Children of the Fox

by Kevin Sands

  The light wasn’t coming from flames. Glowing in the golden sconces that arched from the walls were smooth white globes, with the barest tinge of blue, each the size of a cannonball. There was no flickering inside them, no smell of oil or tar. Just a constant shine, miniature suns all the way down the hall.

  Light globes, I thought. I’d seen one before. It was the prized possession of a silver merchant the Old Man had run a gaff on. We’d snatched his globe along with his stash, then sold the thing for nineteen hundred crowns. We made more off the enchantment than the silver—and that globe had been a quarter the size of these.

  This is weaving, I thought, by a man who creates enchantments like they’re nothing. Light globes, freezing rods, levitating lifts; the magic in this house was extraordinary. I recalled Gareth’s warning: There’s something strange in the air tonight. I can feel it. The memory of it made me shiver.

  I tried to distract myself by working out where we were in the High Weaver’s home from the floor plan, which I’d memorized. I perked up when I realized where we’d come out.

  I leaned in close and whispered to the girls. “Are we near the lift?”

  Foxtail nodded. It appeared she’d already done most of the prowling for us. The window she’d opened had brought us as close to the lift as we could have entered. She pointed along the hall, then angled her hand to the left. Down that way and we’re there.

  I could have kissed the girl; she’d saved us so much time. We moved, the prize closer than we’d imagined. Down the corridor, at the junction, Foxtail held up a hand and we stopped.

  She looked around the corner. She gave a thumbs-up.

  We entered the final hallway.

  And ran right into one of the High Weaver’s apprentices.

  CHAPTER 29

  It wasn’t Foxtail’s fault.

  The hall had been empty. When we’d turned the corner, all that was there were a pair of statues, thirty feet away. On the right stood a deer, ears perked, as if listening for predators. Opposite the deer was a bear—the Bear, Artha, patron Spirit of Weavers—on all fours, gazing down the corridor with intelligent eyes.

  Padraig had warned me about these statues. Between them were two diamond tiles. The tiles looked no different than the others that checkered the floor, but the apprentice had said stepping on them would trigger a gate trap. We’d just begun to approach them when the door opened.

  To our right, an apprentice walked into the light, copper star pendant glittering. Maybe twenty years old, he froze when he saw us, half a muffin in hand, the other half stuffed in his mouth. He stared, wide-eyed, at the three of us, and then lighted on Foxtail’s mask.

  The strangeness of it probably saved our lives. I could see the cogs turning in the young man’s head—This must be the boss’s handiwork, what else could such a horror be?—and the thought delayed him just long enough for us to move.

  Meriel shoved me out of the way, rushing the man. He reached for the rod hanging from his belt—smooth, blue-white, almost like marble—and tried to call for help, but his mouth was full of muffin. He only succeeded in spraying Meriel with crumbs as she leapt for his face.

  The apprentice was twice Meriel’s size and probably five times her strength, but the element of surprise was on her side. As he freed the rod from his belt, she sprang from the ground, tumbled in midair, and wrapped her legs around the man’s neck. She jammed her left thigh under his chin, locked her foot behind her right knee. Then she squeezed.

  The apprentice brought the rod up. Meriel leaned toward the door, all her weight bending the man backward. Legs still locked around his throat, she looped an arm around his hand and pulled.

  Off balance, his superior strength was useless. She bent his arm hard enough to almost snap his elbow—he’d have howled if he could—and the rod slid from his benumbed fingers and clinked on the floor. The two of them fell beside it, hitting the ground with a crash.

  Meriel’s head rocked with the impact. Still she held him, legs squeezing his neck. The young man fumbled desperately for the rod, but Meriel swatted it away with an open palm, sending it clattering across the tile.

  The apprentice’s face turned red. He tried to pry at her legs, but Meriel kept them locked tightly enough that he couldn’t get his fingers underneath. Panicking, he beat at her thighs. She took the blows with a grimace but didn’t let go.

  His face grew scarlet, then purple. His fists, swatting at her, lost all power, all focus. Then his eyes glazed and his hands fell, and he was finally silent, unconscious.

  Meriel held him a few seconds more, just to make sure he was down. Then she released him. He lay spread out on the floor, limp.

  We stood there, listening desperately into the quiet. Meriel had prevented the apprentice from calling for help, but the noise of the fight left us cringing. Had anyone been alerted?

  We stayed that way for what felt like forever, trying to quiet the beating of our hearts. But there were no cries of alarm, and no one came to investigate. Maybe Lachlan was right: maybe the Fox really was watching over us. We just got saved by a muffin.

  No time to think about it. The apprentice wouldn’t stay out for long. “What do we do now?” Meriel whispered.

  We couldn’t leave the man lying there. He could wake or be discovered at any time. “Truss him up,” I whispered back. “And gag him. We’ll put him somewhere he won’t be found.”

  Where would that be? The kitchen? We could stuff him in a stove; no one would look there until morning. Though we’d have to carry him all the way back. Maybe one of the rooms here, instead. We might find a closet or maybe a trunk

  who?

  I froze.

  “What is it?” Meriel said.

  I put a hand up, listening. “Did you hear that?”

  Meriel frowned. She crouched by the apprentice’s unconscious body, one hand on his chest. Foxtail, next to her, gripped the smallest finger on Meriel’s other hand, like a frightened child. The attack appeared to have rattled her.

  “Hear what?” Meriel said.

  “Someone said something.”

  The girls listened now, too. “I don’t hear anything,” Meriel said. Foxtail shook her head and shrugged.

  I could have sworn I heard a voice. “Let’s just get the apprentice out of the way,” I said. He was pretty big; he’d be awkward to carry. I moved to grab

  who?

  I whirled.

  The hall was empty.

  But I’d heard it. I knew I’d heard it.

  I looked down at the girls. Both were staring at me. “What are you doing?” Meriel said.

  “Can’t you hear that?” I said. “That voice?”

  “There’s no voice,” Meriel insisted. “What’s the matter with you?”

  I could have sworn . . .

  who comes to visit me?

  My blood turned to ice.

  The voice. It was clear now. Not in my ears, but in my head. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. There was something odd about it. Something wrong.

  But I heard it. And I remembered what Seamus, the mad thief, had said. He’s the one. The one who showed me.

  There was only one person it could be.

  “I think . . . I think it’s the High Weaver,” I said. “Darragh knows we’re here.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Meriel and Foxtail stared at me. Foxtail clutched Meriel’s finger, the apprentice at their feet all but forgotten.

  “How could he know?” Meriel whispered. She sounded scared. “Did Padraig give us up?”

  I didn’t think so. Padraig’s only hope of getting out of this unscathed was if we returned the keystone before anyone knew he’d lost it. It was more likely we’d tripped a trap, one Padraig wasn’t aware of. There was so much magic here. Who knew what enchantments the High Weaver had devised in secret?

  But there was som
ething . . . more. Gareth had said he could feel something strange in the air. Now I could feel it, too. Something heavy, which filled the space with its presence.

  who are you? the voice said.

  Could I trick the High Weaver?

  “My, uh . . . my name is Eoin Swale,” I said aloud. “I’ve come to warn you—”

  your name does not matter. who are you?

  What did that mean? I tried again. “There’s a man who wishes you ill. I’m working against him. My name is Eoin Swale and—”

  your name is irrelevant. who are you?

  My heart thumped, blood rushing in my ears. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

  The voice remained silent.

  I could hear the Old Man. Forget the job. It’s time to go. Now.

  I turned to the girls. “Get out. Everyone out—”

  come to me, the voice said.

  And then everything . . . changed.

  The girls vanished, as if they were just illusions. The sleeping apprentice, too. The statues of Artha and the deer were gone. So was the door to the lift.

  My breath caught in my throat. I was in an empty hallway now. The walls seemed the same, the glowing globes in the sconces, the doors. But now the corridor stretched farther away, stretched forever, branching off at strange angles.

  I stepped forward, my mind screaming at me to run run run. I began to move down the hall. I saw now that it didn’t go on forever; there was a door at the end, far in the distance, though it wasn’t the door to the lift. I went faster, running toward

  “Cal! Stop!”

  Meriel’s cry shattered the vision. I felt the tile shift under my boot, heard a click. Then a chain rattled, and there was a terrible slam of iron behind me.

  I blinked. The angled corridors had vanished. The door to the lift was back in place.

  But I’d moved. Now I stood between Artha and the deer. And when I looked down, I saw I’d stepped on one of the tiles Padraig had warned me about.

  The trap.

  I’d triggered the trap.

  I whirled. The girls stood in the hallway, the same place they’d been before, the apprentice lying unconscious at their feet. They stared at me in horror.

  Between us was a thick, banded portcullis. It had sliced from the ceiling, cutting me off. The girls—my escape—all now on the other side of the gate.

  I panicked. I grabbed the iron bars, tried to heave the portcullis upward. Meriel and Foxtail rushed forward and added their strength, though Foxtail wouldn’t let go of Meriel’s hand. Didn’t matter. The gate wouldn’t budge.

  “Why did you do that?” Meriel said, frightened. “Why did you trigger the trap?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said. “I couldn’t see—I wasn’t here.”

  “What do you mean, you weren’t here? You’ve been right here the whole time.”

  I thought of Mr. Solomon’s gallery. How I’d been studying his poison dagger . . . and then suddenly I’d been staring at a painting instead.

  “A binding,” I said, slumping against the bars. “I must have triggered a binding. I’m trapped.”

  Now I heard the alarm. We all did. A chime, a single tone, ringing over and over again. The walls throbbed with its pulse.

  And then footsteps. Running overhead.

  “Go,” I said.

  Meriel wrenched at the gate. “We’re not leaving you behind.”

  “There’s nothing to be done. Go. Go. Before they catch you, too.”

  “No!”

  “Foxtail,” I said. “Get her out of here.”

  Foxtail reached through the portcullis and squeezed my fingers. I’m sorry. Then she let go and tugged Meriel’s hand from the bars.

  “Get the keystone back to Padraig,” I said. “We owe him that. Then wait for me at the Broken Bow. I’ll find a way out.”

  Meriel finally let go of the gate. For the first time since I’d met her, I couldn’t read the expression in her eyes.

  “You’d better,” she said. “I want my money, Callan.”

  I’d have laughed, if I hadn’t been so scared.

  They both turned and ran. “Head for the hedge maze,” I hissed after them. It would be their only shot to avoid the guards in the tower.

  As for me, there was nothing else to do. I’d already been invited. So I went to the lift at the end of the hall, slid open the iron door.

  And then I went down.

  CHAPTER 31

  If I’d been less frightened, I might have enjoyed the trip.

  The lift was a circular platform made of dark volcanic glass. A pedestal rose from the center, a narrow steel tube. There were two crystals in it, cut like gemstones, red and blue. I touched the red one, like Padraig had instructed me to do.

  The platform floated downward, slowly and smoothly. Three glowing globes were attached to its edges, evenly spaced, the only light in the tunnel. I wasn’t sure how far down it went—maybe two hundred feet—but eventually, the platform slowed and came to a stop.

  A door in the wall, identical to the one up in the mansion, opened into a long, broad hallway. It, too, looked nearly identical to the house upstairs, but everything here was . . . off. Separate corridors branched away at odd angles, light globes glowing in sconces.

  And all I could think was: I’d been here before.

  This was the place of my . . . I didn’t know what to call it. Vision? The place I saw in my mind, upstairs. So I guess I hadn’t really been here. Yet I couldn’t shake that feeling all the same. Because it was more than sight. It was memory.

  I remembered being here.

  These memories, Seamus had said. I don’t want them. Can you take them out?

  Was this what had driven the thief mad? I clasped my hands together, trying to stop shaking. “What have you done to me?” I whispered.

  come, the voice said.

  I looked about. In the distance, the corridors that branched off joined with other halls, angled like strands of a spiderweb. I was about to ask the voice which way to go, when I realized I already knew

  (remembered)

  the answer.

  Forward.

  Everything in me wanted to run the other way. But where could I go? This was the High Weaver’s ground, not my own. So I followed the corridor forward, as commanded.

  I passed several doors along the way. Behind them, I assumed, were the High Weaver’s magical experiments, the practice halls of his apprentices. One door buzzed with unknown energy, the scent of the air acrid, stinging, like a lightning bolt had struck the room behind it. Another thumped like a heartbeat. From behind a third came a muffled grunting and snuffling. Whatever it was, I was sure—at least I hoped—it wasn’t human.

  None of these led to where I was going. One wrong turn in here, I thought, and I’d be lost. But I never made a wrong turn. I just followed my vision, unwavering, to the place I was awaited.

  Eventually, I reached a door that blocked my way. This one was different from all the others. It was made of petrified wood, ancient, with iron bands riveted in a crisscross pattern over the grain. It was set not into the smooth stone of the walls that had guided me here, but into rough, unshaped rock, like the entrance to a cave. Though the wood was petrified, in a half dozen spots, the door had started to rot. I didn’t even think that was possible.

  I reached for the handle. My skin prickled, the hairs on my arm standing on end. I pulled it back and the feeling faded.

  Hesitant, I reached out again, and the prickling returned. When I touched the handle, I half expected the metal to burn me, or freeze me, or explode in a burst of magic. Instead, the prickling vanished, like it had never been there. I opened the door.

  The room beyond was, in fact, a cavern. The walls curved, forming a jagged dome of striated rock. There was light in here, but no light globes:
just a soft glow with no apparent source. The floor had been shaped smooth. There were lines in it—they almost looked like flagstones—but as I peered closer, I saw the “stones” were really just cracks in the rock that had formed a near-perfect spiderweb pattern over time. The false flagstones grew smaller and smaller toward the center—and, to my utter shock, my prize.

  A pedestal stood in the center of the cavern. It had been formed by lopping off the top of a stalagmite, two feet wide at the bottom. Atop that surface was a stand made of something mottled black. At first, I thought it was coal, but the more I looked, the more certain I was that it was tarnished, ages-old silver.

  And there, held in its prongs, was the Eye.

  The jewel matched Mr. Solomon’s description exactly. It looked like it was made of amber, roughly half the size of my palm. It was flat on one side, curved on the other, like a lens.

  I took a step forward. The air in here was warm, thick, stuffy. And as I stood there, I realized that the thickness wasn’t just the air. There was something in here. Magic. Life.

  A presence.

  It spoke to me.

  who are you?

  And I knew. I knew who—no, what—had been speaking to me the whole time.

  It wasn’t the High Weaver.

  It was the Eye.

  CHAPTER 32

  who are you? the Eye said.

  The question hung in the air, filled it with a sense of something alien. It’s alive, I thought. The thing is actually alive.

  And, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have any idea what to say.

  The Old Man had trained me to have an answer for every question. Just keep talking, he’d said. Think what you want them to believe and make them believe it.

  I’d already tried that. The Eye hadn’t listened to my lies. I wondered if it would listen to the truth.

  Worth a shot. “My name is Callan—”

  your name is meaningless. your name is nothing. your name is as empty as the clothes you wear to cover your worthless shell.