The Invisible Tower
Page 22
Artie lifted his head and smiled. He said weakly, “I know. I just really want to be there.”
“Of course you do. But you were nearly killed before. We should listen to Merlin and wait. I’m sure he’s working hard for us right now. I’m sure he’ll contact you soon.”
“I hope so, Dad.”
Kynder reached across the car and ruffled Artie’s hair. He looked out the front window and saw someone that Artie didn’t. Kynder said, “All right, then. Go get ’em, tiger.”
Artie fixed his hair and got out. He joined Kay and Bedevere, and they started down the sidewalk.
Artie looked at the ground, twirling Excalibur’s pommel in his hand, and Kay and Bedevere nudged each other with some private joke when suddenly, from some distance beyond the carpool drop-off, came a familiar and annoying catcall.
“Yo! Kingfisher! I missed yooooooou…”
They looked and saw none other than Frankie Finkelstein about twenty feet away.
It was weird, but in a way Artie had never been happier to see someone. For a moment, he forgot about Qwon. For a moment, he was Artie Kingfisher, bully target.
For a moment.
Finkelstein had grown taller and a little fatter. Probably stronger too.
But Artie couldn’t have cared less.
He pocketed the pommel and raised his chin at Finkelstein. The bully barked, “What? You want some of this? Already ?” He nudged some freckled sidekick Artie had never seen before and let out a mocking laugh.
Bedevere began to ask, “Who is this gnat, sire, and what can I—” but Artie held up his hand.
Kay turned to her brother, who she’d had to rescue so many times before, and asked, “You want help with those Dr Pepper heads, Art?”
Without looking at the best big sister in the world, Artie answered, “Naw. I got this.”
Artie clenched his fists. Kay chuckled and guided a craning Bedevere toward the school’s entrance, reminding him to lay off the sires and majestys and lieges while they were on this side.
Artie stared at his so-called nemesis for a second more. Then he pulled a friendly smile across his face and walked casually but intently toward Finkelstein.
What got the bully most, and what he would never forget for the rest of his life, was that through the whole fight Artie Kingfisher never said a single word.
INTERLUDE
Ashen and breathing shallowly, the old mage slumped against a massive tree trunk. A breeze tickled the leaves and combed the grasses and weeds, but didn’t wake the man. Merlin had never slept so soundly.
He was enjoying his freedom, and enjoying being lazy.
He may have slept longer, if it wasn’t for the watery nymph cooing at him over the Lake’s breeze-tossed wavelets.
He woke but didn’t open an eye. He demanded quietly, “What is it, Nyneve, can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?”
“Ambrosius, it is you.” Ambrosius was one of Merlin’s names from the old days.
“Who else, my dear? None other is so marked.” He rubbed his head to indicate his tattoos.
“You’ve far more markings now,” the Lady intoned.
“What can I say? I’ve been busy. Bored, too. A thousand-plus years is a long time, even for those as patient as us.” Finally he opened his eyes and raised his head.
The young-looking spirit was half out of the Lake at the water’s edge, propped on her elbows. Her skin was light blue, and her whole being was shrouded in water. Where her body met the Lake, her flesh fell away. Merlin knew that she was the Lake and the Lake was she, of course, but this had never been more impressive than it was in that moment.
Her face was cruelly young. Many, many years ago this spirit had fooled Merlin, and taken him on a vacation under the glassy surface, and almost kept him there, but he got away. He couldn’t believe she was still so potent.
He shook off the Lady’s charms and spoke. “What’s the news, Nyneve?”
“The new boy-king came some time ago. A fortnight, perhaps more.”
“I know.”
“You sent him?”
“I did.” Merlin straightened and put on his shoes.
“You have seen the sword?” she asked casually.
“I have. Thank you for keeping it.”
“Of course. It was easy to care for. Its sangrealitic essence made it so.”
“Of course,” the old man echoed, getting to his feet. “You and the sword are a perfect pair, Nyneve. Both ancient, both exceedingly exquisite.” He frowned.
Her manner clouded as she said, “True.” She wasn’t much for modesty. “And where, may I ask, might the sword and its bearer be on this day?”
“Arthur—Artie—is on his side awaiting my orders. As for the sword—I was hoping you might help me with that. You see, we’ve lost it.”
The spirit frowned, and it cut Merlin to the bone. “Shame, Ambrosius,” she scolded. “You know the blade only comes for purposes at hand. I know surely where it is, but I wouldn’t deign to tell you more than you already guess, for I fear that your purposes and Excalibur’s are set against each other.” She said this with such dark authority that Merlin felt like nothing more than a man. He slid down the tree’s trunk and plopped onto his bottom.
“Tell me, mistress, what you can.”
Nyneve retreated into the water to her shoulders. Her glistening hair fanned out in the Lake behind her, laying flat just below the surface. She smiled an awful smile and said, “The sword wants three things, Ambrosius. To be claimed by the rightful king.” Merlin nodded. “To reopen the worlds.” Merlin tilted his head. “And…”
She paused. Merlin could barely take it. He asked desperately, “What, my lady?”
The nymph said, “You are old, are you not, Ambrosius?”
“You know that I am.”
“Yes. You have lived many lives, and endured many deaths.”
Merlin was impatient. His weariness quickly faded and was replaced by a power that gathered in his toes and fingertips. He felt as though soon he might like to destroy something. He said, “You know this is true. The same is true of you, my dear.”
“Perhaps, but I am not at all human, whereas you are at least partly such. Do you know why you have lived for so long, old wizard?”
The answer to that was easy. “Power, Nyneve, and the wits it has provided.”
She shook her head, throwing clean, cold droplets of water. “No. You are powerful, of course, but that is not why. You have skirted death for one reason only—because that which has the power to kill you has never marked you for death. In fact, it has long been your friend. But no more, dear Ambrosius. No more.”
Merlin stood and stamped his foot. “What are you talking about, nymph? Out with it!”
Nyneve was cool and calm. “Why, the sword, of course. It is the only thing that can strike you down. That’s the reason you were imprisoned and not destroyed. Morgaine didn’t have the sword back in those days and she couldn’t get it. Besides, it wasn’t ready. But now—”
Merlin was flabbergasted. “What are you saying?” He took two long strides toward the Lake’s edge.
“The third thing the sword wants, my dearest, is to kill you.”
Her deep, unsympathetic eyes bore into Merlin’s as she retreated into the water. Merlin could tell that as far as Nyneve was concerned, he was already dead, and she was not sad about it at all.
Merlin wasn’t happy about this. He raised his hands and brought them down forcefully, palms first. A jolt of orange and blue electricity gathered from the ground into his hands, and he flung it at the water nymph with lightning speed. It struck the surface of the Lake, and the water there boiled and steamed. But he was too slow, and it was pointless anyway. The Lady was the Lake and the Lake was the Lady, after all. He could not destroy her.
His chest shot through with pain, his teeth chattered, his lips quivered.
But it wasn’t fear that racked him. It was rage. Merlin was suddenly brimming with rage. The rage felt familiar,
and it felt fantastic.
He had to get going. He had to see Artie right away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you, James Frey, for so many, many things, including letting me pilfer the way you write your acknowledgments. Thank you, Sarah Sevier and Tara Weikum and Jon Howard and everyone at HarperCollins. Thank you, Kathryn Hinds. Thank you, Brian Thompson. Thank you, Ray Shappell. Thank you, Abigail Bowen. Thank you, Jessica Almon. Thank you, Eric Simonoff and William Morris Endeavor. Thank you, Jenny Meyer. Thank you, Courtney Kivowitz. Thank you, David Krintzman. Thank you, Richard Pine and Inkwell Management. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NILS JOHNSON-SHELTON is the coauthor of the New York Times bestseller NO ANGEL: My Harrowing Undercover Journey to the Inner Circle of the Hells Angels. OTHERWORLD CHRONICLES: THE INVISIBLE TOWER is his first book for younger readers. Nils lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his family.
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CREDITS
Cover art © 2012 by Brian Thompson
Cover design by Ray Shappell
COPYRIGHT
OTHERWORLD CHRONICLES: THE INVISIBLE TOWER
Copyright © 2012 by Full Fathom Five, LLC
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Johnson-Shelton, Nils.
The Invisible Tower / Nils Johnson-Shelton.— 1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-06-207086-9 (trade bdg.)—ISBN 978-0-06-213192-8 (int’l ed.)
EPub Edition © DECEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780062070890
Version 12072012
1. Arthur, King—Juvenile fiction. [1. Arthur, King—Fiction.
2. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J6398In 2012
[Fic] —dc23
2011022928
CIP
AC
12 13 14 15 16 CG/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
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