The Wooden Prince (32 page)

Pinocchio took a shuddering breath. “Yes, it is.”

He knew what he had to do. He hated it more than anything. Hated it with a white-hot fury. He wished with every trembling molecule of his body that he didn't have to do this. But there was only one way now to save his father. There was only one way for them all to reach Abaton.

Pinocchio pointed into the darkness. “We came here to save them. They're that way. Let's go.”

Pinocchio walked in stony silence. Mezmer looped her furry arm through his and walked by his side. Sop slumped along behind them, as melancholy as Pinocchio had ever seen the cat. In front, Lazuli walked beside Cinnabar, the djinni lighting their path with the handful of flame. Lazuli looked back from time to time at Pinocchio, casting her dimly lit, bleary eyes toward him and seeming to want to say something, but unable to find the words.

She didn't need to say anything. He understood.

Pinocchio was struck by a memory now, back when he was in Geppetto's wife's villa and Maestro was trying to explain about Geppetto's grief. The cricket had told him how all the living feel pain at the loss of what they love.
It can't be helped, Pinocchio,
Maestro had said.
It's part of life.
Pinocchio remembered how he had told Maestro that he was glad he wasn't alive.

Now he wasn't sure what he felt.

Being alive was full of such joy. But would it have been better if he'd never had to feel the heartbreak of leaving Wiq or the terror of battle in Al Mi'raj's theater or missing his father so desperately, even if it meant never having all the happy moments too? He couldn't say. Right now it just felt so unfair. So cruel that he had to give up living when he finally knew what it meant to be alive. And although they weren't saying it, Pinocchio knew that Maestro and Mezmer, Lazuli, and Sop were thinking the same thing.

Step by terrible step, they journeyed farther into the Deep One. Each step brought them inevitably closer to Prester John, closer to the dreadful moment when he would have to give back what rightfully belonged to the king of Abaton. Pinocchio tried not to think about it as they trudged on.

A distant light appeared that seemed higher than the marshy floor, as if it was hovering in the darkness.

“How do we know it's not another dirt-born settlement?” Sop asked.

“The Hunter's Glass shows my father up there,” Lazuli said. “But we'll be cautious.”

As they drew closer, Pinocchio could tell they weren't reaching cliffs like the barnacle people's homes or the crude fortresses of the dirt-born. Whatever lay ahead was towering up from the flatness.

“What is that, Sop?” Mezmer asked. “Your eye is the best.”

“Bones,” the cat said. “It looks like bones.”

The others were reluctant to believe this—until they reached the structure. The bleached bones were enormous. The skeleton of a whale, or several whales, or possibly some other enormous leviathan of a creature that hadn't been too large for the Deep One to swallow whole, formed a tower, rising up to a massive skull crowning the top. Light flickered from within the hollow eye sockets far overhead.

Cinnabar cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Prester John! Are you here?”

A silhouette appeared at one of the eyes. “Who is down there?” a voice called.

Pinocchio knew that voice! It felt like it had been ages, but he would recognize his father's voice anywhere, that gruff but rich, warm voice.

“Father!” he shouted.

All the fear and anguish that had filled up inside him drained away. He had finally found his father. Pinocchio's heart swelled with gladness that at least they would be reunited, even if it wasn't to last.

“Father!” he cried, running as fast as his legs would carry him. “Father, it's your son Pinocchio! I've found you, Father!”

He sprang halfway up the tower of bones on his seven-league boots—Father!—then climbed hand over hand, ascending with ferocious urgency—Father!—knowing the others must be following, but he couldn't wait for them, not when he was so close, not when he was nearly there. Father! He had to see him, had to know that he was truly all right.

When he reached the skull, Pinocchio rushed into the lofty domed interior. Geppetto stared at him, openmouthed. Even as Pinocchio flung his arms around him, his father looked down, disbelieving.

“No! Why have you come here?” Geppetto gasped.

“To save you,” Pinocchio replied.

Geppetto's mouth trembled. His eyes searched Pinocchio's face with wonderment. Then he clasped Pinocchio by the arms and pulled him tight against his chest. “My boy. My boy. How I longed to see you again. But not here. Not in this place. But oh…look at you!” He let him go and stared. “You are…No, you're not…Are you…?”

“I'm no longer an automa,” Pinocchio said. He turned around and pointed to the back of his neck, where the keyhole mark was all that showed from his former self. Then he spun around and pulled back the collar of his shirt to show the smooth flesh of his chest. “I'm human like you now! I'm alive, Father.”

“I can see,” Geppetto said. But his smile faded as his gaze drifted over to the figure resting on the far side of the skull chamber.

Bundled in a heavy cloak and propped upon a makeshift bed of vertebrae and blankets, Prester John was an ashen husk of a man. He wore a delicate golden crown, but dark gray skin clung to the bones of his bald head. If it hadn't been for the brightness of his eyes, Pinocchio would have believed him dead.

As the others reached the top, one by one, Mezmer, Sop, and Cinnabar fell to their knees reverently. Last to appear was Lazuli. She ran to her father but stopped short a few paces, giving an awkward curtsy.

“Your Majesty,” Lazuli breathed. “My…my lord.”

Prester John wheezed a few moments before saying, “Who is that? Who is there?”

“It is me, Lazuli. Your daughter.”

“Lazuli,” he said. “Yes, you are my daughter. I thought you were dead. I thought I had lost you, child.”

Geppetto was staring, amazed, at Lazuli. She gave him a little smile and then slowly approached her father, taking his shriveled hand. “I'm here, my lord.”

Pinocchio was happy for Lazuli, glad that, like him, she'd been reunited with her father. He smiled at his father, but Geppetto was looking back with worry.

Cinnabar stood suddenly. “Your Immortal Lordship, we have brought you the Ancientmost Pearl. You hid it from the doge in this automa. The Pearl has been safe and now we have delivered it to you.”

Prester John winced. “Who are you, djinni?”

“Cinnabar, my lord. I am one of your subjects, freed now by your daughter from the vile humanlands of the Venetian Empire. My companions and I are here to return your powers and accompany you to Abaton.”

“No,” Prester John wheezed.

Cinnabar blinked. “But…my lord. I did not serve the empire willingly. I was enslaved, and now I serve you—”

“I do not wish to be served anymore,” Prester John said. “Too long have I ruled. I have returned to the Mother. Here I will remain until my death.”

Cinnabar looked too shocked to speak.

Lazuli clutched her father's hand. “What about Abaton, my lord?”

“Do not call me that, my child,” he said. “I am your father. Although, I fear, I have not been a very good father. I realize that now. Once I gave up the powers of the Ancientmost Pearl, an unforeseen clarity found me. I realized…” He wheezed for breath. “Too long have I clung to the throne of Abaton, Lazuli. Too long have I tried to shape the world with its wonders. And for what? Look what sickness has been unleashed on the world of men by Abaton's magic. It is time for another to rule.”

“But who?” Lazuli asked.

He patted her hand warmly. “You, child. My youngest child. My last child. You shall rule. Take the Ancientmost Pearl. Go home and be my successor.”

Lazuli was shaking her head. She pulled back from him, her whole body trembling. “No. I don't want to rule.”

“If not you, then who?” he said. “Be strong, my daughter. You have always been the best of my children. That you do not want to rule is what makes you the most fitting heir.”

“Prester John, please!” Cinnabar said. “You are our Immortal Lordship. Princess Lazuli does not want to rule. She is young. Too young. We need you! Come back with us. Take the Pearl and lead us to Abaton.”

When Prester John didn't reply, Cinnabar rounded on Pinocchio, pointing at him venomously. “You agreed you would return the Pearl to His Immortal Lordship. Give it to him!”

Pinocchio looked helplessly around at them. “I don't know how. I thought he would know—”

“You said you would save him!” Cinnabar shouted. “If His Immortal Lordship won't take it, then give it to Princess Lazuli. She needs it. We need it. All of Abaton needs it! It is the only way for us to get out of this beast and go home.”

“But I'm not an automa any longer,” Pinocchio said. “The panel is gone. There's no way to get the Pearl out.”

“There is,” Cinnabar spat. He spun around and snatched Sop's sword from his belt. “I will cut it out of you if I must!”

Geppetto stepped in front of Pinocchio while Mezmer flashed out with her spear, knocking the blade from Cinnabar's hands.

“You would play the traitor when our lord Prester John is dying before our feet?” Cinnabar snarled at Mezmer.

“This is not the way, Cinnabar,” Mezmer said.

“Then how else?” The djinni looked crazed and desperate as he stared around at the others for support.

Pinocchio realized Cinnabar was right. But what was he to do?

“Father,” Lazuli said, “Pinocchio should not die so that we have the Pearl. It's not worth this. Please, is there a way to take it out and let Pinocchio live?”

Prester John breathed noisily, as if each breath was excruciating. His glazed eyes flickered from Pinocchio to Geppetto. “I am sorry. I do not have this power. I cannot give life. Only the Ancientmost Pearl gives life.”

Cinnabar showed his gleaming fangs. “Then it is settled. You are holding the blade, Mezmer.”

Mezmer's fox ears flattened against her head. She looked at the spear in her hands and at Pinocchio. “No!” She let the spear clatter to the floor. “You know I cannot. Not Pinocchio.”

Pinocchio gave Mezmer a grateful nod. “I am sorry. If I was only an automa again, I could give it to you. But it is trapped inside me.”

“True,” Cinnabar said, his voice going calm and quiet. The djinni slipped a hand beneath his cloak. “There is still a way.”

Before anyone realized what was happening, Cinnabar pulled out the handheld crossbow and aimed it at Geppetto. In that instant, only Lazuli reacted. She leaped at Geppetto as the bowstring twanged. She knocked Geppetto to the ground.

Sop and Mezmer tackled Cinnabar. “It was the only way!” Cinnabar shrieked. “The only way to get back the Pearl!”

“Father!” Pinocchio screamed.

Geppetto lay across Lazuli. As Pinocchio rolled him over, he saw to his relief that his father was not hurt. But Lazuli lay on her back. Blood soaked her tunic. The crossbow bolt was lodged by her heart.

Geppetto gasped. “No, child!”

Lazuli gulped hopelessly for breath. Pinocchio could hardly fathom what he was seeing, the shock and horror of it all was so intense. It was as if the world had gone suddenly silent except for the thundering of blood in his ears. Mezmer's mouth was open with anguish. Sop was spitting and hissing in fury at Cinnabar, while the djinni pleaded. But Pinocchio could hear none of this.

He fell to his knees beside her. “Lazuli…you can't…”

The blue light was fading from her eyes. He could plainly see that any moment the wound would prove fatal….

But for now, there was still time. If he hurried.

Pinocchio wiped the back of his hand across his eyes to clear his vision. He grabbed the crossbow bolt with both hands, and without hesitating, without letting the fear of what lay ahead give him any pause, he tugged. The barbed tip caught, and Lazuli lurched forward in pain.

He was hurting her, but what else could he do? He had to get the bolt out if he was going to save her life.

“I'm sorry, Lazuli,” Pinocchio said. Once more he pulled. The bolt came loose. The tip had broken off, but it was out.

Lazuli's eyes rolled. She groaned and arched her back in pain. Blood spilled faster. Pinocchio pressed both his hands over the wound.

“Hold on, Lazuli,” he begged. “Just a moment more.”

“What are you doing?” Geppetto said, pulling at his shoulder.

Pinocchio could not explain. There was no time. He pressed his hands over the wound and closed his eyes. When Pinocchio had saved Mezmer, he had still been partially an automa. The sensation then had been as if his gearworks were melting, as if steam were coming from the valves in the cavity of his wooden body. But now, as flesh and blood, the sensation was something worse. It was as if every nerve in his body were being singed.

Pinocchio grew dizzy with the pain, but he held his hands tightly to Lazuli's chest. He couldn't stop. Her life depended on him.

The burning feeling disappeared, replaced by something dull and cold. Looking down at his forearms and hands, Pinocchio watched as his fingernails vanished. The tiny hairs on his arms disappeared. The wrinkles upon his knuckles and the slight lines etching his skin deepened into grooves of wood grain once more.

Blood stopped spilling from Lazuli's chest.

Pinocchio felt his thoughts thickening. In a moment, this Pinocchio—the living, feeling, thinking Pinocchio—would be gone. The mindless automa Pinocchio would return. Although he couldn't see it, he knew the keyhole had opened up on the back of his neck. The panel in his chest was accessible once more.

Lazuli would live—would be able to take the Pearl. Abaton would be safe. His father, all his friends, they would be saved.