Sorcerer's Secret

by Scott Mebus

  Suddenly light flooded in as the bag over his head was pulled away. He was sitting in a grim, dank cell, tied to a chair. Askook stood before him, flicking his knife with his fingernail as he stared down at him. The man began to struggle, trying to break free of his bonds. But then another man stepped into view and the fight drained right out of him.

  “I really should have seen the resemblance,” the man with the black eyes said, staring down at him intently. “He looks just like you.” The man’s hands began to shake uncontrollably.

  “Please,” he whispered, ashamed at his weakness but unable to stop. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  “I can hurt you, you know,” the man with the black eyes mused, leaning in to regard him thoughtfully. “I cannot kill you, of course. But I certainly can hurt you. As I’m sure you remember. Do you remember?” The First Adviser pointed a finger at him and waved it.

  Suddenly the man began to heave as nausea and sickness washed over him. He leaned forward, vomiting on the cell floor. When he was done, he fell back, exhausted, as tears streamed from his eyes.

  “And that was nothing at all,” the man with the black eyes said, smiling absently. Askook peered in at the prisoner, fascinated, no doubt wondering how this magic was accomplished. The man with the black eyes leaned in again. “What fun we will soon be having, you and I. I was always able to make you dance, because of our . . . connection.”

  “I will die first,” the man said defiantly.

  The First Adviser snorted. “Well, we both know that won’t be happening anytime soon,” he said. “Though I did assume you’d never come back to Mannahatta, not after you ran off with Buckongahelas. Yes, I knew what you did—such a meaningless gesture, saving that savage’s life. It gave me pleasure to know you were out at sea, and working as a lowly sailor, no less. And when I heard you were aboard the Half Moon! I almost died laughing. I thought for sure you would stay away. But instead, you snuck ashore and made yourself a little family right under my very nose. And lo and behold, your son turns out to be a Light! Young Rory Hennessy. Oh yes, I’ve met him. What does he think his father’s name is, if I may ask?”

  “Peter,”the man whispered, staring down.

  “Peter Hennessy.” The man with the black eyes rolled the words on his tongue. “Very Irish. So unlike you. Well, here we are. Your wife and daughter’s bodies lie in Shorakapkok by the wampum pit, sick and dying. Your son is causing no end of trouble. He hasn’t learned the lessons I taught you, Peter. Perhaps he should take a class with me.”

  “No,” the man moaned. “Leave my family alone!”

  “I wish I could,” the First Adviser replied, mock sighing. “But somehow your son discovered the second door to the Fortune Teller. I don’t know who could have told him that.” The First Adviser glared. “I wonder what he learned there? I don’t like being in the dark, Peter. I need your help. I want to know what your little brat is up to.”

  “I’d never do anything to hurt him,” the man insisted, feeling the fire of defiance flicker in his belly. He braced for the black-eyed man’s punishment, but it never came. Instead, the First Adviser shrugged.

  “But I have no such qualms,” he said. “I could march over to your wife right now and step on her neck without hesitation. The little hound that protects them is nothing to me. Then I’d put my hand over your daughter’s nose and mouth until her lungs explode. And when I catch up with your son, I will take great pleasure in burying him in pain. I will destroy every last vestige of humanity in him, until he is my dog, just like you. And you will watch it all.”

  “Please!” the man cried, disgusted with how quickly he’d fallen apart. “You can’t . . . ”

  “You know I can,” the First Adviser said, bending over to stare at him with those impenetrable eyes. “But I won’t. I won’t if you help me.”

  “If I do what you want, I want your word you won’t hurt any of my family,” the man said, his voice sounding pathetic to his own ears.

  “I promise,” the man with the black eyes said.

  “Promise on the Lady’s name,” the man insisted. A flash of irritation crossed the First Adviser’s face.

  “You know I won’t be doing that. But you have my word, they won’t come to harm as long as you help me. But if you fail me, they will pay dearly for it. Remember that. Now here’s what I want you to do . . . ”

  After emerging from the lighthouse, Rory filled in the other Rattle Watchers on his mission.

  “We’ll help whenever we can,” Alexa promised. “I have Bronx blood, so I can guide you there. Simon has Queens blood—”

  “Wait, I’d be guiding them by myself?” Simon asked, his face draining of color. “That sounds a bit risky . . . ”

  “Don’t be such a baby!” Lincoln punched him in the arm so hard Simon staggered. “I wish I could help, but I only have Manhattan blood.”

  “We’ll make sure that there are friends to help you in Brooklyn and Staten Island,” Nicholas promised. “And don’t worry, Lincoln. We’ve got plenty to do right here.”

  “Should we tell the council?” Alexa asked. “This is an important task, after all.”

  “They’d want to get involved and that could be disaster,” Nicholas replied. “We don’t even know who can be trusted. No, if we don’t want Kieft to hear about Rory’s task, we need to keep a low profile. Whitman, my father, maybe a few others. The rest need to be kept in the dark.”

  “And you need to figure out who should bring us all together,” Lincoln told Nicholas. “Maybe Hamilton? Tackapausha?”

  “Maybe my dad,” Nicholas mused.

  “I don’t know about your father, Nicky,” Simon said. “He’s not exactly a diplomatic genius.”

  “He’s getting better,” Nicholas protested.

  “He called the God of Open-Air Concerts a damned hippie and tried to have him thrown into the Tombs for wearing a poncho,” Alexa reminded him.

  “So he’s a little high-strung,” Nicholas admitted. “I’ll keep looking. Fritz, we need your help, too. Can you go to your battle-roach brethren and see if they will join our cause? We don’t want to lose them to Kieft.”

  Fritz glanced at Rory, clearly torn, but then he nodded. “The Fortune Teller did say my path would lead me in different directions. But don’t worry, Rory. I’ll catch up.”

  Nicholas, Simon, Lincoln, and Fritz took their leave, heading south. Simon called out, “See you in Queens, kiddies!” before they disappeared into the trees. Alexa remained behind, deciding that her father’s farm in the Bronx would be the best place for them to start their search. After all, there was a chance he’d left some clues behind.

  They traveled north, crossing the Broadway Bridge into the Bronx. As they moved deeper into the borough, Soka fell in beside Rory.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’ve got an idea how Kieft’s treasure might help your mother.”

  “How?” Rory asked.

  “You remember how Abigail Hamilton found those Munsee spells written on parchment when she stumbled upon Kieft’s hiding place in the park? Kieft had been stealing our magic, writing it down for himself. My people have lost much of that magic over the years, but Kieft still has it. Which means there is a good chance that the healing magic of my grandmother, Alsoomse, survives on those pieces of parchment. The spell to save your mother is somewhere in those pages, I bet.”

  Rory nodded excitedly. “Of course! You can use that spell to save her!”

  “Or my mother can,” Soka replied, looking away. “If I can’t manage it.”

  “We’ll fix you, I promise,” Rory said, then regretted his words as Soka’s eyes flashed.

  “I can look after myself. And I certainly don’t need you to risk your life for me, so please stop doing it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You risked your life for me in the lighthouse with your coin-flip game. I didn’t ask you to.”

  “I knew she wouldn’t let me bet my life,” Rory reminded her, won
dering why she was suddenly so irritable. “So it wasn’t really a gamble.”

  “Just . . . don’t do it again, okay?” Soka said. She quickened her pace, catching up to Alexa. Rory sighed. He’d never understand women.

  They traveled down a busy Bronx street until at last they turned into a small alley. Though the sun was high in the sky, the buildings on both sides left the alley half shrouded in darkness. Alexa turned to face them.

  “I better go on alone from here.”

  “What?” Rory exclaimed. “No! We’re going with you!”

  “I don’t know if Kieft is watching my father’s farm, but he probably has somebody out here spying,” Alexa explained. “I won’t risk it. Please, just wait here in the alley until I get back.”

  With that, she raced down the alley and disappeared. After a moment Rory sneaked a peek around the corner and gasped. Halfway down the alley, the concrete turned to dirt, the walls melted into trees, and the buildings just faded away into stalks of corn. In the distance, he could see a large manor house set back behind a grove of flowering trees. It was beautiful.

  “What now?” Bridget was asking Soka behind him.

  “Now,” the Munsee girl answered, leaning against the wall, “we wait.”

  Alexa hurried through the cornfield toward the old manor house, taking care to stay hidden among the stalks. She’d grown up on this land, helping her father with anything he needed, from harvesting the crops to researching the law. It had been a happy home, though a sense of sadness and loss never quite faded. The specter of Marta van der Donck floated above them all and Alexa had never felt as if her mother was far from her, even though she barely remembered her.

  Alexa stepped out from the corn into the open to run up to the front door, when the sound of hooves on gravel made her jump. A dozen or so riders on horseback were trotting up the long driveway, led by a handsome young man in a long coat wearing a tricornered hat, out the back of which hung a thin, rakish ponytail. He guided his men up to Alexa, towering over her from atop his well-muscled steed.

  “What are you doing here, Van der Donck?” he asked her, his thin voice imperious.

  “This is my house,” Alexa replied stiffly, strong dislike bubbling up alongside the fear. “And you and your little friends are trespassing, DeLancey.”

  James DeLancey smirked. “We’re merely keeping the peace. In case you haven’t heard, more gods have been dying. My Cowboys and I are riding around, making certain no villains are given free rein in our borough.”

  “You and your Cowboys are more likely to be the problem than the solution, James,” Alexa informed him. It was true: during the Revolution, the native-born Cowboys, led by DeLancey, had taken great delight in terrorizing the Bronx on behalf of the British. After their deaths, they’d continued their marauding ways in the spirit realm, which often had put them at odds with Alexa’s father. She had no doubt who they were working for now, or why they were here.

  “Anyone with you?” DeLancey was asking, looking around. Yes, he was definitely searching for someone in particular. “Why are you here, anyway?”

  “This is my home,” she repeated, trying to keep her cool. “And you are not allowed on my property. Get out before I call the militia. You know Stephanus van Cortlandt would love an excuse to put a bullet in your chest.” He gave her a murderous look but she stood her ground, staring him down while his men shifted restlessly. Finally, DeLancey’s frown slipped into a mocking grin.

  “Fine.” DeLancey smirked, turning his horse around. “But I will be back. We’re in Kieft’s army, you know. We’ll protect you from the Munsees whether you like it or not.”

  With that, he flicked the reins, galloping off down the path, followed closely by the horses of his fellows. Alexa watched them go—her fear only showing in her shaking hands—before turning to race inside the only home she’d ever known.

  Alexa ran up to her father’s study, heading right for his desk to tear through his papers as fast as she could. But she couldn’t find any reference to Swindlers or Fair Engineers or any of it. She didn’t understand what any of the clues meant. This was just like her father, she thought ruefully. He loved puzzles and riddles and had no problem solving them in record time. But he was gone, leaving her in charge of the game. And she didn’t know how to play.

  What had the Fortune Teller said about the Bronx? Look behind the Beloved; that was the clue. Alexa had no idea what it could mean. And nothing in her father’s papers gave her a hint. She sighed as her hopes deflated: the whole house was a dead end.

  Discouraged, Alexa made her way toward the door. But before she could walk out of the study, a portrait caught her eye, hanging next to her father’s old easy chair. In the portrait, Alexa’s mother was standing in this very room in front of her husband’s desk, wearing a beautiful blue dress with a white shawl, and her bright blue eyes seemed to be laughing at some unknown joke. This was the Marta van der Donck Alexa pictured in her head, since her mother had died soon after Alexa was born. Growing up, she’d spent many long hours staring at the portrait, wondering what advice her mother would have given her about whatever problem plagued her that day. She would sometimes walk in on her father sitting behind that huge mahogany desk and just staring at the portrait of his dead wife, tears in his eyes. He’d loved Marta so much . . .

  A thought occurred to Alexa. Look behind the Beloved.Could it be that easy? Barely able to breathe, Alexa gingerly reached out and lifted up the picture.

  Nothing. Not even a small note taped to the back. Just the cold, hard wall. Alexa carefully let the portrait fall back into place. She should have known her father would never be so obvious. Oh well, another dead end.

  She kissed the air in front of the portrait and turned to go . . .

  Something held her up. She glanced back at the portrait. What was that? Something behind her mother she’d never noticed before, sitting on her father’s desk.

  “That’s impossible,” she muttered to the portrait. But still, there it was. A small brown package sitting on the desk in the background. Alexa had spent the past three hundred years staring at this portrait and she’d never noticed it before.

  Because it had never been there before . . .

  But what did it mean? She’d already searched the desk and found nothing. So where . . . her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her.

  “You sneaky bastard,” Alexa told her dad, wishing the old man were around to hear it. “It’s in the painting! But how can I reach it?”

  She had only one option, crazy as it seemed. She reached out tentatively to touch the surface of the painting . . . and her finger sank in up to a knuckle. She shook her head in admiration. The package was behind the Beloved, all right. Feeling decidedly strange, she reached farther into the painting, first sinking her fingers, than her hand, then her arm into the art. She took great pains not to touch her mother (that would probably give her a heart attack), but instead reached around her toward the desk. She groped forward and forward, until she was practically half in and half out of the painting, her nose an inch from passing through. For a moment she was afraid she was going to fall in completely, but finally she got a grip on the package. With a quick yank, she pulled it free of the portrait, her heart jumping as she almost brushed against her mother’s shawl.

  Triumphant, Alexa gazed down at the package in wonder. Tearing it open, she felt a wash of understanding flow over her.

  “Hello,” she whispered as a smile crept across her face. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Bridget was getting bored, sitting around waiting for Alexa to return. And now that the excitement of going on a quest had faded somewhat, she found her mind slipping against her will to thoughts of her dad. She’d spent her entire life daydreaming about the day her father would show up. And then when he does, she’s too scared to say hello? What was wrong with her? When her dad ran off like that . . . she was disappointed. She’d thought her father would be more like . . . well, more like Rory. In
stead, he was the Road Runner, always on the move. She knew it should make her feel better to know that it wasn’t because of her that Dad left, that he seemed to leave everyone sooner or later. But it really didn’t.

  “I wanna take a look at Alexa’s house!” she announced, not wanting to think about her dad anymore. She hopped to her feet, making sure her new sword stayed in her belt. The thing was a lot heavier than its cardboard predecessor, and it kept tripping her up. But it sure looked dangerous on her hip.

  “No, Bridget,” Rory told her. “You heard what Alexa said. No going anywhere!”

  “Don’t worry, poopy pants!” she answered brightly, tiptoeing to the end of the alley. “See how careful I’m being? I just want to peek! I won’t go skipping down the driveway or anything.”

  She reached the corner of the last building and stuck her head out to see. Her heart leaped to see the walls fade away into swaying corn. She never thought she’d see anything as pretty as the flowering trees surrounding the stately manor house on the hill. She sneaked around the corner, keeping close to the wall. She’d step into the corn, just for a moment, to see what it was like. Then she’d go back to the others.

  She walked right up to the towering stalks, staring up at the tips framed against the blue sky. But before she could take another step, a hand shot out from within the corn and pulled her into the stalks.

  “Wha–” she began, before a hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Shh,”a voice whispered. “There are enemies near. Can you stay silent? Nod if you can.” Terrified, she nodded. The hand released her and she spun around to face her assailant.