The Fire Chronicle

by John Stephens

  “He’s gone! I can’t see him anywhere!”

  Dark blood ran down Wilamena’s leg.

  “Are you okay?” Michael asked.

  The dragon Wilamena seemed almost to smile. “I’m fine, Rabbit.”

  “Michael!” Emma was kneeling beside Gabriel, panic in her eyes. “Gabriel—he’s hurt really bad! You gotta help him!”

  But as Michael started to open the Chronicle, the tower shook, and the elf captain said there was no time, they would help their friend once they’d reached safety. And the elves lifted the unconscious Gabriel onto the dragon’s back, and Emma climbed up behind him, and Michael sat before him, so that together they pinned the wounded man in place. Then the dragon snatched up the remaining elves and, beating her great wings, leapt into the air. When Michael looked back—they were already high over the plain—he saw the entire fortress sinking into the volcano.

  “Hurry!” Emma shouted, a sob breaking her voice. “I think—I think Gabriel’s dying!”

  “Your friend is strong,” said the dragon. “He will not die. We will not let him.”

  “Where’re you taking us?” Michael asked.

  “Home, Rabbit. I’m taking you home.”

  The iron bell crashed down. Rafe lay without moving, beams from the collapsed staircase piled on his back. Kate was on her side in the doorway, unable to reach Rafe in time to save him. She could only cry—

  “STOP!”

  —and shut her eyes.

  A second passed. Two seconds. Three …

  Where was the crash? The thud that would shake the floor? Everything was silent and still, and the only thing Kate felt was her heart pounding in her chest.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. The bell was exactly where it had been, twenty feet above Rafe’s head. Only it wasn’t falling; it simply hung there in the air. She looked around. The tongues of flame climbing the walls were frozen in place. Then Kate realized how utterly quiet it was. The roaring of the fire, the popping and breaking of glass, the snapping of beams: all had stopped.

  She got to her feet and stood there, afraid to move.

  Henrietta Burke had said that the magic of the Atlas was a part of her; she only had to stop fighting it. The moment the woman had said it, Kate had known she was right. Ever since Kate had taken the Countess into the past, she’d felt the power inside her. But she’d pushed it down, denied it.

  Then, as she saw the bell plummeting toward Rafe, all the barriers she’d erected had come tumbling down.

  But what was this eerie stillness?

  Even as she asked the question, Kate knew the answer:

  “I stopped time.”

  She could feel the strain inside herself. It was as if she had dammed up a river and it was struggling to break free. She knew she could not hold it back much longer.

  She took a step toward Rafe—and stopped.

  A terrible thought had taken hold of her.

  Rafe was destined to be the Dire Magnus—the reason her family had been divided, the reason she and Michael and Emma had spent the last ten years in orphanages, the reason they’d grown up without knowing their parents. She only had to relax, to let time flow; the bell would fall, and her family would be together once more.

  She stood there a second longer, then said a silent apology to her family.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just can’t.

  She stepped forward, took Rafe by the wrists, and pulled him out of the rubble.

  She was barely aware of dragging him through the main hall of the church. All her strength and focus was required to hold time in check. The longer it was stopped, the greater the pressure became. She pulled him through a hole in a half-destroyed wall and out into the dark, empty street. There she dropped his arms and collapsed at his side.

  And let go.

  She felt a roaring inside her, and the world’s noise returned. She heard the crackling of the fire, the crash and clanging of the bell as it struck the bottom of the tower, the shouts of the mob around the corner. She was on her hands and knees, gasping, her dress soaked with perspiration.

  “What—where—”

  Rafe had opened his eyes, the cold air jarring him awake. He leapt up, stared at the street, the burning church, at her.…

  “Did you—how did I get here?”

  Kate was still trembling from her effort. She took several shaky breaths and got unsteadily to her feet.

  “She was right.… Miss Burke said I had the magic in me. I’d just been … afraid of using it. I stopped time. I pulled you out of the church.”

  “You pulled me out?”

  “Yes.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “Yes.”

  For she had; whatever happened from this point on, for good or ill, she had chosen to save his life. Behind them, the church continued to burn, and Kate could hear the mob shouting and cheering around the corner. The boy stared at her.

  “And you can go home now. Back to your brother and sister.”

  Kate nodded.

  “And Miss B is dead.”

  She could feel the anger and sadness coming off him, like heat from the fire.

  There was a rumbling, and they both turned as the bell tower began to sink and tilt, the base of it eaten away by flames, and there was a cheer from around the corner as the tower tipped over and crashed through the roof of the church in a great explosion of smoke and sparks.

  With a cry, Rafe ran to the crumpled iron fence, yanked free one of the bars, and took off running around the side of the church.

  Legs trembling, Kate went after him, shouting his name.

  When she came onto the avenue, there were now perhaps forty men armed with torches and clubs, cheering and laughing, their faces ghoulish in the firelight. None of them saw the boy racing toward them. There was no magic in Rafe’s attack; it was all animal pain and anger. He struck a potbellied man full in the head—a distinct clonk Kate heard from twenty yards away—and laid him out cold. Then he tore into three young toughs, all of them older and bigger than he was. He struck the first across the shoulders, and the young man dropped his torch and fell to his knees with a grunt. Rafe jabbed the end of his pipe into the stomach of the second, doubling him over, then brought his knee up into the man’s face, so that his head snapped back. The third tough was fast and had his knife out and slashed Rafe across the arm. The pipe clattered to the street, and the tough kicked it to his friend, the first one Rafe had attacked, who grabbed it as he staggered to his feet. The other tough was up as well, though bleeding from his nose and mouth, and he too had his knife out. The trio surrounded Rafe, and Kate was about to dive into the fray when Rafe snatched a torch, spoke a silent word, and flames leapt off the torch and engulfed the three men.

  “No!”

  Kate knocked the torch from Rafe’s hand. The flames attacking the men died away. At the same moment, there was a sound of approaching bells and sirens, someone shouted that the police were coming; instantly, the mob melted away, including the three young men, who fled into the darkness, calling back threats as they ran.

  Rafe made to go after them, but Kate grabbed his arm.

  “Stop it!”

  “Why? You saw what they did!”

  “But you can’t! I won’t let you!”

  She wrapped her arms tight around him, hugging him to her. He pushed and struggled, but she held on to him with all the strength she had, her head buried against his shoulder, till, finally, she felt the fight go out of him. She held him a moment longer, limp in her arms, then let go. He dropped to his knees in the snow. She could see his shoulders shaking. Kate knew what he was feeling: His mother, Henrietta Burke, Scruggs—all of them were dead. The children he cared for hunted. She felt how easily his anger could consume him. And she remembered what Henrietta Burke had said:

  Love him as he already loves you.

  “Come with me.”

  Rafe looked up, tears shining amid the smoke and ash on his cheeks.

 
; “What?”

  Kate thought her voice would tremble, but it didn’t. She knew this was right; this, finally, was why she was here, to stop him from becoming the Dire Magnus.

  “Come with me.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. Someone has to look after the kids.”

  “They’re going to a home upstate. Miss Burke set it up; they’ll be okay. Come with me.”

  He stared at her, searching her face. The bells from the fire and police wagons were getting closer.

  “What is everyone afraid of? You. Scruggs. Miss Burke. You’re trying to keep me away from something. Why does the Dire Magnus want me?”

  Kate couldn’t resist the pleading in his eyes.

  “He … he wants you to take his place.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t explain. But you won’t be you anymore! You’ll be him, and all the ones before him! He wants to use you! You have to come with me!”

  As she said it, Kate realized that not only was this what the Atlas wanted, this was what she wanted. And it had nothing to do with him not becoming the Dire Magnus; she just wanted him with her.

  Love him as he already loves you.

  “I want you to come. Please.”

  Rafe still hadn’t risen from his knees, and he stared down at his hands. Kate saw they were burned and blistered. “She told me to choose. Miss Burke. She said I could choose who I would be. The same thing my mother said.”

  “So choose. Come with me.”

  She held out her hand. Rafe looked at it, at her. It seemed to Kate that the whole world held its breath. Then, slowly, he reached up.

  “You!”

  The voice came from down the street. Kate looked past Rafe’s kneeling form to where a shape had emerged from the darkness.

  “I knew you’d be here, you freak! I told you you’d get yours!”

  Kate saw it was the pinch-faced boy who’d chased her and Abigail and Jake and Beetles down the street earlier that morning and that he was holding a gun and it was aimed directly at her.

  There was noise all around them, the roar of the fire, the clanging of the approaching bells, the shouts of the fleeing mob; still, Kate heard a small, distinct pop, and the pinch-faced boy turned and raced off into the darkness. Rafe had already leapt to his feet, but he seemed unsure about what to do, and looked from the disappearing boy back to Kate. Kate wanted to tell him she was fine and to stop staring at her like that, but she felt suddenly wobbly. Without realizing she was falling, she felt her head strike the cobblestones. Even then, she was surprised to find herself lying in the snow. She tried to get up and found she couldn’t. Rafe’s face appeared above her.

  “What … what happened?” she said. “He missed me, didn’t he?”

  “Shhh, don’t talk.”

  She could see the fear and worry in his eyes and that scared her more than anything. With a great effort, she lifted her head and saw, blossoming on the front of her white dress, a large red stain.

  “Rafe …”

  “It’s okay. We can fix this. It’s okay.…”

  Her first thought was of Michael and Emma. She had to get to them. She couldn’t die here; they would never know what had happened to her. She had to get back to them. And she reached for the magic inside her, but she was too weak. She couldn’t focus enough to command it; the magic slipped from her grasp.

  “I have to …,” she murmured, “… I have to …”

  Rafe was lifting her in his arms. “I’ll get you to someone who can heal you. Scrug—no, not Scruggs … We just need someone powerful. A powerful magician …”

  She could hear the panic in his voice, and she found herself wanting to reassure him. “It’s okay. I don’t feel that bad. Only … cold.”

  Rafe’s face changed. “I know who can fix you. Just hold on.”

  And he was running through the street, with Kate pressed against his chest. They passed the police and fire wagons that were sliding around the corner, and Rafe was running as if she weighed nothing at all, and indeed, it seemed to Kate that she was growing lighter, that all the weight, all the heaviness, was slipping from her. And Rafe was sprinting down the avenue, and she could hear the singing of New Year’s revelers; it was getting close to midnight. And there was more shouting, but no, that was Rafe, he was shouting at a horse-drawn cab and leaping in before the man could stop, yelling out an address, telling the driver to go as fast as he could, and Kate heard the snap of reins and felt the jolt as the cab jerked away, and she was aware of how tightly Rafe held her and how cold she was and she couldn’t actually, really, be dying.

  “My brother and sister … they won’t know what happened.…”

  “You’ll tell them. You’re gonna be okay. I know who can fix you. Just hold on.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’m not losing you too.”

  And then, she couldn’t be sure, she might have imagined it, but she thought he leaned down and kissed her.

  The cab raced up the avenue, sliding around corners, the cabman shouting for people to make way, and Kate felt herself drifting off, lulled by the steady pounding of the horse’s hooves and the swaying and rocking of the cab, and Rafe was holding her and murmuring, “It’s gonna be okay. I’m not gonna lose you.…”

  And then the cab was slowing, the driver calling for the horse to turn in, damn it, and Kate couldn’t see where they were, but Rafe was kicking open the door, leaping out of the carriage with Kate in his arms, landing so softly that she felt no shock at all, and he was sprinting forward, and she heard a shout, harsh-voiced and brutal, that penetrated the cloud around her mind.

  “No—Rafe—you can’t—”

  “There’s no other way. If he’s as powerful as you say, he’s our only hope.”

  Rafe was moving too fast to be stopped, and he’d passed the sentries and was inside the mansion before he was trapped by a circle of four snarling Imps.

  “Back away,” said a voice that Kate knew, and the Imps parted.

  Kate saw Rourke step forward, massive, bald, dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and tie.

  “Your boss needs to fix her,” Rafe said. “I’ll do whatever he wants. He just has to fix her.”

  The giant man looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “He said you would come. Follow me now. She doesn’t look like she has much time.”

  To Kate, it was like being in a dream. She had no control over it; she could only watch as events unfolded around her. Rafe was carrying her up the stairs behind Rourke, and they were passing through the double doors and into the ballroom packed with men and women and other, shadowy creatures, and the crowd parted to reveal the ancient Dire Magnus, dressed in a long green robe, and Rourke bowed, and Rafe kept walking till it was just Kate and Rafe and the ancient sorcerer in the center of the candlelit ballroom.

  “I knew,” the Dire Magnus murmured. “I knew that you would come.”

  “No.” Kate was clawing at Rafe’s shirt, which was already wet and dark with her blood. “No, please, just leave … run.…”

  She wanted to fight him, to force him to leave, but she had no strength; her life was ebbing away. She heard Rafe’s voice as if from a great distance, telling the Dire Magnus to heal her, that he, Rafe, would do whatever the Dire Magnus wanted, be whatever he wanted, but only heal her.

  She felt the sorcerer’s wrinkled hand on her forehead.

  “She is slipping. She is even now beyond my power. There is only one thing that can bring her back. I can send her there. I can use the power inside her. She must go back to her own time. But she will live.”

  “Do it,” Rafe said. “Do it, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Nothing else? That’s all you ask?”

  “And I want the humans to pay. I want to make them pay.”

  “Oh, my boy, that I can promise.”

  And Kate felt the Dire Magnus calling up the power of the Atlas inside her, and she heard him whispering, “Your brother will find the Chronicle. You must go there. He will save yo
u.”

  And she looked up into Rafe’s face, and saw his green eyes looking down at her from the smoke-stained darkness of his face, and she tried to say, “… Don’t,” but he shook his head and whispered:

  “It’s too late. It’s done. You’ll live, that’s what matters.”

  And she could hear the bells tolling midnight across the city, the magic world was pulling away, and she heard the Dire Magnus, his skeleton’s head leaning close, saying, “Do not worry. You will see her again. We both will.…”

  Michael woke to the sound of birds singing.

  He saw blurry treetops and pieces of blue sky.

  He was in a bed, the softest of his life.

  Beyond that, he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there; but something told him just to enjoy the moment and his ignorance.

  Then he smelled … a pipe?

  “Feeling rested, my boy? You’ve had quite the long sleep. It’s nearly midday.”

  Michael flipped over to see Dr. Stanislaus Pym sitting in a chair. In every way but one, the wizard looked the same as always. He was dressed in the same rumpled tweed suit; his white hair still stuck out in all directions; his tortoiseshell glasses still wanted mending; his pockets were heavy with odds and ends; indeed, only the wizard’s smile was different: it was somber, muted, lacking any of its usual merriment. And had Michael not been puffy-brained with sleep, he might’ve noticed the change.

  “Where—where am I?” he asked, accepting his glasses from the wizard and looking about.

  The room, now properly in focus, seemed to Michael like a sort of large wooden cave. There were no boards or planks. The walls, floor, and ceiling were one continuous gnarled block. The only furniture was his bed and the one chair. There was no door. But across from the wizard, where the wall opened onto what could have been a balcony, Michael saw a wide, flat branch, extending outward.

  “Am I in … a tree?”

  “You are, my boy. You’re with the elves at the end of the valley, and they make their home in the trees. I do hope you’re not queasy about heights. Though what am I saying? My goodness! You arrived here on the back of a dragon!”