“It mustn’t!”
“The Walker wouldn’t dare!”
“I would,” Rigby said. “But I don’t want to. I mean for us to work together to the betterment of us both. Now, stop flitting about and be civil. We have a plan to discuss.”
Slowly, the storm of Scath decelerated. When at last they formed a huddle around him, Rigby uncrossed his wrists and released his captive.
“Why should we listen to you?” the Scath asked.
“The Walker is not master.”
“No,” Rigby said, picking up the quill pen. “I’m not, but I plan to be again soon.”
“How does it?”
“It is trapped like we are.”
“Trappedis the key word,” Rigby said, beginning to sketch on the parchment. “You will recall that when I took the Shadow Key, I kept my end of the bargain. I set you free, and I wanted it to be permanent. I tossed the key into Xander’s Fortune.”
“The cauldron of undoing?” a Scath asked.
“Impossible!”
“Nothing survives within that volcano. The Walker lies again!”
“Enough!” Rigby pounded his fist, splattering black ink across the parchment. “I did not lie to you, and I am not lying now. I threw the blasted key into Xander’s Fortune and meant for it to be gone forever. ’ow was I to know it landed on a ledge, saving it from ultimate destruction by mere inches? It is a long story, but remember, when I ’ad the Shadow Key, my goal was to set you free. It’s still my goal, but now that Kara ’as the key, I can’t ’elp you. And if I’m stuck ’ere, I can’t do anything for you. Do you see?”
“We sees. We sees.”
“So we need to ’elp each other,” Rigby said.
“But we cannot,” a Scath said.
“She holds the key now.”
“She is master.”
“We cannot defy her.”
“No,” Rigby agreed, “no, you can’t. Not directly.” Rigby began to sketch once more on the parchment. He stopped and pointed. “Can you find this place?”
“Yes, yes, we knows it.”
“We have been there before.”
“Excellent,” Rigby said. “I thought as much. Now, to the plan.”
“What does it want?”
Rigby wondered if his expression managed to convey accurately the mischievousness he felt. With a knowing smirk, he said, “I want you to kill me.”
There was a hissing of Scath laughter. They said, as one, “Gladly.”
TWELVE
SCATHING LOYALTY
LATER THAT EVENING, KARA FLOUNCED ACROSS THE BED in her penthouse suite. Even the grand twinkling view of Baltimore at night couldn’t assuage the feelings that nagged her. Her plan—her meticulously orchestrated plan—had gone off without a hitch. She’d won. She’d beaten them all at their own game, forced the Rift, and figured out how to make the Harlequin Veil work.
But that night at the hospital, the look on Archer’s face . . . haunted her. When she’d revealed that she was the Wind Maiden, he’d looked so utterly betrayed, so completely undone. And then, if that weren’t bad enough, she’d even taunted him with her success.
“I gave the Shadow Key to the Wind Maiden,” Archer had said. “You . . . you’re the Wind Maiden?”
“Poor Archer,” she’d replied cruelly. “You never had a clue, did you? Not even from my last name? Really? No? Well, now you know. It has been a good ride, Archer. A brilliant game of chess. But this is checkmate.”
Back in the present, Kara flopped over on her side and stared at the mirrored closet doors. Though she fought hard against the feeling, she couldn’t shake the reality that she wasn’t completely satisfied by her reflection. She couldn’t fathom why she needed, not just to win, but to rub everyone else’s faces in it. The Nightmare Lord used to taunt people like that. Rigby had made an art form of ridicule. But it wasn’t like her.
Then, she thought about the vault behind those mirrored closet doors. She thought about the Masters Bindings within. Perhaps the answer was there. Maybe she’d already found the answer in the Bindings, but it just hadn’t yet fallen into context. Hadn’t the Bindings spoken of the unique position granted the possessor of ultimate power? Was that it? Could it be that by her cunning and power—the Rift and the Veil—could grant everyone in the world a sense of ultimate peace and satisfaction . . . but not do the same for her? It was a maddening question.
Kara rolled off her bed and calmly opened her closet to reveal her massive vault: six feet tall, four feet wide, and eight feet deep. “Kara Windchil,” she said, activating the voice recognition on the display.
“Place palm here,” the automated voice told her. She did.
“Key combination.” Kara did. From top to bottom, the stainless steel bolts slid back, and the ten-inch-thick door swung open. When the fluorescent lights blinked to life overhead, she stepped inside and went straight to the set of shelves in the back. She selected volume four of the Masters Bindings, noted only by the crimson Roman numeral IVemblazoned upon its thick spine.
She didn’t even bother to leave the vault. She knelt right there, found the place where she had left off last time, and began to read. Her eyes bulged. Tendrils of crimson lightning flickered on her fingertips.
Sometime later, Kara became aware of a bell ringing . . . and it was ringing rather incessantly. The bell seemed familiar. It was something she should know, but it was also absolutely irritating. “Please, shut up!” she cried from the vault.
Then, she heard voices, but there was something odd about them. They had a tinny sound, a kind of mechanical quality. Kara’s mind cleared a little. There was no one in her penthouse apartment. She was certain of that. That meant the intercom, but who would dare interrupt her in the middle of the night?
At last, she recognized one of the voices. It was Frederick, and he sounded upset. Swiftly, but with great care, Kara replaced the fourth volume on the shelf, exited the vault, eased the heavy door until it closed and locked, and then shut the mirrored closet doors.
“Open front door!” she called out, rounding the corner from her bedroom to the study. Near the kitchen archway, she nearly ran into Frederick and two technicians wearing white lab coats and frowns. “What on earth?” she asked.
“Ms. Windchil, what took you so long?” Frederick asked. “With all due respect, we’ve been waiting outside for several minutes.”
Kara frowned. “It is the middle of the night,” she said, holding her temper. “What’s going on? It’s not Doc Scoville, is it?”
“No,” Frederick said. “We may have a larger problem than Doc Scoville.”
“Go on,” she said. “Speak plainly.”
Frederick gestured to the two technicians. “Smith and Harvey here are from R&D. They’ve discovered a potential flaw in the Harlequin Veil. Gentlemen, please explain.”
Kara heard them out. It wasn’t the all-fired disaster Frederick seemed to think it was, but it certainly warranted research. And, unfortunately, that research involved Rigby Thames.
Kara stepped out of her private elevator and planned her approach. She wished she hadn’t been so harsh with Rigby the previous day. After all, she needed information, but she mustn’t let Rigby know how badly she needed it. And, no matter what, she mustn’t let him learn precisely why she wanted it. Easy enough,she thought. Rigby can be manipulated.
Kara settled into her throne and willed up the Shadow Key. She held it in her hands for a few moments, pondering the power that it gave her. This key gave her access to the Karakurian Chamber. It allowed her access to the Masters Bindings and the utterly groundbreaking wisdom within. Most importantly, for now, it gave her control of the Scath.
Well, she thought, as much control of those little devils as possible. The Scath were, after all, notoriously mischievous. When she gave them a task to do, it would get done, but there was always collateral damage. She could almost hear their favorite raspy chorus now: We must play. . .
Kara made up her mind. She couldn�
�t just sit in her throne. In fact, she thought it might be best to hide the great chair for now. It was likely a very sore reminder to Rigby of all he had lost. With a twitch of her will, the throne, as if it had been sitting on hydraulic risers all along, began to drop down into the floor. In a moment, it was gone from view.
Then, Kara flexed her will to lift the Karakurian Chamber up from its recessed place in the floor. She inserted the Shadow Key, twisted, and watched the slab doors slide open. She put on a stern face. She expected Rigby to be standing there, top hat in hand, and she didn’t want him to think she needed him.
But Rigby was nowhere to be seen.
Usually, the movement of the chamber rising was a clue to Rigby that he was expected to be front and center. Come when I call, Rigby,she’d told him. Always come when I call.
Yet he was not there. Fantastic, Kara thought. He’s going to try my patience today of all days.
“Rigby!” she called. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
But there was no sign. For a fleeting moment, Kara feared Rigby might somehow have escaped. But no, that was impossible. The cobalt shackles negated his ability to create with his mental will. Rigby is stuck here so long as I choose to keep him.
Then, she heard it: a cacophony of whispering. The Scath.
“Sssssss.”
“What is it?”
“Not moves. Not moves again.”
“Fleshling has done this . . . to us?”
“Don’t tell; don’t tell!”
“No, the master mustn’t know!”
Kara rolled her eyes. What were the Scath up to now? What was all this nonsense?
She stepped over the threshold of the Karakurian Chamber. The torches were guttering, the amber light burned low. It was shadowy and difficult to see beyond a few feet ahead of her footsteps. But Kara was not afraid. There was no threat she couldn’t handle. She had all the power she needed. All the power in the world.
Still, she wasn’t about to get cocky. That was Rigby’s greatest flaw, something she’d exploited many times. She would proceed cautiously, eyes wide open, all senses on alert. The doors on either side of the long hall were unevenly spaced and every door was closed. Seeing no sign of Rigby or the Scath, Kara delved deeper into the chamber.
Of course,Kara thought. In spite of her power and resolve, memories of every horror movie warned her of impending doom. Maybe this is Rigby’s game, she thought. Lure me into the chamber, catch me by surprise when I open one of these doors, and knock me out. But then what?Kara’s thoughts darkened. Then Rigby will leave me in the chamber to rot, or worse.Kara felt certain that if it came to it Rigby will have no problem taking care of her in a much more permanent way.
Kara involuntarily swallowed as she reached for the first door. The knob turned, and the door swung soundlessly inward, and all the while, Kara readied her will for an explosive attack. But none came.
There was no menace in this room. Wall-to-wall books, a desk with an already burning oil lamp, and a sturdy chair of dark wood. Door after door, chamber after chamber, it was all the same décor, but no signs of Rigby nor of the Scath.
“We hears her!”
“Shhh!”
“Coming!”
“What do we do?”
“Shhh!”
Kara felt her blood begin to boil. She didn’t like whatever the Scath were playing. Did it have to do with Rigby? Of course. “Scath,” she commanded, “present yourselves. Now.”
“Told you, told you!”
“Shhh!”
“We are done now!”
“Quiet!”
Kara waited at the end of the hall and stared down into the somewhat sunken chamber. Slowly, among the stone pillars and the ancient war chests, shadows began to waver. The darkness became a living thing as serpentine shades sluiced into the center of the chamber. The Scath were useful, to be sure, so Kara held her temper . . . to a degree. “What took you so long?” she demanded.
“Busy . . .”
“Yes, loads of activities.”
“Nothing wrong, of course.”
The lot of them laughed, sounding like trash bags full of dead leaves that were being crushed under giant feet. “Shut it!” Kara ordered. “I’m not playing games with you. What have you been doing? Where is Rigby?”
“The fleshling?”
“The other fleshling?”
“Yes, the only human who’s been locked up with you,” Kara growled. “Duh. What have you done with him?”
“Done? Done?”
“Nothing at all!”
“We’re not to blame!”
“Shhh!”
“What do you mean?” Kara asked. “Not to blame for what?”
“Better tell her.”
“We didn’t do it.”
“It’s not our fault.”
“Don’t tell her!”
“Silence! She is master!”
Kara flexed a little of her will and hurled an invisible, Volkswagen-sized bowling ball through the center of the Scath.
“Eee!”
“Look out!”
“Hurts are coming!”
The shadows fled. Some scattered in all directions, some—not so lucky—were knocked silly and sent cartwheeling away.
Kara strode forward, flicking aside any Scath who were stupid enough to venture near. The torches flickered wildly as she came to the narrow aisle dividing the rear of the chamber’s tallest bookshelves. In the dim light, she tripped, taking a clumsy step but catching herself before falling. She spun around, looked down to see what had caused her stumble, and screamed.
Between two of the tall shelves, Rigby lay sprawled. His still-manacled wrists were thrown up over his head as if he had been trying to shield himself from something. His body was twisted such that his legs seemed to have been frozen mid-stride but going the opposite direction of his torso. Worse than all the other details was Rigby’s face. His eyes were open, but they were motionless, staring fixedly up at the chamber’s ceiling.
Rigby Thames was dead.
THIRTEEN
AT WHIM
ARCHER RECOGNIZED THE SHADOW STANDING JUST OUTSIDE the bars of his cell. He knew the hooded silhouette all too well. “Surprised to see me, Dreamtreader in a cage? How easily you act your age. Relax, for soon we will all turn the page.”
“Bezeal!” Archer growled. He flew to his cell door, thrust his arms through the bars, and tried to grab the new visitor. But the diminutive robed figure had quickly backed out of reach. “It was you? You’re the one who accused me of all this . . . garbage?”
From the corner of his eye, Archer saw Master Gabriel step forward.
“No,” Archer said, stepping back from the bars, “it’s okay. I’m not going to kill him.”
Bezeal’s face was invisible beneath the dark hood, but his eyes glimmered with cold light like a pair of distant stars. “Little boy, with grown-up pride, be glad your insolence I abide, you couldn’t kill me if you tried.”
And then, Master Gabriel did step in. “Careful, Bezeal. You know quite well where you are, and there are empty cells yet. What are you doing here? Visiting with the accused is strictly off-limits for a prosecutor.”
Bezeal’s eyes flashed and, for just the briefest of moments, his Cheshire cat grin appeared. “In the interests of a fair and interesting trial,” he said, “I’ve come with news that will be worth your while. Behold the motion I felt compelled to file.” Bezeal reached inside his robe, withdrew a rolled parchment, and passed it through the bars.
Archer opened the scroll. With Master Gabriel hovering over his shoulder, he began to read. Seconds later, Archer looked up. “What does this mean . . . the trial shall proceed at whim?”
“Let me see that,” Master Gabriel said, grasping the left side of the parchment to get a better look. A moment later, he began to shake his head slowly. “This is craven,” he muttered, “even for you, Bezeal.”
The hooded figure said nothing in reply, but simply left Archer’
s cell and waltzed away down the hall.
“What?” Archer asked. “What’s craven? What does at whimmean?”
“It means, Archer, that Bezeal has taken the initiative. He’s collected and documented all his evidence. He can declare the trial whenever he wants. And I imagine it will be very soon.”
“I have to have time to prepare my defense,” Archer argued. “Bezeal can’t do this. Can he?”
“I am afraid he can,” Master Gabriel said. “The trial waits only for the prosecutor to collect his evidence. In most cases, that takes quite some time, but Bezeal was all too thorough.”
“What about me? What about my defense?”
“That was, of course, Bezeal’s plan,” Master Gabriel said. “He wants to take you to trial before you are ready. He wants your defense to depend upon Eternal Evidence.”
“Eternal Evidence? I don’t know what that means.”
“It means your life, Archer,” Master Gabriel replied. “Everything related to the charges, as you remember them. Eternal Evidence allows the court to review your memories and, unfortunately, your motives.”
Archer plopped down to his bunk once more. “Oh,” he said. “That might not be so great.”
“Archer,” Master Gabriel said, “you have convinced me to go to the others . . . to Nick and to Kaylie, but I could still stay to defend you. The trial could be at any moment.”
Archer raised his eyebrows. There was a part of him that wanted to take Master Gabriel up on the offer. But the more he thought about it, the more he saw restraining Master Gabriel when Kaylie and Nick needed him . . . that would be utterly selfish.
“No,” Archer said. “I need to do this alone.”
“In that case, Archer,” Master Gabriel said, “anchor first.”
“Anchor deep,” he replied.
The Master Dreamtreader stepped outside of the cell and slowly slid the door closed. It latched with a very final sounding clank of metal, and Master Gabriel vanished in a swirl of purple, blue, and bright white sparks.
Archer lay back on his bunk. He thought hard about what the Eternal Evidence would reveal. It was disconcerting to think that events of his life—as well as the attitudes of his heart—would be on display for all to see.
The War for the Waking World Page 7