Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1) (22 page)

                  Joy stepped through the threshold.  “Are we meeting Henri?” Her voice was unsteady, but her hand was on my shoulder…even if it was unsteady.

                 I wiped my tears and my spittle from my face with my shirt.  My jeans were already torn and crusted with grime.  My jacket, though leather, was shredded.  I re-entered to grab my messenger bag, then began walking down the drive toward the gate.  I did not answer Joy’s question.  She knew.

I knew I should run toward the gate, that Henri was probably already waiting so we could go catch Von Ranke and save Gavin.  But, I knew exactly where he was going and if Gavin weren’t dead yet, he wasn’t going to be dead any time soon either.  They were keeping him alive to some end.  Maybe it had to do with the Well.  Maybe only a
magos
could reach the Well and Gavin’s dumb luck caused him to present himself to rEvolve.

                  Unless they were using Gavin to lure their real prize: The Well Keeper.

                  In all likelihood, that was the case.  To rush in half-cocked would surely be our demise.   Whatever Clio told them, Von Ranke found out that I could not yet die; that I was integral to the opening of the Well.  I thought of the book.  We had deciphered the meaning of the woodcut pictures. We knew its location. He did not. Yet. Mentally, I was enervated.  When we came to the gate, I languidly crawled over the fence and tripped onto my face once I landed on the other side.  I lay there prone for a second too long and felt myself being hauled up by Joy. Henri was parked on the opposite side of the street.

                  Once in the vehicle, though we were visibly shaken, Henri did not ask us any questions.  It was no wonder he came recommended: he asked no questions other than where he was driving next.  There was something oddly peaceful about that sentiment.  In French, I told him to not be alarmed, but the man who was with us had been kidnapped but no police were to get involved.  His reply was a simple
oui oui
.  I handed him his box of cigarettes from my bag, and he forced a courteous smile as he took it from my hand.  I told him the general direction of where my location spell indicated we needed to go to find Gavin and we continued on in silence.  He stopped at a hotel in Orleans--a good resting point on the way to Marseille--sometime after 11 p.m.   I paid for three rooms, wanting nothing more than solitude.

                  I was utterly spent.  I felt as if, after all this time, repressing abandonment by my mother, dealing with my father’s murder, and after dealing with everything untoward I had dealt with concerning The SUB, that I had healed.  I knew my psyche was torn and scarred, but after enough time I always managed to piece it back together. Now, I could not see that happening.  I wondered if, like a flesh wound, my psyche could grow necrotic? The infection would grow. I would rot.

              I knew I needed to look at the map and divine Gavin’s present whereabouts.  I pulled a chair to my window to look out at the moonlight.  I fell asleep slouched in that chair, but somehow managed to find my way—though I had no recollection of doing so—to the bed. When I awoke, it was early morning.  The sun came through my curtain in golden hues, but I did not want to think or remember golden hues of anything.

                  Freezing from not having covered myself, I dug out my phone charger and the alternate plug that came with the Great Britain plug I purchased.  The rest had done enough to help me recover some of my wits—and with it the inclination to make some phone calls.  

And I had every intention to go back to sleep.  I would need all of my wits, and I was all out of them.  I even entertained the idea of reading a novel I could find somewhere nearby. Reading was always my solace. It helped me to cope. To reset.

                  I neither got the extra sleep, nor the time in which to read.

Chapter 21

                  The knocking at my door was forceful, but I had yet to fall asleep.  In my current mood, I was all too aware that speaking with other humans was a foreign concept.  But the knocks were slight and persistent. Joy knocked like that. She would only bother me if it were something important.

                  My steps were uneven.  My muscles ached; much more tender than I would ever have thought.  It occurred to me that I neglected to heal myself last night, so superficial did the physical pain feel to me then.  Walking to the door was a chore and I regretted even getting up.  In addition to having tapped whatever reserves I had using the augmentation spell, the cuts and scrapes and bruises were screaming to make themselves known with every foot that padded toward my door.  I found myself voraciously hungry and leaning against the door handle as I opened it.

Joy did not wait for me to allow her in, but pushed her way past me while thrusting a brown paper bag into my chest.  She sat on the bed.

                 “I couldn’t sleep past six.  I waited for a café to open so I could get some food.  There’s a croissant, a quiche, and an entire baguette in there.  The French do love their carbs,” she held the bag at my chest.  Her words were staccato, nervous. Joy pushed a heap of blankets out of the way and sat on the corner of my bed, hunched over, holding her fists beneath her armpits.  

                  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had something on your mind.” I opened the bag.  The quiche sounded the best, so I went for that first, even if I’d be inundated with bread thereafter.  

                  “I,” she began, “Last night, I couldn’t stop crying.  We’ve been at this for days.  I’ve been shot for Christ’s sake, and I just keep going. 
We
keep going on.  I started to question even doing this after Cambridge, but when Shred played that song at Victoria’s, it did…” she paused, “Its thing, I felt better.  Now, after what I witnessed yesterday, after losing Gavin, I’m…”

                  “Freaking out?”  I felt exactly the same way.  If we stopped, if we ran, they would find us. They would slap chains on us just like they did to Clio and drive me away in a white van and then use whatever means of coercion they could think of to get me to do what they wanted.  This was what they were likely doing to Gavin as we spoke.  Joy saw the look upon my face as some sort of affirmation.  She was my only family left and I felt even more protective of her.  “Do you want out?  I’m sorry, Joy, we’re past that.  There’s not ever going to be a home to go back to with these people after us. There won’t be any more college for you.  No law school; no life of privilege,” the quiche was spewing in chunks out of my mouth. How absurd I must have looked did not lessen the look of offense spreading on Joy’s usually gentle features. “I’ve killed demons with my own hands.  I put spells on my thumbs and then plunged them into eyes so dark, I couldn’t believe it when they burned through its skull and touched the floor on the other side.   This is goddamned cruel world, Joy! But until now I’ve never had to deal with people. Breathing, living human beings who have somehow managed to out-evil all the other bullshit from the SUB!” I was hitching and ashamed. “Get out.  I need you to leave!”

                  “Grey—that…” she cried renewed tears.  Joy pushed past me to exit my room.

                  I closed my door and went back to my bed.  I fell asleep with a hard lump in my throat that would not go away no matter how hard I swallowed.  

                  The second time I awoke, there was a light tapping at my door.  Yet again, I did not heal myself, so every step reverberated into my bones.  Looking through the peephole, I saw it was Henri.  Though I had taken a quick shower upon arrival, I had done little to take care of any other matters regarding maintaining myself.  The t-shirt I was wearing was my last clean one—a Union Jack v-neck.  I opened the door with little respect for modesty.  To his credit, Henri paid no mind, though I was sure that was largely due to me looking like seven forms of hell.  

                  After a short conversation regarding Joy’s whereabouts, he told me he was ready to move on when we were.  He also told me that the café four blocks to the south had excellent food.  I instructed Henri to relax a bit longer, and that I would text him when ready to depart.  I showered once more, though I would have liked to take a longer one—as the shower head was hand-held and could not give me the passive comfort of posing in the fetal position as the water covered me.  Still, I regained some semblance of self once I dried my hair.  I’ve never worn much in the way of cosmetics, but I did keep up on the basics. I wished some then.  I was trying to collect myself. As it was, my face felt puffy and I knew there must be bags under my eyes from the strain of events…from how I talked to Joy.

                  Out of my room, I knocked on Joy’s door.  When she did not answer, I find myself Post-Iting the door open only to find that she was not there.  I needed to find her, but I wanted to do it organically—without using magic, otherwise it might freak her out that much more.  Only after I had opened the door magically did that thought occur to me.

                 I only just then powered on my phone.  I called her, but it went straight to voicemail.  I did not leave a message.  I took the phone, my satchel, and my copy of Gulliver and took a walk to see if I could find the café Henri spoke of.  It was well past four in the afternoon.  I very rarely lose track of time such as I did then, but I took my time walking Orleans, searching for my friend.  I remembered Joan of Arc had fought a battle against the English near here.  It was a very photogenic city; its architecture, unlike that of Paris, was imposing without being intimidating.  I crossed the River Loire and no doubt passed the café to which Henri referred.  I found a tiny pizzeria several blocks east of the street from which I had come, but it was on the river.  It was not particularly good pizza, but it satisfied.  The sun was soon setting, and the chill in the September air took me.  My jacket looked like that of a vagrant’s, so I had left it in my room.  I took the opportunity to visit a clothier that also overlooked the river.  I bought enough to last me a few more days and paid an inordinate amount for a new leather jacket.  It was not my typical style, as it was ruddy brown, not my usual black, but I instantly fell in love with it.  

                  I walked until I could walk no more.  I had refused to heal myself out of some notion of penance for what had happened to the Muses, to Shred, to Gavin.  I sat on a bench overlooking the Loire, wrote out my most powerful healing spell.  I leaned my head back, tingling head-to-toe, and wondered why my father went through such lengths to protect me from the knowledge of the Well, but I knew I would learn more soon.  

                  “You shouldn’t be letting your guard down like that,” a voice sounded to my left.  With my eyes still closed, I completely lost track of where and even when I was.  I could have been home. 
Joy
.  I opened my eyes as she sat on the bench next to me.

                  “You’re right of course,” I looked at her and began weeping once more.  “I’m sorry, I…”

                  “Grey, you don’t need to apologize.” Joy’s chin quivered.  “I never wanted to leave.  I just needed someone to talk to.”

                  “I know, I know,” and I did.  “It was too much.  I’m sorry, even if you say you don’t want my apology—I’m so sorry.”

                  Joy said nothing for what seemed an eternity.  Finally, “Apology accepted.” I scooted closer to her so I could put my head on her shoulder so I could hide my sobbing.     
 

                  We met Henri back at the hotel at our designated departure time.  We were a few minutes late, but we were not on any kind of schedule.  While I was slavishly punctual, our tardiness gave me a brief bout of inspiration: Musashi Miyamoto.  While so much of the legendary swordsman’s life is purely conjecture, the general outline of his life must hold some truth.  One would say arguably (though I don’t know who would argue against it), he was the greatest swordsman who has ever lived.  He taught that the battle is won before the very first flash of steel.  Musashi was a master at putting his opponents off balance, making them rash and furious, and this often meant being late.  In the moment, I found great solace in thinking about Musashi, in thinking about books and all that I had read and what they could now offer me in turn.  It was my dad who once said that when it comes to religion, gods always wanted sacrifices of time.  I had lain so many hours at the altar of the written word, that I supposed myself a kind of priestess of literature.  It was what I believed in—and that was what put rEvolve into perspective for me: from my vantage point, they were trying to rob us of our right to believe.

Libenter homines id quod volunt credunt
.  Men freely believe that which they wish.  With the events of the last 24 hours, Caesar’s words took on horrifically new context for me.  REvolve wanted to steal that away from humanity.

                  Despite what they expected of me, I would arrive at the coordinates long past when I might be expected.  And I would find some way to fight with the sun at my back.

                   We spent the next night in Clermont-Ferrand.  We had a pleasant late dinner with Henri and made some phone calls upon my return to the hotel.  I was piecing together the purpose and history of the Well as I traveled, and concluded that Von Ranke meant harm to it, because to damage or destroy it would mean catastrophic consequences for the deities who sprang from it.  At the very least, there would be no more gods.  I asked for Henri’s pocket knife and retired to my room for the night.  I used the blade to cut out the pages from Gulliver that until then I paid little attention to: the maps of Gulliver’s travels.

                  “What are you doing, Grey?” Joy was incredulous.  We decided to room together from there on in—we would fight with our backs together.

                  I laid the maps out flat on my bed. “Okay.  I didn’t really pay attention to these because it was too obvious. There are six pages each with names of lands from Gulliver’s Travels. Yet in no way bear any resemblance to any of the maps of Lilliput or Glubbdubdrib I’v ever seen.”  I stopped to address Joy, “Grab something to write page numbers on these so I know what order they were in originally.”  She complied and I set to arranging and rearranging them into different orders and designs.  

                 Joy, though content to let me work, realizing she was whistling and likely annoying broke the silence: “I realize this is desperate, but why not try some revelation spells on them?  See if that reveals any of their secrets?”

                  “Mmmhmm.” I did just that.  I cursed as each attempt met with failure.  Frustrated, agitated, I decided a clear head might make sense of things and went to bed.  “Nothing. I’m exhausted. Let’s say we try again tomorrow. See if we can think up something else to do?”

              “Agreed.” Joy and spent the next several minutes making small talk—particularly what we would eat the next morning.

                   The next morning, I realized I had forgotten to close the curtains.  The sun beamed through my window hitting my eye.  The digital clock on the bureau read 7:21. The sun filled my room with familiar golden hues.  The memories of that chamber were horrible; and still palpable.  I could not dismiss them, but I could compartmentalize them.  Joy and I would have plenty of time to shed tears once this business was concluded.

                  I closed the curtains. The sun was bright enough to shine through the mauve curtains on the sides.  Though they were opaque, they transformed them into some sort of orange color.  It gave me an idea.

                    I jumped up and grabbed the faux-Gulliver maps.  I placed one up to the window, looking for a watermark; anything.  Instead, I had visions of my dad dismantling an identical version of his Gulliver, poaching the pages and bleaching the print off the page.  The paper itself revealed nothing.  I reached for another of the pages and put it behind the first sheet.

                   With the second sheet placed flush behind the first page, I noticed that two islands toward the center of each map connected.  I put the third map behind the second and held it to the window.  What started to take shape was that, between all six sheets of paper, there formed a pictogram of a human being.  I held it to the sun, though it blinded me, attempting to burn the pictogram onto my memory.  It was a man, presumably; he was holding up an arm.  Around the extended hand was a halo. The proto-words were transliterated into Sanskrit.  It had never occurred to me that the pictograms from the caves of Europe might represent the words themselves.  In that respect, it was like hieroglyphics, though lacking syntax.  Bathing in the golden hues, fixing the image in my brain, I had a surreal, almost out-of-body moment: this was a pictogram for the word that meant logomancer. It had to relate to the Well.  Maybe even the pattern meant to open the Well of Gods?  

              My yips of elation woke Joy.  She padded around helplessly looking for something, then jumped up to look at me in a state of shock. 

     “I got it!  It’s a symbol!”  I snatched a pen and piece of paper from my book and drew the pictogram to show her.  “This is what was hiding from us!”

                    Joy grunted and crawled beneath the covers. “Cool. Lemme sleep more, mom.” She was unconscious by the time I was dressed and ready to leave my room.