The Magician's Tower (26 page)

“I should have known,” she said.

Red Martin nodded his agreement. “You know, I had thought you might win at least
some
of the challenges. You did disappoint me there. And to think you nearly ruined everything trying to save that stupid Iree girl. I saw the two of you outside on the landing. She was about to fall, and you risked your own life to save her. I've never seen anything so foolish in my life. Why would you do such a thing? She was your enemy.”

Oona slowly shook her head. “You'll never understand.”

He shrugged. “You're probably right. But it does not matter. And now, the key to the Glass Gates is finally mine.”

He moved to step around her, trying to get to the box.

Oona blocked his way. “You intend to use the wand to open the Glass Gates?”

Red Martin stopped less than a foot away, looking down at Oona as if he were truly surprised. “Why else would I want it? On the other side of those gates is Faerie. And while it is true, as you discovered for yourself, that I know a secret way through those gates, it is a miserably tedious task that takes weeks to smuggle my merchandise through.”

“Merchandise?” Oona said, contemptuously. “You are undoubtedly responsible for smuggling across some of the most dangerous magical objects our world has ever known: objects that cause nothing but mischief, such as pixiewood poison and throttler's silk. Things that have no business leaving Faerie.”

Red Martin cracked his knuckles. “I am a businessman. Where there is a demand, I provide the product.”

“Ah, but only criminals and twisted individuals would want such terrible things,” Oona said. “I know it must have been you who sent the silk to Mr. and Mrs. Dodger. Just because they owed you money? They might have died.”

“It's not all bad,” said Red Martin. “Why, just last month I managed to get hold of an entire carton of faerie crumb cake: a marvelously moist pastry dish, best served at room temperature, with molasses and warm milk. One swallow and you'll hear angels singing!”

Red Martin made a move to dart around Oona, but quick as a cat she snatched the wand from the box.

“I do not care about faerie crumb cake!” she shouted. “I care that you wish to use this wand as a convenience—to open and close the Glass Gates at your will, so that you can continue to deluge our world with your so-called merchandise. And you haven't given a thought to the fact that, the last time that those gates were open, the Queen
of Faerie herself threatened to destroy every last living human in existence. Those gates are all that keep her army from passing through into this world, and then on to New York City, and the World of Man! Answer me this, Red Martin. With all of your customers dead, who will purchase your merchandise?”

Red Martin's eyelids drooped. “Don't be so naïve. You think I've been smuggling artifacts across the border for over five hundred years without being careful? I know my business, Miss Crate, and no little girl is going to get in my way.” He looked her up and down. “In fact, I can think of one item in particular that I just might be able to get my hands on that would be of interest to you. With that key,” he pointed at the wand, “I could slip over to Faerie in a jiffy and bring it back for you, as a kind of thank-you gift. I take it you have heard of the Punchbowl Oracle?”

Oona's eyes slitted. “It is a faerie tale, nothing more.”

Red Martin grinned. “Yes, I know it is. And I know about Sir Baltimore's little scheme to distract you from the contest. I knew you would overcome such a blatant bit of misinformation. And of course I was right. But what would you say if I told you that there was an object that could actually do just what the punchbowl is supposed to, and give you a true answer to any question asked? It is called an Orb of Cathesis. Perhaps you've
heard of them. They are very rare, even in Faerie. In fact, only ten have ever been known to exist. They work only once, and then their power is gone forever. I know just where I can get one. Let me have the wand, and I will fetch it for you. Whatever it is you wish so badly to know—that question that is burning away inside of you—you could learn the answer within a few hours. Just hand over the wand. Now that is a deal if I ever heard one. What do you say, Miss Crate?”

Oona winced, as if Red Martin had dealt her a physical blow. If what he was saying were true, she could find out once and for all what had happened that tragic day in the park nearly three years ago. To Oona's surprise, she found a part of her actually wanted to hand the wand over, wanted so badly to believe that, if she could learn the truth from this Orb of Cathesis, to know that she indeed was not responsible for the accident, then she would be able to put all of this confusion behind her. She would be free.

And yet another part of her—the much stronger, rational part of her personality—understood that whatever answer the orb gave, it would not bring her family back. It would not change the fact that they were gone. She knew that the orb could just as easily tell her that it
was
all her fault. She also understood that the only reason she was so caught up in this obsession to know the truth
was because some man had dressed up like a gypsy woman and simply said: “You are not responsible for the burden you hold.”

For the second time in less than an hour, her uncle's words returned to her, filling up her thoughts like some magic spell conjured from the very back of her mind … only this time she thought she understood better what those words actually meant.

There are times when we humans open like a flower, our petals reaching outward for the answers we seek. But often, the answers that we are looking for are on the inside, and no reaching outward is necessary
.

She swallowed a lump in her throat, her heartbeat quickening in her chest as the words meaning struck home. Regardless of what had actually happened, Oona had not
meant
for it to happen. She had loved her mother and her sister. She had meant only to please them. She knew this as an absolute fact: a fact that was more substantial and solid than any external bit of evidence could ever prove to her. No matter whether she was responsible for the accident or not, it did not change the fact that she had loved them, and still did.

The idea that she, Oona, would give the wand of the greatest magician of all time over to this scheming, manipulative, greedy scoundrel seemed all at once to be absurd. To believe that all he wanted the wand for
was to slip through the Glass Gates from time to time was ridiculous. Even more of a joke was the thought that she could trust him to do anything he promised at all.

“I'm afraid you misjudged one little thing in your plot to get your hands on this wand,” Oona said.

“And what is that?” Red Martin asked.

Oona's eyes flashed at him. “That if I could figure out how to open the box … then I would also be able to close it again.”

Oona dropped to the floor.

Red Martin shouted.
“No!”

He lunged, but too late. Oona's hand slammed the wand back into the box and closed the lid. As she did, she spoke the counterspell she had heard her uncle utter to the rose.

“Orx-ord-ion-ah.”

The box sealed itself, once again becoming a solid piece of impenetrable wood. Red Martin grabbed for the box, but Oona leapt back, clutching the box in her arms. Red Martin was like a cat ready to pounce.

“I've read all of my father's old files on you, Red Martin,” Oona said, keeping a steady distance. “Every detail he managed to put together. And if there is one thing that has always helped me sleep better at night, it was the fact that you seem to be incapable of performing
magic yourself. You seem to rely completely on enchanted objects to perform any magical wrongdoing.”

This seemed to touch a nerve with Red Martin. “What's your point?” he said, practically spitting the words.

“Well, if you want to open the Glass Gates, then you need this wand. If you want to hurt someone by magic, then you need to send them enchanted silk. But you, Red Martin, are incapable of performing magic on your own. In over five hundred years, you have never mastered it. And because of that, even if you manage to take this box from me, you will be unable to open it, even though you have just heard the spell with your own ears. You could say the spell a hundred times, and it would not open.”

He grimaced at her. “You speak truly. But there's one thing you have forgotten.”

Oona felt a stab of panic. “And what would that be?”

“I can always force someone to do it for me. Someone who
can
do magic. Let me show you what I mean.”

His hand dipped into the pocket of his jacket, and an instant later he brought it out again, holding what appeared to be some kind of finely crafted chain-mail glove. He quickly slipped the glove over his hand and flexed his fingers.

Oona eyed it mistrustfully. She did not know what it was, but, judging from Red Martin's pleased expression, it could not be good for her.

“Ah. Admiring my new glove, are you, Miss Crate?” he said. “It is faerie-made armor. Impervious to magic. You see, unlike some people, I learn from my mistakes. So you might want to think twice before trying your little
Switch
spell on me this time. It won't work.”

Oona shook her head, not understanding. Why would she wish to use the
Switch
spell? He did not hold anything she wished to have. But an instant later she understood all too well what Red Martin had meant as he dipped the gloved hand into his pocket and brought it out again, this time holding a revolver.

Oona's heart skipped a beat. Many criminals carried guns, she knew—a bullet through the heart had killed her father—but she had never faced a gun before, and she was terrified. She realized her mistake in having closed the wand back in the box. Had she not done so, she might have used it to defend herself. Now it was too late. Red Martin leveled the revolver, and Oona hesitated, unsure if she should believe him about the glove or not.

As if reading her thoughts, Red Martin's grin widened. “Go ahead, try it.”

She tightened her grip on the wand box, unsure of what to do. The last time Oona had been in such a situation, she had used Samuligan's
Switch
command to magically exchange Red Martin's dagger with her own candlestick, but if what he was saying was true, then
the spell would not be able to work on his revolver hand.

She considered doing as he had suggested, and trying it anyway, but reason stopped her. Even if he was lying about the faerie armor, and she did attempt the spell, she would only be giving Red Martin exactly what he wanted: the box. Then of course she would have the gun. But if what he was saying was true, and the glove did block the spell, then there was the possibility that the box in
her
hand might still be affected by the spell while the gun in
his
hand was not. If that were the case, then by uttering the magical command, she might actually send the box to Red Martin without receiving anything in return. He would have the box and the gun, and she would have nothing.

Or perhaps there is some other variation I'm not even thinking of
, she thought. It was all so infuriatingly complicated, and this was one of the reasons that Oona disliked the fickleness of magic. There were so many possibilities to consider.

“Enough!” Red Martin shouted. “Speak the spell and hand the box over now, Miss Crate, or I will shoot you. And don't try to grab the wand from the box. You may be fast, but not
that
fast.”

Oona swallowed hard. There appeared to be no other option. Though he seemed reluctant simply to shoot her
and have it done with, Oona knew that if she gave him good reason, Red Martin would have no qualms against pulling the trigger.

Three months earlier he had set two of his muscle men with clubs on Deacon and her. Oona had detained them by using
Lux lucis admiratio
, the Lights of Wonder … but that difficult spell required a conductor to focus the energy in a single direction, like a stick or a wand—or, in the case of the thugs, a broken chair leg.

Her pockets she knew were empty, and her only option at present was to use the box in her hand, but its shape was not optimal. The spell was highly unpredictable, and without a proper conductor to focus the energy, it might shoot off in just about any direction, maybe even hitting herself, or prompting Red Martin to fire the gun.

No, what she needed was the wand that was inside the box—or a spell that did not require a conductor.

Red Martin appeared to have read her mind. “What, no magic to help you, Miss Crate?”

Oona glanced at the floor, and the idea came to her in a flash. If it didn't work, then she knew all was lost, but at the moment she saw no alternative. She had to be quick. “You're right, Red Martin,” she said, doing her best to sound defeated. “You have won.”

Red Martin's face split in a terrible grin. “I know I have. Now open the box, and bring it here.”

Oona raised one finger, tapping the side of the box.
“Abra-ord-ion-all.”

Once again the seam appeared in the box, creating the outline of a lid.

“Here.” She set the box on the floor at her feet and stepped away. “Come and get it.”

This was it, the moment of truth. Oona's stomach seemed to contract as Red Martin stepped forward, eyes fixed on the box, gun dropping to his side. What he failed to notice, however, was that, as he moved across the room, straight in front of him was the large X painted on the floor. The instant he placed his foot down, Oona dropped to her knees and tapped her finger against the floor.

“Abra-ord-ion-all!”

The trapdoor snapped open. A shout leapt from Red Martin's throat that followed him as he disappeared through the hole in the floor. Oona quickly snatched the wand from the box and aimed it at the architect. His eyes shifted nervously in their sockets.