The Keepers (47 page)

Horace could sense Dr. Jericho turning the Fel'Daera over, examining it. He felt it come open, close—open, close. Like little cuts inside his chest.

“It hurts, I know,” Dr. Jericho said. “Are we reconsidering? As I said, things don't have to be this way.”

“Maybe they do.”

“So stubborn. Peculiar, since you don't even know what you fight for.”

“I know my path.”

“You do not,” the thin man said, running a nail across the silver sun emblem on the side of the box. “You are a Tinker, and a child, and a neophyte too. You keep the company of thieves. In short, you are a fool who does not comprehend the ruin toward which he marches.”

“What ruin?” Horace asked, and immediately wished he hadn't. He shouldn't even be listening to the Mordin in the first place.

“You have pledged yourself to a misguided cause,” Dr. Jericho said, his voice suddenly light and reasonable. “The Wardens will use you to achieve their own desires, not yours.”

Mr. Meister. The crucible. “You don't know my desires.”

“Ah, but I do. All Keepers have the same desire—to be bound to their instruments forever. But the Wardens will hide the truth from you until it is too late. They would rather see the Tanu destroyed—even the Fel'Daera!—than to have them fall into the wrong hands.”

More than anything else the Mordin could have said, this made Horace listen. The Fel'Daera, destroyed. For a moment Horace doubted, wondering why he was here, risking all of this. He wondered what other secrets the Wardens still kept close.

But then the Mordin held out his gruesome hand, his four-knuckled fingers wrapped around the Fel'Daera, tiny in his poisonous grip. The sight filled Horace with rage.

“The wrong hands,” Horace said. “I couldn't have said it better myself.” And he swiped at the Fel'Daera, hoping to knock it free, hardly daring to think about that sick pit in his brain that imagined the Fel'Daera falling to the floor and shattering on the stone.

But the thin man snatched the box away, holding it high. He studied Horace with his piercing black eyes. “I see,” he said thoughtfully. “But there is no need for that. Reconsider your allegiance, and the Fel'Daera will be yours again.”

“It's still mine. It will always be mine, no matter where you take it. I can feel it even now.”

“I'm counting on it. The sensation will never leave you—can you imagine what a life it would be? It will call to you, just as it calls to me. But because of the bond, your experience will
be a great deal more . . . painful than mine.”

But Horace was no longer listening. A sudden dizzying realization had taken hold of him when the Mordin said those words:
“just as it calls to me.”
Horace struggled not to panic as he reasoned through this disastrous new thought. Everything depended upon Dr. Jericho responding to the Fel'Daera's call tomorrow night out at Chloe's house, but would the thin man even listen to that call now?

Why would Dr. Jericho go searching for what he already possessed?

Horace thought quickly. “I knew this would happen, you know.”

The thin man raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“When I saw myself here in this room tomorrow night, the box was missing.”

“You are either lying or a fool. The Fel'Daera never shows itself.”

Horace tried not to look surprised—how did the Mordin know that? “I used the box earlier tonight, before we got here. You'll feel it calling to you tomorrow, twenty hours or so from now. You'll feel it the way you felt it that night at that park, when you chased me.”

Dr. Jericho's lip curled briefly into a snarl—remembering that night, maybe. He straightened, sliding the box into an inner pocket of his jacket. He said exactly what Horace himself had been thinking: “Surely you don't think I would chase the Fel'Daera in the past when I have it already, right now,
here in my pocket?”

“You might, considering what I saw.”

“Which is?”

“The dragonfly girl. Chloe.”

Dr. Jericho inhaled sharply through his nose but said nothing.

As he spoke, Horace tried to hold the entire sequence of events in his head, every turn and every player. He laid this present moment against the past, against the future, hoping beyond hope that they aligned. “You were right. She's not dead. She'll be back in her burned-down house tonight.” Horace swallowed and took the leap: “And you'll be there, too.”

Dr. Jericho stepped back and sat on the table. He crossed his spidery legs and gazed at Horace, clearly deep in thought. His tiny black eyes shimmered. “Oh, I've missed this. Wrestling with that exquisite question:
Why would the Keeper of the Fel'Daera tell me the future?
And is that future true?” He shivered dramatically. “Such a thrill. There's nothing like it.” He sat in silence for several seconds. “I confess I am a curious cat. We shall see if events play out as you claim.”

Horace said nothing, and Dr. Jericho stood. “There's no point asking you what you saw transpiring here tomorrow night. I do wonder, though, what must be pouring through your head right now, as I contemplate the terms of your imprisonment.” He swept to Horace's side, bending to peer into the first coal cellar. “You say you sent the . . . dumindar . . . to yourself. Here in the first cell, is that right? You claim you saw
yourself, but you lied about seeing the box.” He shook his head at Horace, scolding. “Was it your wish to be found, and then be locked up in this cell?”

Horace would not let himself answer. No step seemed safe. So many threads, so easy to break. And how many had he left carelessly loose, despite all his efforts?

The Mordin shook his head. “But no, no, no. We can't keep you here. These cells are not for honored guests.” Dr. Jericho put his long hand on Horace's shoulder, steering him along the wall toward the boiler. Horace went with him, letting it happen. This was the turning he'd been taking all night—the willed path. The box called to him, so near, struggling and imprisoned, drowning just as he was about to drown. “Ordinarily, I would hold you in the belly of the golem, but I cannot spare the golem just now, not with Gabriel still on the loose—careless of me not to have brought a second. But I believe I have other accommodations that will suit you just fine.”

“Deeper in the nest?” Horace said, as if he didn't know.

“Oh no, no need for that.” Dr. Jericho stopped before the boiler, turning Horace to face it. He bent low and unlatched the ash door. “I'm sure you'll be very comfortable . . . right in here,” he said, and then his hideous fingers tightened across Horace's shoulder. He began to push.

Horace let his knees buckle under the pressure.
Come for me, Chloe
, he thought, bending before the dark, yawning door.
Come for us all
.

 

 

 

The blue light. Up and away
.

Chloe was cold. Everything was cold. So cold and so dark and that was all, all alone. There was something about the blue light—the blue light was the way back to herself, except there was no light here. And what was blue anyway? Little boy blue, the big blue sea, the moon but moonlight wasn't blue. Moonlight wasn't light at all, it was stolen, and everything was stolen, everything—

Movement. Light in the dark. Down the corridor—a falling star or moon, a streaking flash of yes of blue. Horace blue, the little boy. He stole the dragonfly. He took it up and away.

“Horace,” said Chloe. She began to move. The falling blue light was gone already, but she saw where it came from. She went toward the spot, up and away. Hand over foot, up the ladder. A dark, empty hall beyond and then a door,
right there, and the word door meant out. Out and away. She pushed through it, and then everything got big—or maybe she got small. There was fresh air, a breeze, and sky above, and somewhere out here was the dragonfly. Horace said so.

Something fell from the sky. Another falling star, or maybe the sky was falling. The sky was a girl, tall and strong.
“Chloe,”
said the sky girl.
“Where is everyone?”

“Who are you?” Chloe asked. “Do you have it? He said it was here.”

“It's me—Neptune. What's wrong with you, Chloe? What happened?”

“I had something,” she said. “I lost it. Are you it? But you're not blue, you're black. Miss Mary Mack. Why can't I see you?”

“The Alvalaithen—where is it? Is it destroyed?”

“Yes. He put it in the box and now it's gone.”

“The box? Horace sent it through the box?”

“Yes, yes, the promise box. He promised me.”

“Come on,”
said the girl, and the girl grabbed her hand. She pulled her forward—Chloe swung her feet to keep from falling. So heavy. “Leave me alone. I wanted to be alone. I wanted the—” What did she want?

“The dragonfly.”

“Where is the dragonfly? It flew down into the box. Down, down. I want to lie down.”

“Soon, Chloe, soon.”

“Sooner or later a moon elevator,” Chloe sang. “Is that
how you got here? Is that where you're from?” Maybe that's where the dragonfly flew.

They stopped. They stood beneath a yellow light—not blue, not the moon—and when Chloe asked why, the sky girl said,
No more talking
, but you had to talk to say that.

Now darkness and sound. Rest and motion. The earth turned beneath her. How far would they take her? This was too far, this was not the plan. But there was no way to get back this lost thing because she was the lost thing. Light sliding over her. Now on her feet again, arms holding her up, ups and downs. More darkness. A door that wasn't a door but made her cry.

Voices spilled over her, one and then another. Or were they all one voice, all talking and no listening?

Must give her the grulna. Danger us
.

We must the Alvalaithen. Dispossessed. The Box of Promises. Chloe
.

So much noise. So much nonsense. She could make no sense too. She opened her mouth. “Ashes, ashes. I'm so cold. What is the grulna?”

It has never been done so young. Must be done. As far as Chloe goes so strong so wrong-headed headstrong. She must not go this route too late. Without she might die
. Voices pouring over her, angry and sad.

“Die, die, die,” Chloe said, and then everything was quiet black, empty and empty, and she dreamed of a walk along a gleaming floor of lace, and the holes in the lace were holes
in the universe, and the white paths between grew wide and warm, and you could go anywhere along those paths if you could go at all, if you were you at all, and then the sun rose into her waiting face, and she ate fire.

Chloe opened her eyes to fluttering wings overhead. Round red walls curved above her. Her head throbbed and her throat burned. A hard nugget of heat blazed in her gut. She reached for the dragonfly in her mind, and instead of that cruel, amputated absence, she found an easy curve that caught her and steered her back. It was a prison, but a tender one, and she lay there in silence, riding her thoughts as they soared out and coasted back again, passing always back into herself. Herself and the little sun that burned inside her now.