by Kevin Sands
who are you?
Lies had failed. The truth had failed. What was left? “I don’t understand what you want.”
For a moment, the Eye didn’t respond. Then it spoke, and with its words came the weight of the world.
remember
it said.
And then
IMAGES
flooded my mind. My memories, as real as the day they’d happened.
I am in the Cat’s Paw, holding three Towers. I look across the table at Padraig and
the carriage rumbles as we pull close to the sanatorium. Meriel sits beside me, trying to hide the fear under her skin and
the dagger glistens before me. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” a voice says, and though I haven’t turned around yet I already know it’s Mr. Solomon and
the clockmaker opens the door. He grins at me and
I am stealing the necklace from Bronwyn and
I open my eyes, awake in the night, finally understanding the Old Man is gone and
we are pulling a right gaff on this lady and
the Old Man is watching as I brown the meat over the fire and
and
and.
And then it comes. The memory returns, wrenched from the place I keep it, the same place it’s always been, buried deep in my mind. I try to pull away from it, but the Eye won’t let me. Stop, I say. Please stop. But the Eye will not, and now
I am six years old again, cold, hungry, and so, so scared. The walls of the dungeon are fuzzy with mold, a thin, yellow sludge oozing from the edge. I huddle in the back corner, away from the bars, flecked with rust, that keep me in the cell. It stinks. It stinks of waste, of blood, and of fear.
The Stickman who comes to the door looks friendly. He has a thin mustache and a jolly sort of face. His stomach strains against the brass buttons of his uniform.
“What are you doing here, child?” he says, sounding surprised.
“Please, sir, there’s been a mistake,” I say. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Nothing wrong?” He looks at me like I’ve disappointed him. “They told me you took an apple from Damian Murphy’s stall. Were they lying?”
“No, sir. But . . . please. It was just an apple. I was so hungry. I haven’t eaten in three days.”
“But that apple wasn’t yours. So it wasn’t yours to take.”
“I know, sir. I’m sorry.”
“We don’t appreciate thieves here in Perith. The laws of this city are very strict about that sort of thing.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I promise, I won’t do it again.”
“I know you won’t. Come with me, then.”
He unlocks the door to the cell and holds out his hand. He’s still smiling, but even at six, even though I’ve not yet met the Old Man, and he’s not yet taught me to read people, I know the man’s smile is a lie.
I shrink away. “No . . . please. I’m sorry.”
He remains, hand outstretched. The smile remains, too. “It’ll only be worse if you fight.”
I give him my hand. It trembles as he clasps it, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He walks me down the jail. The other cells are empty, except for two. One holds a man with a big, bushy beard and a tattoo of a lion on the right half of his face. The other contains an old woman. She tears at stringy gray hair as she rocks back and forth on her heels. The man sees me and curses the Stickman.
“Shuna’s eyes! You butchers. He’s only a child!”
“Then this will be a good lesson,” the Stickman says.
He leads me to a small room with a wooden pillar in the center. Manacles dangle from the top. Tears run hot down my cheeks, but I stay quiet. I am trying to be good.
“Tell me, now,” the Stickman says. “What was your crime?”
“I took an apple,” I sob.
“And are you sorry for what you’ve done?”
“Yes.” And I am, I am. At this moment, I’m more sorry than I’ve ever been before, more sorry than I’ll ever be again.
He nods. “I believe you. You will receive half the punishment instead. Lift your arms.”
I am trying to be good. So I do as he says. But I can’t stop crying.
He tries to put the manacles on me, but I’m too short. He has to bring in a chair for me to stand on. Then he pulls a whip from the dungeon wall. It has a short handle of bound leather with four knotted tails, a jagged sliver of steel bound at each end. From the handle, a medallion hangs, painted with the seal of the City Watch, the paint beginning to chip away. He tugs on my arms, making sure they’re secure in the chains.
I am trying to be good. So when I say stop, the words are only in my head.
The Stickman is impressed by my silence. “You’re very brave,” he says, and he means it.
Stop.
“Now hold still.”
Stop. STOP.
He raises the whip. It begins.
And, in a way, it never ends.
He lashes me, and there is nothing but agony and terror. The knotted, slivered tails tear the flesh from my back again and again and AGAIN
“STOP!” I screamed
and I wrenched the Eye from my mind.
I fell to my knees, hands upon the flagstones. My back, my shoulders, my sides burned. I felt my scars, every one of them, my gift from the Stickman’s whipping: fresh, instead of half a lifetime away. The smell of the prison lingered in my head.
I stayed there, on all fours, trying to fight the pain. Slowly, it faded, to the same dull ache I always felt. Still I stayed, listening to my breathing.
Then the Eye spoke. And its words were filled with wonder.
a foxchild, it said.
I stood. Though the pain of my scars had dimmed, my mind was still a jumble, memories
(these memories, I don’t want them, can you take them out?)
half-remembered, half-felt.
What was I doing here?
The Eye, I remembered. I was supposed to be stealing the Eye.
Take it, I thought in a daze.
I stepped toward the pedestal. The Eye spoke again, but now the wonder had gone. It spoke—no, it howled—with exhilaration, the air itself shaking with life.
A
FOX
CHILD
it said, voice ringing in triumph.
Take it, I thought. I couldn’t think of anything else. Take the Eye, take it back to Mr. Solomon, and be rid of the thing forever.
I stepped closer.
Then the Eye shouted at me. No longer in victory, not a command. It was a warning.
STOP
CHAPTER 33
I stopped.
One foot hung in midair, like I’d frozen in place.
do not come closer, the Eye said. you are in danger.
Its tone had changed. Less aloof, less alien. It was trying to warn me.
And I believed it. “What’s wrong?”
look in front of you. look at the stone.
Carefully, I put my foot back in the same place it had been before. Then I knelt, ignoring the pain in my leg. The closer I leaned toward the false flagstone I’d almost stepped on, the colder the air grew. It was that same feeling I’d had outside, when I’d tried to push through the High Weaver’s willbind. The chill of a bitter winter’s day.
I peered at the flagstone, making sure not to touch it. There was something on it. A scratch?
No. A pattern.
Lines. Curves. Angles. Swirls. I couldn’t make them out, but their design was familiar. Mr. Solomon had showed me something just like it.
A rune.
That’s what was on the flagstone. A Weaver rune.
And as I looked, closer now, I saw them all. All around the Eye’s resting place, marking every flagstone within twenty feet of the pedes
tal, was a Weaver rune, all different, the scratches faint, but distinct.
The trap, I remembered. The final ward. The one Mr. Solomon said would take a child to overcome. It was here, marking the stones that surrounded the Eye. In my confusion—and fear—I’d forgotten all about it.
I didn’t see any safe way to get to the Eye, and the circle of stones was far too big to jump. Something told me that wouldn’t work, anyway. “What am I supposed to do?”
you must take the correct path to me, the Eye said. you must speak the words.
The Eye . . . wanted me to steal it? I had no idea what to make of that. “What words?”
the words. the words on the stones. you must incant them in the right order.
“I don’t see any words,” I said. “I see the runes, but I don’t know what they mean.”
The Eye didn’t answer for a moment. Then it said, I will guide you.
“How?”
open your mind to me. I will tell you what to say.
Not a chance. “Forget that,” I said, though not nearly so politely.
it is the only way, the Eye said. otherwise you cannot collect your prize.
“Then I’ll go home empty-handed.”
and how will you do that?
I paused. “What do you mean?”
there are enemies above. the gate is closed. they will not let you go.
It made a very good point. “I . . . I’ll think of something.”
The Eye sounded amused. your simple tricks will not work on them, foxchild. they have one purpose: to prevent you from taking me away. the one who lives above will end your life as readily as he will snuff a candle.
The one who lives above. I assumed it meant the High Weaver. I was confused. I didn’t trust this . . . I didn’t know what to call the Eye. A thing? I didn’t trust it at all.
But I knew it was right. There would be no bargaining with Darragh VII. He’d execute me without a thought—after he’d extracted whatever information he wanted. And that really wouldn’t be pleasant.
“You’re saying you can get me out of here?”
yes. let me guide you. once you have me, no one will stop you.
“You’ll stay out of my memories?”
there is nothing more there I need.
I didn’t see that I had much choice. “What do I do?”
close your eyes.
I did.
now. clear your mind. think of nothing but me. and listen. listen very carefully. I will speak the words you need to know. speak them back to yourself. do not question. do not hesitate.
I took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
then listen:
the little crow
dances
and prances
in stances
on branches
as winds
of the gales
him dismay.
he calls
as he falls
through the squalls
and the palls
that the shadows
cast over
the day.
he cries
as he dies
and the flies
eat his eyes
where he lies
and returns
to decay.
look, foxchild.
look what I have done.
I opened my eyes. And stared about in amazement.
I was standing in the center of the room. The pedestal—the Eye—was right in front of me.
I could tell I hadn’t walked straight here. The ancient door of petrified wood was now off to my right, instead of behind me; I must have followed an irregular path. Except I had no memory of stepping anywhere at all. Until I’d opened my eyes, I hadn’t even realized that I’d moved. All I could remember was a faint sense of cold, of biting cold
(a winter’s day)
but this time, the cold felt almost . . . alive.
do you see? the Eye said. I will not harm you, foxchild.
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
it is what you are. now. take me from this place.
Part of my mind balked. Don’t, it said, don’t touch it, don’t don’t don’t.
Good advice, I thought wryly. But I’d made the choice long ago. There was nothing to do about it now. Cautiously, I reached out a finger. At the very edge of the lens, I touched the Eye.
Nothing happened.
More confident now, I picked the artifact up. I don’t know what I expected, but it felt exactly the same as it looked: like a plain, smooth gemstone. I breathed a sigh of relief. “So how do we get out of here?”
look through me.
Hesitant, I brought the Eye up and stared through the lens.
And I gasped.
CHAPTER 34
What . . . happened?
It was as if I was seeing two different planes of existence. Through my right eye, everything looked normal. Through my left—the eye that gazed through the Eye—the world was awash in color.
I could see the runes on the flagstones clearly now. They glowed, a rich, bright blue, pulsing with life. The walls glowed, too—I’d thought they were plain rock, but now I saw the symbols, lines, and swirls. Weaver runes, scribbled all over them. These were tinted green, the faded green of early fall leaves.
And the door out of here. Every inch of the petrified wood was covered with greenish squiggles. The iron bands had been written upon as well, the language alien and bizarre. But most shocking of all . . . was me.
When I looked through the Eye, I was alight. I lifted my hand, stared at it. My skin glowed a soft carnelian red.
“What is this?” I whispered.
it is the world, the Eye said. it is the world as it truly is. this is my gift to you. do you like it?
Its gift?
I pulled the gem away from my eye and blinked. Now the world was back to normal, and I could see nothing special. Tentatively, I brought the Eye back up, and again, everywhere I looked, swirls of light danced with color. It was dizzying. Exhilarating.
And terrifying.
now you see how feeble you are, the Eye said. with your eyes, you stumble like a blind little lamb. my eyes will save you.
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Save me from what?”
turn around.
I turned—and jumped back in shock, nearly tripping on the pedestal.
A girl stood behind me, her form a ghostly blue. She stared at me, eyes burning with azure flame.
I yanked the Eye away and she was gone.
“Who in Artha’s name is that?” I said.
Again the Eye sounded amused. you choose your curses well, foxchild. this is the guardian. the one who lives above set her to watch over me. it is her task to stop little thieves like you.
Hand shaking, I brought the Eye back up. The girl stood in front of me again, staring at me with eyes of blue fire. She looked to be about my age.
Padraig had told me a young apprentice had gone missing. He hadn’t seen her for . . . two weeks? Three?
“What’s happened to her?” I asked the Eye.
the one who lives above stripped her soul from its shell and bound her to this place. now she stands guard, to drain the life from any who dare approach me.
“But I got through. Why didn’t she stop me?”
when your mind spoke my words, your body walked the correct path. she can only take those who stray into her domain.
So this was the final trap. Flagstones with magical wards. Step on the wrong one and . . .
The teams Mr. Solomon had sent before us must have rattled the High Weaver, made him increase security. This girl—this poor girl—was his sacrifice.
I studied her. Her face
was blank, emotionless. “Is she dead?”
her shell is gone. her true essence remains. the one who lives above thought he would stifle my plans. instead, he gave me the means to escape this prison. foxchild and bearchild enjoined; the condition is met.
“I don’t understand.”
of course you do not, the Eye said, and this time its voice was mocking. it is time to leave.
I presumed I was supposed to take the same path out of the circle. But I didn’t remember which way I’d gone. “How do I . . . ?”
look at the stones. do you see the difference?
At first, I wasn’t sure what it meant. All the flagstones had a rune inscribed on them, and they all seemed to be the same.
No, wait. Not the same. On some of them, the color was slightly different. “I see some that are more . . . I don’t know. Faded than the others?”
that is correct, the Eye said. the binding is different there. that is your path.
I stood in front of the closest faded rune. The girl stepped around the pedestal, coming toward me. As she approached, she looked . . . hungry.
I backed away.
go, the Eye said, impatient. stay on the path and she cannot harm you.
I approached the flagstones again, but seeing the normal and enchanted world at the same time was making me dizzy. I wobbled, and the flame in the ghost girl’s eyes brightened with greed.
I pulled the Eye away, breathing slowly until my head stopped spinning. The girl vanished, but knowing she was there anyway filled me with a dread that was even more terrifying. As soon as I felt steady, I lifted the gem back to my eye. The sight of her came almost as a relief.
Shaking, I stepped onto the nearest faded rune. The girl hovered, lingering at the very edge of the untrapped flagstone. Waves of cold radiated from her, winter ready to unleash.
I stayed there a moment, watching her. She was close enough to touch me, but she didn’t stretch out her arms. The faded runes really were keeping me safe.
Checking and double-checking every step, I followed the path out. The girl matched my movements, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, the cold sinking or rising as she shifted, but she never stepped on the safe stones. Eventually, I reached the end and left the enchanted circle.
excellent, the Eye said. now go to the hall.