by J. M. Frey
“What was that, my dear?” she taunts. “Speak up!” She sweeps down and swiftly cuts the knot at the back of my wife’s gag, taking a hank of hair with it.
“You can’t. You keep dancing around it because you can’t ask for it. That’s it, isn’t it?” Pip shouts over the growing wind. Her hair is flying about her face, slapping her cheeks, stinging her eyes, and she shakes it back, trying to spit it out of her mouth without the use of her hands. “I never understood why you couldn’t just go get him yourself, but it’s because you can’t be specific and you need to be. You don’t know what happened!”
“Then cease to tease me, and tell me!” the Deal-Maker howls. “What don’t I know?”
“It was another Deal-Maker!”
The Spirit stops and stares at Pip like she’s grown an extra few heads all of a sudden.
“What did you say?” the Spirit hisses, and her voice is acid on the air, corrosive and popping, eating away the oxygen so that we must all gasp at the force of her words.
“The Viceroy hasn’t been sealed away magically, or taken to another realm, or anything like that. He was traded away in a Deal.”
The Deal-Maker clutches at her chest, as if her heart has actually, physically, in that moment, broken. “Betrayal,” she hisses. Then she throws her head back and shrieks it: “Betrayal!”
While the Deal-Maker is busy railing at the sky, Wyndam sidles forward and slices Pip free. He makes a motion for her to follow him silently, but Pip is too angry now for that. She shoves the vines away and hauls herself upright, snarling. “Christ on a crutch! All this because you didn’t goddamn know he was right under your nose! That’s what all of this has been about! Burning out the stars, cutting a swath of terror across the world, hauling Forsyth and I here against our will! And all you had to do was go back to the Deal-Maker’s realm? That is some goddamn lazy fucking plotting, Reed!”
Pip herds our nephew back, keeping herself between our daughter and the Deal-Maker Spirit.
“Sisters, why?” the Deal-Maker sobs, ignoring Pip’s rant. “Why torment me? Why keep this from me! Oh, sisters!”
“You know where he is now, so go to him,” Pip urges. She is wincing, and wobbling. I don’t doubt that she is probably suffering the most horrific pins-and-needles from her hours of being half-slumped on the ground.
“Go?” Solinde asks, agog. “Go?”
“Find him. Take your son, and leave,” Pip urges. “Get out of Hain, get out of this world, leave this realm if you can. Take him away, where both of you will be safe. No more heroes. No more schemes.”
“You mean to say, where we cannot harm anyone,” Solinde says, and stands with a snarl. She looks rather like what I’ve always imagined a mother bear would look like when its cubs are threatened. “You mean leave.”
“Yes,” Pip says, fists and jaw clenched, facing down the Spirit’s wrath with naught but her own nerve, and no small amount of stupid courage. I love my wife desperately, love her especially when she is like this, when she is incensed and feels it is her moral obligation to educate and better the world. But I do wish she had the good sense to back down once in a while, when her safety is at stake.
“No,” Solinde volleys back. “No. I will not go. I cannot. I am cast out.”
Sons
Solinde does not understand why the Reader does not use her powers, for she does not believe that a Reader, a Reader, may be powerless in this realm. The useless younger brother of Kintyre Turn is a liar. How can a creature second only to the Writer himself be powerless? Solinde does not understand why she does not bring magic down upon them all and simply end Solinde. She has begged for death, and instead, these people—these heroes—have chosen to practice mercy.
Mercy, against her will.
At first, she questioned why they were foolish enough to spare her, but now, she is grateful. No, not grateful. She owes them nothing, least of all her continued existence.
Angry as she is, she is also pleased, yes, and satisfied with their foolishness, for now . . . now she has that for which she has snuffed the heavens.
She knows where her son is.
He is not in any of the realms she has destroyed, but in the one realm she cannot access. Her home realm. The land of the Spirits. And they knew it. Her sisters knew it. All the time she searched and raged, they knew and laughed behind their sleeves, the ungrateful, traitorous bitches.
Well. Once Varnet is safe, back at her side where he belongs, once his strength is restored, they will destroy one last realm. They will take revenge for their separation, their betrayal. And they will do it together.
The Reader is staring at her, imploring her, her brown eyes filled with pity and anger and . . . oh. Oh. What is that, which glints emerald in the depths of the creature’s gaze? It is a spell. A spell that is spiced with a scent as familiar to her as that of her son’s hair after a bath; a spell textured with the touch of the babe she had been forced to bear against her will, but loved from the moment he was laid in her arms; a spell that whispers to Solinde with all the sweetness of her child asking for a second bedtime story.
It is a spell that is still active.
A spell that Solinde can use.
“This other Deal-Maker, this disloyal whore, what is her name?” Solinde asks, and she is too angry to demand it sweetly, but wise enough to modulate her tone. To seem to be begging. “Please.”
The Reader hesitates, cutting a glance to her husband, and yes, ah yes. This is definitely something Solinde can use.
“You do know?” Solinde whispers, and curls her shoulders inward. “Please.”
“Yeah, I do, but—” the Reader starts, and that is enough for Solinde.
She raises her hand, makes a complicated gesture, and is gratified to see that her guess is not wrong. Yes. There is a spell of compulsion carved onto this woman’s bones, and it bears the signature of Varnet’s workings. Workings that she herself taught him. Workings that she knows intimately.
The Reader’s eyes flash green, and she stiffens, mouth working like a fish.
“No!” the men cry, each of them sounding like spoiled children, gasping in horror and pouting at the sudden turn in their luck.
Wyndam Turn, as the closest, lunges at the Reader, but Solinde is too quick for him. In an instant, she compels the Reader to duck under his arm and snatch her child out of his grip. The infant’s gown tears, leaving the lad holding a scrap of loose fabric. At Solinde’s command, the Reader snatches the lad’s slim knife from his belt as he flies by, and raises it to her own daughter’s throat.
“Stop!” Forsyth Turn wails. Wyndam stops, hands out, a mere hair’s breadth away from Solinde’s neck, where he clearly intended to throttle her. “Don’t do this,” Forsyth whispers, his whole body trembling. “From one parent to another. Ha-have p-pity. Pl-pluh-please.”
“Why should I?” Solinde asks. Wyndam retreats, jaw held stubbornly, eyes glittering with hate. The Reader obligingly steps back into the circle of Solinde’s grasp. “You never took pity on Varnet. And I like this bargaining position far better. In fact, I don’t think I need you anymore, Forsyth Turn. Nor any of the rest of you. I will broker no Deal with you. Fare well!”
She summons up her cloud, hauling the Reader and her squirming, squalling babe back onto it with her. And then, to the gratifyingly cacophonous and desperate screams of the family Turn, she takes her captives and flees.
There is only one place she is willing to Deal for her son, one location upon which to stage his triumphant return, one setting for their reunion and their mutual revenge.
His Ivory Tower.
Eighteen
The storm chases the Deal-Maker Spirit across the sky, nipping at her heels. In an instant, sunlight is streaming into the soaked Rookery, and I am left with water on my face and no ability to care if it is rain or tears as I keep my eyes on the cloud that is stealing away everything I love. I am a stupid, imperious man, too certain of my own cleverness to realize that of course a sequel book wo
uld not, could not end in the same place as the previous one. Mimic its narrative pattern it may, but they never conclude in the same place. And I, in my arrogance, believed that I could force it to.
And look what it has cost me.
“I don’t . . . her eyes were green,” I hear Kintyre splutter behind me.
“It was the Viceroy’s spell,” Bevel snarls. “And that was the Viceroy’s mother. We never actually got the spell out of Pip—we just sent her to another realm, thinking she’d be safe. We forgot about it! Idiots.”
There is an ugly grunting, growling sound, and in the periphery of my vision, I note Wyndam kicking the Desk that Never Rots. Kintyre pulls him away gently, folds his son against his chest and holds him tight as Wyndam continues to grunt and snarl as best he can.
“Shhh, son. Shhh,” Kintyre says. “It wasn’t your fault. Save your anger for when we’ve caught up with her.”
“And we will catch up with her,” Bevel says savagely. “Come on.”
“Come on where?” Kintyre demands. “We have no idea where—”
“The Ivory Tower,” I say, and the words fall like cannon balls from my lips, heavy and metallic.
“Forssy’s right, she went in the direction of the Mooncall Sea. Where else would she go, but the tower?”
“Bevel, we have no ship, and even if we did—”
“We’ll cross the sea when we get to it, Kin. For now, move it.” Bevel shakes out his wet hair, and then turns for the stairs. “We have very few advantages right now. Let’s not waste this one by dawdling.”
Kintyre holds out his hand, uncurls his fist from around the vial of Deal-Maker blood. “She doesn’t have this,” Kintyre says. “That’s something at least, right?”
“Maybe it will even be enough. Kin, move. You too, Wyn. Up the stairs, now.” Bevel chivvies them, and once again, must turn back to pluck at my sleeves and urge me into motion. “Come on, Forssy.”
“I d-don’t . . .” I begin, but I’m not certain how to end that sentence—if I even can end it—so I let it trail into silence. I am numb. Empty, and numb, and dark.
“Don’t make me slap you again, brother,” Bevel says, forced gaiety in his voice.
His reminder makes me aware of the sting still in my cheek, and I swivel my head to send him a glare. He chuckles, and tugs on my sleeve again. “Come on.”
To reach the stone steps, we must pass the Desk that Never Rots, and now that I finally have the mental capacity to take in the changes in the Rookery, I note that the only difference is the lightning-blasted hunk of metal on the Desk. In the piercing daylight, I can see it clearly for what it used to be.
“Unbelievable,” I gasp, jerking to a halt so I can get a closer look. “It’s a typewriter.”
“A what?” Bevel asks, and comes to stand beside me.
“This is an Olympia Report De Luxe. In race-car red. It’s . . . I cannot fathom . . . but this is Reed’s typewriter. From the Smithsonian Museum.”
“What’s a typewriter?” Kintyre asks, wrinkling his nose at the scorched metal, which I now realize includes, yes, scraps of melted red plastic.
“It’s a machine for writing,” I say. “Forget our notions of the Writer composing with a quill and parchment. It was upon a machine exactly like this that the Writer created us. Created you, brother.”
Kintyre recoils from the machine as if it is about to jump up and bite him. Or, if he were to touch it, that it might absorb him back into the mechanics of its innards and nullify the world.
Perhaps the paradox just may.
“That’s . . . that’s creepy,” Bevel says, also giving the machine a wide berth. “These are the sorts of machines used in the Writer’s world?”
“Sometimes,” I say. “But they’re old.”
“Could you use it to get back?” Kintyre asks tentatively. “When this is all over, I mean,” he adds with a defensive shrug when we all turn to look at him.
“Can you hack it?” Bevel asks, in complete seriousness, and I am equal parts surprised that he remembers the term, and impressed that he has thought of it.
“No, but maybe . . . it’s possible I could . . .” I say. Everyone stiffens when I lift my hand. I let it hover above the typewriter, trying to sense any tingle of magic or ill intent. There is nothing. The metal is not even hot. When I touch the typewriter, a single finger tapping against the useless, twisted “t” key, nothing happens.
We let out a collective sigh of relief.
“No,” I say again, running my hands over the mangled typewriter. “There is nothing to hack. It is, unfortunately, not the right sort of equipment. And even if I did have my computer here, I do not see what good its mere presence would achieve. There is not an . . . ah, accessible archive. My skills in that area are obsolete in such an analog realm.”
Wyndam makes an impatient sound, and gestures at the stairs with his sword.
Yes. Of course. He is right. I send one last look toward the twisted, scorched remains of the typewriter, and then sheathe my own sword and begin the exhausting trek upward. I make a mental note to send someone from the Lost Library to retrieve the typewriter and secure it in the Library archives, for I have neither the desire nor the strength to carry it away. And it seems somehow wrong to just . . . abandon the thing upon which this world was made.
✍
During our return to the cave for the horses, I realize that, in all the bluster with the Deal-Maker and the storm, I had failed to notice that Capplederry, who has proven itself to be one of Wyndam and Alis’s staunchest defenders, was not with us. The reason becomes clear as soon as we approach the cave’s entrance. It has been half-collapsed, by what appears to be a lightning strike. The rocks around the mouth of the entrance are ragged and raw, new-torn from the side of the mountain, and blemished with soot and the distinctive searing pattern of electricity. Fulgurite glitters in the wet aftermath of the rain, a beautiful, twisted reminder of the Deal-Maker’s wrath.
It takes nearly an hour of sweat-inducing, back-breaking labor, but we manage to clear a tunnel wide enough for the horses to escape—a process that is sped up by Capplederry’s anxiousness to be free; the great cat pushes and pounces against the boulders, swiping its paws through the open areas and helping to knock the debris loose. We all crowd inside once there’s space, and then quickly huddle out of the way as Capplederry makes its escape. The horses, however, are rested and pleased to see us.
But, as it turns out, they are not alone. We are so engaged with making certain that everything is correct—I am sore anxious that we keep moving as soon as possible—that only Kintyre hears the scuff of a boot at the newly-narrowed entrance of the cave and turns to face it, drawing Foesmiter.
Capplederry, who had sprung through the gap and into the open air as soon as there was space for it, had been left to roam around the exterior of the cave with Wyndam. The cat now comes bounding down across the mouth, blocking off the person’s escape. It yowls a challenge at the figure, but the newcomer doesn’t flinch. For a moment, I fear we have stumbled upon the Deal-Maker’s hideaway, that she has doubled back on us and we have been caught unaware. I draw my sword; the figure raises its hand and says:
“Whoa, wait, wait. I mean no harm!”
Contrary to this assertion, however, a screaming shriek claps across the now clear skies, holding more rage than I have ever before heard. The sudden sound makes me flinch and cover my ears, but Kintyre and Bevel, far more seasoned warriors than I, hold their positions of readiness.
“Oh, hush!” the figure in the doorway admonishes over Capplederry’s shoulder, and as my eyes begin to adjust to the light, a full picture of who is speaking emerges from the sound of their voice and their silhouette against the sky.
“Ah!” I say. “You’re the rogue and dragonet from the Stoat Forest!”
Capplederry dodges to one side as the scarlet dragonet in question lands practically on top of the great cat’s head. This allows enough of the muddy steel-gray light into the cave to pro
ve me right. For there is the overly complicated leather-and-belt ensemble, the dagged-hem hood. The only difference that two years have wrought in the rogue is a fuller chest, broader shoulders, and thighs corded with muscle probably gained in dragon-riding. His dark hair is cropped now, and it looks as if it’s been done with a half-blunt knife, theatrically mannish. It only serves to make his face look softer, however, his skinny neck more womanly.
There is a great deal of raised scales and fur, some hissing and spitting, and posturing in circles, but Wyndam and the rogue get their respective companions in order. The dragonet calms more when we all put away our swords.
“Oh, it’s you!” the rogue lad says, and his expression is torn between delight at recognizing us, and wariness. He puts himself between us and the dragonet, who is now, two years later, over ten hands taller at the shoulder than it was before. Where its head used to be the size of a horse’s now it is easily the size of an elephant’s. “Where’s the other one? The lady?”
“My wife?” I say, startled that they remember us so well. “Pip is—”
“The real question is what are you doing here?” Kintyre demands, confrontational, and just as eager as I to be on our way down the mountain and across the forest.
“This is where we live. The storm was gone, so we thought we might come back,” the rogue says.
“And what are you doing here, murderer?” the dragonet spits at Kintyre.
“I don’t think I owe you an explanation,” Kintyre says.
The dragonet hisses and spits a cloud of sparks. “Of all the things you owe me, murderer, an explanation is the very least!”
“Calm!” Bevel bellows. “Everyone, calm!” The assembled people quiet down—even Capplederry, who had begun its low warning growl. “Thank you. Now. What’s your name?” Bevel asks brusquely, pointing at the rogue’s chest.