Sorcerer's Secret

by Scott Mebus

  “Kieft! I am here for you!”

  Any bravado in him fled, however, as the old sorcerer turned his deep black eyes on him.

  Kieft could taste the victory as he watched the two armies battle it out on the lawn, in the trees, and on the ramparts of Belvedere Castle. He did not care who killed whom and how many died. Every knife thrust on either side brought him closer to the day he’d been planning for ever since he set foot on this backward isle, three hundred and fifty years ago. Almost every plan he’d laid had gone his way—these naive gods had been fooled, the Munsees had been fooled, even that damned Lady had bought into the lies he told. Setbacks, small and inconsequential, had occasionally popped up, but they were never more than brief detours on the journey to this day. It might take a few years to finish off the stragglers, but soon he’d complete the task he set out to perform—kill the gods in Mannahatta and take their power for his own.

  Already he wore a hundred lockets, easily. Soon he’d have thousands more. As a mortal, he did not need to follow the rules that came with these necklaces, rules that he, ironically, helped put in place. He owed the people of this city nothing but his contempt. The mortals of New York would cry out for their guardians, their protectors to watch over them. And he would not answer. He was no servant, no. He would be master and the mortals would bow to him, and him alone.

  “Kieft! I am here for you!”

  Startled, Kieft glanced down at the foot of the hill . . . and froze. There stood the Light, who was supposed to have been killed in the smallpox-hospital explosion. And even worse, there stood Henry Hudson, somehow defiant, glaring up at his master like an angry little boy. Kieft would have to punish him for his insolence. But then he received the worst shock of the day. Over Henry’s shoulder lay the limp body of Peter Minuit. His secret! It was too soon! His ties to his army were strong, but not strong enough to survive this revelation. No one must know that he’d stolen his power, that he was not, in fact, a god at all. His triumph depended on it.

  Kieft immediately sent out the call to all those who were near him—the hill must be protected! Immediately, his nearest troops turned from their enemies and ran for the Light and his companions. But this was not enough. Everyone who knew his secret had to be destroyed. He didn’t even need Minuit anymore, now that he had gathered so many lockets. There might be craftier ways to deal with them, but now was not the time for subtlety. Gathering every last drop of power within him, he sent his magic, all of it, raw and explosive, hurtling toward the four figures standing at the base of the hill. Henry would survive—he always did—and with him, Kieft’s immortality, but Kieft needed to make certain there was nothing left of the others but ash and bone.

  Soka felt the power building on the hill even as she struggled to contain Askook. She knew in an instant what it meant—Kieft was making his move. Disentangling a corner of her mind from her battle, she glanced in the First Adviser’s direction, just in time to see him cast the whole of his power right at Rory and his companions.

  Horrified, she immediately dropped her fight with Askook, leaving the Munsee magician free to do what he pleased. She sent a call to the Rattle Watch, warning them of Rory’s plight, before sending her thoughts speeding toward the hill with all her strength, praying she wasn’t too late.

  All Bridget saw was the big bad guy giving Rory the hairy eyeball, and then the air got all staticky and charged, like a lightning storm was about to break. Her father gave a panicked shout and grabbed her arm.

  “Get in front of him,” he screamed, pulling her, and she didn’t need to be told twice. Rory had to be protected from whatever sorcerer shenanigans Kieft sent his way. She pushed her brother to the ground, throwing herself between him and Kieft, while her father did the same for the limp body of Minuit. At first nothing happened and she felt foolish. But then the world began to burn.

  “AGHHH!” She couldn’t contain the scream inside. This was the first pain she’d felt in her paper body, and it overwhelmed her. She smelled the heavy smoke of a campfire and realized that her body was on fire. Her paper hair, her paper skin, all of it was burning merrily like she was a starter log for a Christmas fire. She could see her hands begin to turn black as her paper skin curled beneath the heat. This is it, she thought, less frightened than she thought she’d be. I’m a goner.

  But then the fire suddenly stopped as if someone just blew it out. She felt a presence wash over her, soothing her, and she recognized it.

  “Soka!”

  Others are coming, with knives, Soka’s voice whispered in her ear. I’ve doused your fire but you must fight! I will hold back Kieft. Rory, you must do what you came here to do, and soon!

  Bridget climbed to her feet. Her body was blackened and curled like . . . well, like burned paper. But she could still hold herself together to protect her brother.

  Rory was pushing himself to his feet, unharmed but clearly shell-shocked. Their dad seemed likewise unscathed, though his clothes hung in tatters. Rory’s eyes filled with tears as he looked at Bridget, but she pointed at him, wagging her finger vigorously.

  “Don’t you wig out on me, mister!” she scolded him. “You’ve got a job to do!” She glanced up at Kieft, who seemed to be struggling with an unseen force, and she smiled tightly. Soka was doing her job.

  “Here they come!” Fritz cried, pointing all around. All manner of enemies were converging on them, from every side. Bridget squared her burned shoulders, ready to do battle. One mean-looking vampire lawyer launched himself at her, teeth bared, but right before he reached her, a plate appeared, colliding with his face. The vampire went down in a spineless heap.

  “Bull’s-eye!” Simon yelled as the Rattle Watch ran to the Hennessys’ side.

  “Are you okay?” Alexa asked as Nicholas and Lincoln immediately joined Henry and Fritz in fending off the attacking horde. Bridget nodded, glancing down at the broken plate.

  “I thought you had to protect the good china?” she asked Simon, who was readying another beautiful piece of crockery for flight.

  “It’s for a good cause!” He tossed the plate, knocking back a gang boy who was just about to hit Henry in the back. Bridget laughed and turned to Rory, who was standing, frozen, staring around him in fear.

  “Why aren’t you doing anything?” she asked her brother, turning to punch a crazed hippie in the face. Rory’s eyes were wide with fright.

  “I don’t know what to do!” he confessed.

  “You better think up something soon,” she told him. “We can’t hold off these goons forever!” It was true—though they were fighting ferociously, even Bridget could tell there were just too many enemies. Rory had better do something, and quick.

  Askook felt Sooleawa’s whelp flee, and suddenly he could work his will again. He didn’t know why Soka had pulled back, nor did he care. Anger burning inside, he sent his mind racing over the Great Lawn, toward the ramparts of Belvedere Castle, searching for the upstart who dared try to thwart his will.

  There she stood, eyes closed, swaying as Chogan and other Munsee elders surrounded her, keeping watch over their new pau wau. Askook sneered. As if this little girl could hope to match his power, which he’d nurtured for centuries. He gathered himself, ready to obliterate Soka with one thought.

  Suddenly pain exploded in him, and he felt something tear. Something was very, very wrong. Fear raced through him as he flew back the way he came, returning as quickly as he could to the clearing where his body waited. As he approached, he was horrified to see his wolves being scattered by a pack of spirit dogs. And in their midst stood a tall, proud Munsee warrior holding a copper spear as he towered over Askook’s prone body. As Askook flew nearer to his body, the warrior glanced up and smiled grimly.

  “You do not deserve to die cleanly,” Wampage said, and lifted his other hand, from which dangled a pair of snakes writhing and hissing with fury. Horrified, Askook floated down to his body, coming face-to-face with his bleeding cheeks.

  “Give me back my snakes!”
he screamed, diving into his body. But it was too late. Wampage dropped the snakes to the dirt and ground them beneath his heel. Askook awoke in his own body to feel it dying. His tattoos had held a significant part of his life force. They had made his magic stronger, but now they were his downfall. As the snakes died, so did he. He fell back, feeling the life slipping away from him. Wampage bent over him, his face grim.

  “That is for Sooleawa,” he said, and walked away, leaving Askook to slip into the dark to which he had sent so many souls. As his final thoughts faded, one horrifying realization rushed over him. They are waiting for me! And then he was gone.

  Rory stood in the eye of the storm, magic swirling about his head as Kieft strove to break through Soka’s protection. His father fought on one side of him, his sister on the other. Spread out around him, Nicholas, Alexa, Lincoln, and Simon kept the tide of enemies at bay, while Fritz, Bridget, and his father stayed close to fend off those who broke through. They all fought for him, to buy him time . . . to do what? Rory wanted to scream with frustration. What was he supposed to do now?

  He returned his attention to Kieft, who stood at the very top of his little magic-born hill. The First Adviser’s eyes bore down on him, striving to reach him through Soka’s shield, and Rory knew his time was almost up. Soon Soka’s strength would fail and her protection would melt away, leaving him exposed and weak. He already felt weak. Kieft was so strong, so powerful in every way, while Rory was nothing but a weak little boy a breath away from his end. How could he beat such a powerful sorcerer? The Lady seemed to think he could do it, so there must be some weak point, a chink in the armor. But what?

  Rory concentrated on the First Adviser, blocking out the cries of battle and the smell of sweat and blood, trying to focus in on the truth. Kieft was so powerful . . . Rory could almost see the tendrils of power winding out from him, reaching out to his armies. They pulsated, black and hungry, and the sight of them made Rory nauseous with fear. But then it dawned on him—the power running through those conduits only flowed in one direction. The tendrils sucked and sucked, draining everything in their path, without sending anything back. Kieft took and took, but he did not give. He was only connected to the world until he sucked it dry. Then he was alone, surrounded by the drained corpses of those he betrayed with promises of power and protection, safety and revenge. And that made him a liar. His promises were tricks, sleights of hand. And Rory saw through all the tricks. It was time for everyone else to see through them, too.

  Rory reached inside, pulling from a deep well of power that could have been deposited there with the destruction of the Sachem’s Belt, or could have been inside him all along. He drew more and more, until he almost burst. Then he sent the power out to Kieft, and tried to draw the truth right out of the First Adviser’s heart.

  Kieft’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening, but the old liar had no idea how to stop it. Rory sucked out every last drop of truth and then sent it down the long, black tendrils of power, forcing Kieft’s own magic to flow in the opposite direction, sending the truth along with it. Within seconds, every last spirit and god knew Kieft’s secrets.

  The truth burst into their hearts full-blown, into every last member of Kieft’s army, and as one their weapons fell to the ground as they felt the truth wash over them. Kieft had never planned to let any of them live. He had no desire to share power with anyone. His fondest wish—the driving force behind this entire war—was to stand over the dry, empty husks of every god and spirit in Mannahatta, every last locket hanging from his neck. Then he would be the last god, the only god, and everything would be his. He would not even have to pay homage to the Lady—Rory showed them the body of Minuit, still alive after all these centuries, and gave them the truth about Kieft’s crimes. Every spirit and god on the battlefield gasped at the implications—Kieft was mortal, and thus not bound by the Agreement. He could, and would, watch laughing as the mortals descended into anarchy and madness, abandoned by their gods forever. Kieft would drink and eat of their despair, until they had nothing left, until only death could stop the pain. And finally, with everything rotten and dead around him, Kieft would leave, and make his way to the next city, and it would start all over again.

  As Kieft himself stood by, helpless, his true feelings—his hunger, his disdain, his terrifying ambition—flowed into his army. And one by one, they shrank into themselves, dropping their weapons, backing away from the fight, and surrendering without protest. A cheer went up all over the battle-torn Great Lawn as the enemy fell apart, unable to bear the sight of their leader’s true face. The attackers around Rory receded—leaving Rory and his friends alone to face down Kieft, who stood shaking with fury as his army melted away.

  “You are spineless fools,” Kieft yelled after his retreating army. “This is not the truth. This is a lie. He’s lying to you! The Munsees are the ones coming to take your lives, your place in the natural order of things. I am offering you power, divinity, everything you ever wanted! We cannot turn back now or the savages win!” At that moment he noticed that his captains, his great allies, were joining in the retreat. They turned their backs on him and left him to his fate. The First Adviser had never looked so . . . powerless.

  He turned to Rory, who stood swaying on his feet from his exertions, and Kieft’s vast anger focused on the boy before him. “I don’t need magic to hurt you, boy. I don’t need an army. I only need one thing.” He pulled out a large, glittering knife, and Rory’s heart leaped with fear. “Your victory will be ashes in your mouth,” Kieft shouted, and threw the knife into Rory’s heart.

  Rory gasped, but then realized he felt no pain. He glanced down. It wasn’t his heart, after all. Instead, it was his father who had acted when everyone else stood frozen, stepping in front of his son and taking the blade meant for Rory’s heart into his own.

  Henry stumbled, falling back into Rory’s arms, driving the boy to his knees.

  “Dad!” Bridget cried, throwing herself at his side, the ashes from her charred face falling like tears on her father’s mortally wounded chest. Henry Hudson stared up at his children, the fear, the self-loathing, the haunted pain gone from his eyes. He smiled, strong and sure in his final moments.

  Kieft began to laugh. “What a poor excuse for a trick, Henry! You cannot die! You have betrayed the Lady and she will punish you forever. You cannot pretend otherwise!”

  “She . . .” Henry began to cough, blood bubbling up on his lips. Bridget cried her ashen tears even harder as Rory held his father close. Henry tried again. “The Lady . . . she has forgiven me. She told me, when she sent me up here with you, that I have earned her forgiveness. But I told her I didn’t care.” He coughed again, and Rory wiped the blood away from his mouth with his sleeve. “I don’t need her forgiveness. I need . . . I need my children’s. Because I am so, so sorry. So, so sorry.” He repeated it again, each time it grew fainter.

  “Stop playing games, Henry!” Kieft’s voice was less sure now. Fear began to color the edges.

  “I forgive you, Daddy!” Bridget cried, clutching her father’s body. “Please don’t leave me! I love you! I forgive you!”

  Henry began to smile and his eyes closed. His time was running out. Rory opened his mouth . . . and at first nothing came out. He felt the anger bubble inside him—all the years he’d hated his father, all the years he’d blamed him for his mother’s tired eyes and weary life—all that anger screamed to the surface . . . and then softly drifted away. All that remained was pain, but a good pain. A sorrowful, gnawing, heartbroken, clean pain. His father was dying—and Rory loved him.

  “I forgive you, too,” he whispered in his father’s ear. “I love you.”

  At first he thought it was too late, that his father had gone to his death believing his son never loved him. But then Henry smiled, whispering weakly, “Thank you . . .” And then he was gone.

  “No!” The cry came not from Rory or Bridget, but from Kieft. They turned to see the black-eyed man, destroyer of gods and w
ould-be ruler of Mannahatta, running around the top of the hill like a crazy person, clutching at the lockets around his neck as he desperately tried to pull them free.

  “What’s he doing?” Nicholas asked.

  “He’s no longer immortal now that Henry is dead,” Fritz said, a smile creeping across his face. “And mortals cannot wear the lockets of the gods. That power was never meant for them. He stole a few centuries’ worth of godhood, but now he has to pay for what he took.”

  Kieft’s clawing grew frantic as he fell to his knees. Smoke, dirty and gray, began to ooze from his neck, until they could barely see him. A stench drifted their way, of disease and dead flesh, and Kieft’s cries grew strangled and soft. He fell back, his body seeming to just fall apart like wet, moldy paper, as if he’d been decomposing for centuries. His cries weakened until they could hear him no more. The twitching of his limbs slowed, and then ceased completely, and then they could no longer pick out the shape of his body. It collapsed in on itself, with a sigh, and when the smoke finally cleared, the only parts of Kieft that remained were the hundreds of gold lockets piled up where his neck used to be. The black-eyed man himself was gone, swallowed up by the green earth.

  Nicholas was the first to move, walking up to the lockets and sifting through them with his toe. Rory and Bridget watched from their father’s side as Alexa and Lincoln joined him. Simon took a step forward, before letting out a cry. Reaching up to his neck, he lifted his locket, which melted through his fingers.

  “I’m free!” Simon whispered, his voice a mixture of relief and regret. “I guess I threw one plate too many. Oh well. Who wants to be a stupid god, anyway? Too much work!” He ran over to the other Rattle Watchers, leaving the crumbling remains of his fleeting godhood behind in the grass.