it out loud. He thought of Jardos, tall and proud, with his arrogant inscription, almost equated him with God. And look what happened to him, to his great city.
What if, somehow, all of the senseless tragedy in the Forbidden Book wasn’t senseless at all? Jesse knew that’s what Parvel would say. That we are limited, but God is eternal, limitlessly wise and perfectly good—that He has a plan no amount of evil can limit.
I am not God.
It wasn’t an answer, not really. Jesse still didn’t know why Leisel and the others had to die. It was hard, admitting that he didn’t know why—that maybe only God knew, but as soon as he accepted that he felt like he’d landed on solid ground.
“It’s going to be all right,” Jesse said to Castor, and he really meant it.
“No,” Castor said, more forcefully than Jesse had ever heard him speak. “No, not right. Wrong. Watchers watch and kill for years, waiting for sons. We kill Leisel for treasure.”
The way he said the word, it was as if he had said the Watchers killed for dust or garbage. And, in the end, Jesse realized, that’s what it is. All cities fall. All treasures are lost.
Castor stood and crossed the room in three long strides. Suddenly, he truly looked like a giant. He spoke to the guard in Westlundish. That started a long conversation, full of gestures and exclamations. Jesse heard his own name and Owen’s several times.
Finally, Castor turned around, a fierce expression on his face. He slammed the door. “They give us time to go to Lidia. Find new way. Find treasure without kill.”
“So once we go up to the ruins, we can escape,” Owen cheered. “You’re brilliant, Castor!”
“Escape?” Castor asked, turning to Jesse.
He shrugged. “Leave Lidia. Run away from the Watchers.”
“No,” Castor said, and his tone was more powerful and commanding than Nero’s. “We escape, the Watchers find others. No more die. No more Leisels die.”
“I don’t care,” Owen said, his voice rising in panic. “I just want to get out of here.” He ran into the other room, probably to bury himself in Castor’s huge blanket.
“Watchers go out with us,” Castor said to Jesse. “We run, they kill us.”
That was a bit of a problem. “Then what will we do?” Jesse asked.
“Find right way,” Castor said firmly. And, in that moment, he looked so confident Jesse would have followed him anywhere, on any treasure hunt, no matter how crazy.
Jesse started for the doorway. “I’ll get Owen.”
“Owen come?” Castor asked doubtfully.
“I promised I wouldn’t leave him,” Jesse said firmly. “Do you know what a promise means?”
Castor nodded, then clamped his lips together, struggling. “East, south, west, north.”
“I think you’re a little confused,” Jesse said. “Those are directions.”
“No,” Castor said. “They…always same. Always….”
“True,” Jesse supplied. “Directions on a compass always tell the truth and never change.”
Castor nodded again. “Promise means I always will, or I never will. Promise means the truth.”
Then he picked up the lantern from the desk. “Owen!” he called into the other room. “Come, please. We go from here.”
Six of the Watchers—Jesse noticed the Head Watcher was not among them—escorted them to the tunnel entrance. Once there, Castor gave them an order in Westlundish. Surprisingly, they nodded and went up the stairs.
“They leave to guard Lidia. They watch us.” Castor said.
Just then, something shrieking darted past Jesse in the near-darkness. Jesse ducked, shielding his face with his hands. I didn’t know there were bats down here.
But, when he peeked out from under his arms, he saw that his assailant was not a bat. There, perched on an outcropping of rock, was Zora. “So, you finally left Barnaby,” Owen said. “Good choice. We’ll take you out of here.” He reached for her. She scrabbled away, eyeing him warily.
“She certainly doesn’t like you,” Jesse sai
d, shaking his head.
“It might have something to do with a certain incident at a tar pit outside the swamp,” Owen admitted.
Jesse made a mental note to ask him for that story later. It sounded entertaining.
Castor didn’t seem to care much about Zora. He pointed to the faded carving on the wall, holding the lantern close to it. “Wrong,” he said. “Must be wrong. Have to say why to Watchers. Please, find what to say, Jesse?”
Jesse was struck again with how expressive Castor’s eyes were, saying more than his limited words ever could. This time, they were pleading with him to find something wrong with the inscription, something that would mean the three of them wouldn’t have to die. He knew it was the only way to convince the Watchers.
“If only I had Parros deGuardi’s paper,” Jesse muttered. He briefly considered going back to get it, but that would waste the short amount of time they had.
“Amarian deGuardi,” Castor said, clearly remembering the name from his book. “Wrote words from stones.”
“What a job,” Owen said. “Sounds fascinating.”
Jesse shot him a look. “We need to compare deGuardi’s translation, his words, with this.”
“To find wrong,” Castor said. “Careful look at words. I know words.”
“But we don’t know the words,” Jesse said, pointing to the chipped paint. “See? Especially at the bottom, there are so many missing that deGuardi could have easily made a mistake.”
“Not this words,” Castor said. “Words of Amarian deGuardi.” Then he began reciting the translation, slowly and carefully.
Three give their all
For Lidia’s call.
Son of Amarias,
Lidia’s son,
Son of Westlund
Join as one.
Their sacrifice
Of greatest price
Reveals the key
To Lidia’s wealth
And destiny.
These are the words of Parros deGaurdi, unfortunate explorer from District Two, now among the Vanished, along with….”
“That’s enough,” Jesse said, still slightly stunned. He memorized the entire thing, even when he didn’t know what most of the words meant. “Thank you.”
As usual, Castor was ready with a quick, “You’re welcome.”
“That deGuardi got us into a lot of trouble,” Owen grumbled. “The Head Watcher is sure he meant all three of us would have to die. Even if that’s what he was saying, how could he be sure he wrote everything down right? Some words are almost all gone.”
He had a point. Jesse looked at the original inscription.
Thre g v the r all
For Li ia’s cal
S n of Ama as
Lidi son
Son of Wes l d
J in as o
Th r sa if ce
O gr es pr
eals t e key.
To L a’ we l
nd t y
As Jesse stared at the old, faded words, an idea came to him.
“What if deGuardi was close, but not exact in the translation?” Jesse said, more to himself than Castor or Owen. He pointed to the middle line. “There’s a space after ‘Join,” but deGuardi translated it as a full word. What if the line actually reads, ‘Joined as one’? And what if this,” he pointed to the first line, “is really ‘Three gave their all’?”
“So?” Owen said.
Jesse stepped as close as he could to the wall, carefully rubbing a layer of ash away. “‘Conceals the key,’” he said, his voice rising in excitement. “Not ‘reveals.’”
“Conceals?” Castor asked.
Owen made a motion like he was hiding the words, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. “Conceal,” he said. Castor nodded, although Jesse wasn’t sure if he understood exactly.
“The ritual won’t reveal the key,” Jesse said slowly. “The key is concealed.”
“Where?” For once, Castor’s Amarian was enough for the task at hand.
“With the three who gave their all,” Jesse said, using his new translation. “A son of Lidia, Amarias, and Westlund. One from each of the ancient people groups surrounding Lidia. History.”
“History,” Castor said, his eyes lighting up. “Three. Jardos, Hyram, and Vincent.”
Again, Jesse felt ashamed that he was surprised Castor could figure out the riddle so quickly. Even without a strong grasp of Amarian, he was capable of very advanced thinking. Jesse got the sense that in his own language and among his own people, Castor was far more intelligent than he was.
“Don’t tell me,” Owen said, sighing loudly. “We’re going back to those statues of dead people.”
“Yes, we are,” Jesse said, “because those dead people could save your life.”
Castor was already climbing the stairs that led to the wine cellar. Zora, cawing loudly, followed them, still staying a distance away from Owen.
“Wait,” Jesse said, and Castor paused, looking curiously back to see what the delay was. “The words in the stone said that one of the three statues had to be a son of Westlund.”
“One is,” Castor said. He frowned and corrected himself. “Was.” He turned again. “Hurry, please. Night comes.”
Jesse didn’t need any reminder of what would happen when night came. There were still several empty compartments in the Westlund crypt. He wanted to keep it that way.
Chapter 15
There was no sun to be found in Lidia. Jesse had been looking forward to seeing the sun again after a day in the tunnels, but instead, a fierce storm raged in the swamps. As soon as they stepped out of the palace, raindrops advanced against them like an attacking army, driving them back and pounding a steady, even beat into the stone of the ruins. Thunder sounded, and lightning tore across the sky.
To Jesse, it seemed like all of nature was violently protesting the coming of night—the night of the circle moon, when he, Castor and Owen would be sacrificed in a ritual to find the lost treasure. That thought made him work even harder to keep up with the others as they hurried through the city to the citadel. Between Owen’s boundless energy, Castor’s long strides and the driving rain, it was a difficult task.
Jesse felt tense, nervous. It was the Watchers, he knew. He never saw them—even in daylight, they knew the ruins well enough to keep hidden—but he felt their eyes on him.
Zora had stayed with them only a few moments after they left the palace. Even in the heavy rain, she had managed to fly away, letting out one parting screech as she fled Lidia forever. Jesse wished they could leave so easily. But even if we could fly, we couldn’t leave the others behind.
“North,” Castor said, pointing toward the street that led to the citadel, sounding proud that he remembered his new Amarian word. Although Jesse was sure Owen, at least, remembered exactly how to get to the citadel, they let Castor lead the way.
By the time they were inside the main hall, Jesse was soaked to the skin. At least my clothes are cleaner, he reasoned, though the thought was not very comforting.
“Son of Westlund,” Castor said proudly, pointing to the statue of Jardos, sovereign of Lidia. “King for ten and ten and six years.” Apparently, he had only been taught numbers up to ten.
Now Jesse realized that the impressive height of the statue hadn’t been an illusion caused by its position on a pedestal. Compared to Vincent and Hyram, Jardos was exceptionally tall. Suddenly, other details began to fall into place in Jesse’s mind. The furniture in the palace—the tall chairs, the massive table—had been sized for a Westlunder. The height of the tunnels also made sense. After all, a giant had been the one to commission them.
That left only one question. “Why was a Westlunder the king of Lidia?” Jesse asked.
“No,” Owen said, before Castor could try to explain it. “We don’t have time for that.
We’ll get Castor’s book translated and read all about it later. Once we escape certain death.”
“Jardos was my father father father father father,” Castor said. “Is why I was chosen as son…as the son of Westlund.”
That made sense to Jesse. Jardos was tall, yes, but he was much shorter than some of the Watchers, just like Castor. Maybe Jardos tried to pass as a Lidian, Jesse theorized. Or maybe he was exiled from Westlund and banded together with the people living near the swamps, and eventually emerged as their leader.
There was a story there. He could see it in the gleam of excitement and pride in Castor’s eyes when he looked at the statue.
Focus, he commanded himself. Find the treasure. He paused. Unless….
Owen ran over and pulled one of the axes on the wall. His thin arms strained until it came loose, nearly throwing him backward. He dragged it over to the base of Jardos’ statue. “Maybe the statue is just a layer of stone around a lump of gold.”
Castor yelped and grabbed the handle of the axe, jerking it away from Owen.
“Not you too,” Owen said, rubbing his sore hands. “They’re dead. They wouldn’t want us to die too, not for a stupid treasure.”
“What if there is no treasure?” Jesse asked, finally putting his thoughts into words.
“There is treasure,” Castor insisted. “History—many people speak of the treasure.”
“But that could be nothing but a legend.”
“Legend?”
Jesse sighed and tried to think of a way to explain it. “A legend is a story that isn’t true.”
“All legends have true,” Castor said, frowning. “No, truth. All legends have truth. Small truth, large truth. But first people say truth, and truth makes into legend.”
“Not always,” Owen said. “My sister told me the old lady who lived next to us turned into a monster every night and ate goats. None of that was true.”
But Jesse was starting to realize what Castor was saying. Jesse had thought the legend of disappearing travelers was foolish, but it was based on truth. Parvel had thought the giants didn’t exist, but the stories about them, though wildly exaggerated, were based on truth.
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