Children of the Fox

by Kevin Sands

Ridiculous. A joke. I could barely move at all. I lay there, trying to shut the Eye out.

  move. move.

  Its urgency brought sense to my brain. The High Weaver, I remembered. He’s here. He’s looking for me.

  And the explosion would tell him exactly where I was.

  Bruised and bloody, I pushed myself to my feet. The destruction that surrounded me was shocking. The door, ripped from its hinges, was snapped in three places. The wall around it had crumbled. The tiles were shattered. And beyond that was devastation of the like I’d never seen.

  I don’t know what the conduits had been made of, but they’d splintered like glass, tiny black fragments everywhere. Among the wreckage, I saw two of the golden balls that had rested atop them; both were pulverized into warped, flattened discs. And where the soulstones had been, there was . . . nothing.

  The far side of the room didn’t look like the remnants of an explosion. The wall, the ceiling, the floor were just gone. In their place was a great empty sphere, like everything inside had vanished from existence.

  What remained was the Eye in my head.

  MOVE

  I stumbled forward, coughing dust. The ceiling continued to fall, bigger chunks now, as this section of the lab began to collapse. A rock half my size cracked open as it landed beside me.

  take the tunnel.

  It took me a moment to understand what the Eye meant. The exploding soulstones had gouged a hole in the walls of the complex. Beyond it I could just see into a dark, dank tube. I realized where it led only when the reek seeped through the dust that clogged my nostrils and made me gag.

  The sewers.

  I hesitated only for a second. With the High Weaver chasing me and the ceiling coming down, I just wanted to be out of here. I stumbled toward the tunnel, hands held overhead, as if I could stop a slab of falling rock. I moved through the empty sphere

  (perfect, so perfect, what strange magic was this?)

  and splashed into the sewer.

  My ears were still ringing, but my hearing had begun to return. I heard voices behind me, muffled. I looked.

  A man stood in the collapsing doorway. He was tall and broad, with closely cropped hair and a neatly trimmed beard peppered with gray. His eyes burned with focused intensity; his gaze radiated power. Around his neck was a seven-pointed star, the frame gold, each arm filled with a differently colored gem.

  Darragh VII stared into the room, shocked. When he spotted the opening to the sewer, his expression turned to horror. I didn’t think he could quite see me—it was too dark in the tunnel for him to make out my face—but he must have spotted my figure, because he pointed and shouted commands to the guards and apprentices that flanked him.

  Through my damaged ears, he sounded like he was underwater. Still, I understood the message well enough. The guards raised their barkers, the apprentices raised their rods.

  And they fired.

  I dove into the filth as the slugs ripped chunks from the walls. Then the sewer water behind me froze and shattered into shards of ice. I scrambled to my feet, too scared to be disgusted by the muck.

  Then I heard a deeper rumble. The ceiling behind me had begun to cave.

  “Stop!” the High Weaver called, his voice booming—and desperate. “You must stop! You don’t understand—”

  His warning was cut off by the sound of crashing rock.

  I ran.

  CHAPTER 37

  I shouldered the manhole cover to the side.

  As I held for dear life to the top of the ladder—it was a long way down—it took all my strength to shift the grate and pull myself from the sewer. I lay there, panting, trying to make the world stop spinning.

  I am free, the Eye said.

  I am FREE.

  Its triumph made my skull ache. I pressed my hand against the Eye, as if that could keep it quiet. Then I sat up and looked about.

  I was sitting in a ditch, among grass. There were trees around me. The sky was clear overhead, stars barely visible in the shining light of the moons.

  A grove. I’d come out of the sewer south of the High Weaver’s home, inside the park. I hadn’t even realized there was a drain this far from the street. I pulled my hand away from my head to try to orient myself.

  And the world went mad with color.

  The grove. The grove. Every leaf, every flower, every blade of grass glowed with light. Each one shone faintly, much dimmer than my carnelian skin. But there was so much of it, each its own unique shade. I stared with awe, staggered by its beauty, paralyzed with wonder.

  yes, the Eye said. now you begin to understand. the blood that courses through the veins of this world is the only true thing of value. without it, you are nothing but empty husks.

  There was an edge to the Eye’s comments. It made me shiver.

  now. it is time to move. the one who owned my prison will look for me. go to the lakeshore.

  “What’s at the lakeshore?”

  I will tell you when we arrive. go.

  I tried to stand, but my knees wobbled. I fell back onto the grass.

  we do not have time, foxchild.

  “I’m dizzy,” I said, barely well enough to speak. I pulled on the Eye, but it remained fixed to my socket. “Let go.”

  why?

  “This . . . sight. It’s too much. It makes my head spin. I can’t think.”

  you would reject my gift?

  “I told you, it makes me dizzy.”

  you will grow accustomed to it.

  “Let go.”

  no.

  I pulled harder. The Eye wouldn’t budge. “I said let go.”

  no. go to the lakeshore.

  Fear roiled in my gut. I yanked at the stone, trying to tear it away, but the pain was too great. It was like trying to rip out my own eye.

  The Eye sounded amused. have you finished your little rebellion? then go to the lakeshore.

  Panic rose in my chest. I wanted the thing off.

  As terror began to overwhelm me, a long-ago memory shoved its way to the surface. At first, the feeling fed that terror—not again, please not that memory again—but this was different. It didn’t feel like when the Eye had invaded my mind. This memory was coming from me.

  It happened when I was seven. We were fleeing Perith for the last time, never to return. The Old Man had gone to distract the stablemaster while I slipped around back to steal us a horse. I’d just got the reins free on a friendly bay when rough hands grabbed me.

  I’d been tired and distracted, and that had made me careless. So I’d missed the man in the shadows of a neighboring stall.

  The groom was a brute, all muscles and bad breath. The horse I’d freed stamped nervously, whinnying as the man dragged me from the stall. He grabbed a riding whip.

  In my mind, I saw not a simple crop, but a flail, with four knotted straps, jagged slivers of steel tied to the ends. I lost my senses and shrieked.

  What happened after that was a blank. All I remember was lying facedown, dangling over the back of that bay I’d tried to steal. The Old Man rode behind me in the saddle. I smelled the peaty, barnyard scent of the animal and felt the Old Man’s hand on my back, gentle and comforting.

  The feeling of safety slowly turned to shame. I was ashamed that I’d panicked, ashamed I’d let the Old Man down.

  When darkness came, we laid up in a copse a half mile from the Emperor’s Highway. I got to preparing our camp, collecting firewood, roasting rabbit strips the Old Man provided—I had no idea where he’d got them, any more than how we’d made off with the horse.

  I worked quietly. I was afraid to speak, afraid he was angry with me. It was he who broke the silence.

  Are you all right? he said.

  I couldn’t remember him ever asking that before. Tears came hot to my eyes. I nodded.

  He rem
ained quiet for a minute. When he spoke, it wasn’t with anger.

  Fear is natural, he said. But it’s the most dangerous emotion you can feel. When people are afraid, they make terrible decisions. They never stop to think.

  He paused as he lit his pipe. It’s a tool we can exploit. There’s no one easier to pull a gaff on than someone running scared. But you, you have to watch for it yourself. Don’t let it rule you. When you feel the fear rising, push it down and think. There’s always a way out.

  I’m sorry, I’d mumbled, and wiped the tears away. I’m sorry I let you down.

  It was my fault, he’d said, and I was amazed. He’d never said that before. And he never said it again.

  But I remembered it now.

  There’s always a way out, the Old Man said, as if whispering in my ear.

  It calmed me. Now I could think. I couldn’t remove the Eye myself. But maybe there was someone else who could. And as the fear faded, I remembered: that’s what I was supposed to do with the thing anyway.

  I covered the Eye with my palm, losing the iridescent beauty of the grove.

  is this my punishment? the Eye said, sardonic. will you blind me, make me as helpless as you are?

  This time, I made it to my feet. “I told you, I’m dizzy. I can’t walk and see through you at the same time.”

  I will not release you.

  “Then quit complaining about what I need to do.”

  Carefully, I began to walk.

  where are you going?

  “Where you told me to,” I said. “The lakeshore.”

  you are not.

  “You can’t see anything. How would you know?”

  I can feel what I need. we are getting farther from it. where are you going?

  “I just have to check in somewhere.”

  stop.

  I ignored it.

  stop, foxchild.

  And then I felt the Eye again. Not its voice, not the smooth, cold stone in my socket. I felt its presence. It was trying to worm its way back into my mind.

  But something was different. It wasn’t like when the thing had forced its way into my memories. Here, its push on my thoughts was feeble. Like it was coming from a thousand miles away.

  What had changed? Had the Eye expended its power controlling my thoughts in the cavern? Or had my mind become stronger? I’d kicked the Eye out before, when it had rooted through my memories, but that had taken all my will. This time, batting it away was no harder than swatting a fly.

  When the Eye spoke again, it sounded angry—and confused. why do you defy me?

  I ignored it and kept on walking.

  * * *

  I could barely keep track of where I was going. The stench of the sewer followed, and that puzzled me. Surely I’d walked far enough to get away from the stink? Then I realized: Of course. The smell was me.

  There was a pond close to the grove. I plunged myself into it, did my best to wash off the filth. It didn’t totally get rid of the stench—these clothes were ruined—but the bracing sting of cold water seemed to give me strength.

  I staggered through the streets, dripping, shivering in the chill, pausing every so often to rest at the lampposts burning orange overhead. My obviously poor condition would have made me easy prey for the bashers that roamed the streets at night. Stinking of the sewer saved me. Who would touch me like this?

  So my only real worry was the High Weaver. I expected his guards to catch up—surely they could move faster than my pathetic stagger—but I never even heard them in the distance. Had they gone the wrong way? For some reason, the Eye wanted to go to Lake Galway. Did the High Weaver know that? Had he gone there to search for the thief?

  The Eye remained silent as I walked. Something about that made me worry. When it spoke again, as I closed in on Mr. Solomon’s home, it startled me.

  where are you taking me? it said. It sounded alarmed.

  “To a friend,” I said.

  turn around.

  “Why?”

  I will not go there. turn around.

  That made me pause. “How would you know where I’m going?”

  A sharp pain stabbed into my brain. The Eye pushed against me, trying to crush me, bend me to its will.

  I fell. As I shrieked in agony, I was strangely aware of my body. I felt my hands on the road, every stone, every pebble, every speck of dirt against my skin.

  I fought back. I wrenched at the thing with my mind, trying to pry away the dagger it had thrust in my brain. As I struggled, I heard the Old Man urging me on.

  You’ve done it before. Do it again.

  I had thrown the Eye out before. I remembered how it felt. The pain and terror of being subsumed by the stone’s will, yes, but also the pain and terror of the Stickman’s whip, so many years ago.

  I grabbed on to that memory. I fought with it, as much as I fought the Eye, and with remembrance came the strength to hold it off. It pushed and it pushed, but I held.

  The Eye released me. I gasped, heaving for breath.

  do not take me there, it said.

  I looked up and saw I’d reached my destination. I was at the gate to Mr. Solomon’s home. But in my pain, I’d pulled my hand from my face and uncovered the Eye. So I could see what was invisible before.

  The house was covered in runes. On every brick, every stone, every inch of rock, a binding script was scrawled. Even the lion statues at the door were covered, their curves all glowing with ink.

  I thought of the Eye’s chamber, deep below the High Weaver’s palace. this place has been my prison, the Eye had said.

  Was this what it was trying to avoid? Another prison? The runes, the totality of the way the house was covered, was breathtaking—and frightening. Like I was seeing into the mind of a madman. And to my amazement, I could tell the Eye was scared, too.

  why do you do this? the Eye said as I stumbled toward the door. do not take me there. I cannot protect you if you take me there.

  I covered the Eye again.

  turn around, the Eye said. Its words were fury, fear, desperation. turn around.

  Just a few more steps.

  obey me and I’ll give you the world.

  That made me pause. Not because I particularly wanted the world, but because I realized: The Eye meant it. It really would give me the world. Or try to.

  I made it to the door.

  foxchild. do not betray me.

  I knocked.

  stop.

  I barely had to wait before the Lady in Red opened the door. I pushed past her, stumbled in, and fell to the floor.

  stop stop STOP STOP STO

  It stopped.

  The voice. The Eye. It was gone.

  It had cut off, silent, the moment the Lady in Red shut the door behind me.

  Frantic, I pulled at the Eye. Its voice had been quieted, but that hadn’t stilled all its magic. The stone remained fixed in my socket.

  It hadn’t lost its power of sight, either. I saw the glow of enchantment everywhere down the hall. And everywhere, everywhere, walls, ceiling, floor, was the scrawl of runes.

  It was almost more frightening than the Eye itself. I covered the thing up again with my palm and turned to the Lady in Red. She regarded me silently, parasol twirling slowly on her shoulder.

  “Tell Mr. Solomon,” I said, “that I have his prize.”

  CHAPTER 38

  The Lady in Red offered me no help from the ground. She just walked down the hall, like she had before. I pushed myself up and followed.

  We entered the gallery, but this time she didn’t leave me there. As we passed the dragon staff and robe, and came upon the jeweled dagger, I peeked through my fingers, using the Eye. Now I could see the runes, glowing, smelted into the glass. Behind them, the dagger shone with power, a blazing, sickly green. I’d never seen a color
like it. It felt like death.

  Before the Eye had been silenced, it had offered me power, too. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but already, I saw how it opened my eyes. Every Weaver rune was laid bare. If I learned to understand them, I thought, then maybe I could learn the magic itself. Make every enchantment in the world mine to use.

  A lot of people would have found that exhilarating. I didn’t. Instead, it made me sad. I thought of the younger me, how the boy I’d been would have grasped for such power. What a waste.

  I didn’t want the dagger. And I didn’t want the Eye. All I wanted now was peace. A rest from the struggle. And to never think about any of this again.

  I covered the Eye, then followed the Lady in Red into the study. She walked past Mr. Solomon’s desk and through the door behind it. That one she shut behind her, my familiar signal to wait.

  There was a clock on one of the shelves. For the last hour, I’d been scared to look at my pocket watch. But right there, with the clock ticking beside me, I couldn’t help myself. I checked it.

  11:52.

  I’d got here in time. Mr. Solomon’s deadline. I’d made it.

  No—we’d made it.

  I sat on the same chair I had the first time I was here and looked at the empty seats around me. I thought of the others—Meriel, Foxtail, Lachlan, Gareth—and wished they were here with me.

  It was odd, to find myself missing them. To realize I finally had friends. The only person I’d ever worked with was the Old Man, and he’d left me behind.

  But we did it, Old Man. We did it.

  Remembering things I’d lost—and found—reminded me that someone else had been here, too. Oran, who’d said he wanted nothing to do with this job and ended up burned to death.

  As I thought about Oran, it occurred to me that we’d never really figured out how he died. Or rather, why? Meriel thought he’d gone after the Eye alone and got caught; I’d assumed the same. But I’d been deep inside the High Weaver’s home. I’d seen his experiments and his traps. None of them would have burned me.

  The apprentice, Sarah, whom the High Weaver had murdered and bound to guard the Eye’s chamber, had carried a chill like winter. So had the willbind; so had the apprentices’ blue-white rods. Even Seamus, the broken thief at Clarewell Sanatorium, said his companions had fallen to the cold.