Alex gaped. “I did it,” he whispered. And then he yelled at the top of his voice, “I did it!” He began to run toward the center of the lawn so he could see if all was in order as people along the shore sprang to their feet, annoyed at first, then their faces awash in joy. “I did it!” he screamed once more, his voice growing ragged. He gripped his head and stared all around.
The Artiméans jumped and danced, laughing and shouting the news to their friends, as if their friends weren’t seeing it just as they were. Dozens of them raced for the fountain and threw themselves in to celebrate, cool off, and quench their thirst. A number of Artiméans saw Alex standing in the center of Artimé, turning slowly, taking it all in. They surrounded him, hugging him and patting him on the back and lifting him in the air, praising and thanking him, all the frustration of the past weeks forgotten. Alex felt all the anxieties of the world wash away as a surge of joy rushed through him. “I did it,” he repeated softly as the crowd set him down and went on celebrating. “I actually did it.” He rubbed his eyes and slapped his own cheek to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, and indeed, he had done it. Artimé was back, and everything was good.
Well, not quite everything. All around, reminders of things gone wrong pelted him again, and Alex knew he had other extremely important things to tend to. He broke free from the crowd and ran smack into the biggest, hardest, movingest statue he’d ever run into. He reeled back, not quite catching himself before he fell to the grass. “Florence!” he cried out. He scrambled to his feet.
She looked about, bewildered at the commotion. “What on earth is happening? Are we under attack?”
“No—” Alex opened his mouth to tell her, having nearly forgotten that she and all the creatures and statues had no idea that Mr. Today was . . . gone. “Oh,” he said. A fresh wave of grief flooded through him alongside the rush of relief at Artimé’s grand return, and with so much emotion of so many kinds, the overwhelmingness of it all threatened to overflow from his body into a soggy mess at Alex’s feet. Tears formed and dripped from his eyes. “Find Sean or Mr. Appleblossom. Hurry.” It was all he could squeak out.
Florence, alarmed, nearly took a step toward Alex to comfort him, but the look on his face told her to do as he’d asked. “I will,” she said. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.” She turned around just as the enormous pile of owlbats, beavops, rabbitkeys, squirrelicorns, and platyprots, all still propped against the wall in the design of the spectacular towering ladder Sean had been building, began to wriggle and squeal. Alex turned to look too, just as the gigantic heap combusted into a hurricane of feathers, beaks, horns, and tails. The ones who could fly wriggled free and did so, while the ones who couldn’t fell like plump, squishy sacks, splatting to the ground, screeching and squealing and yipping, but unhurt. All the platyprots began imitating the noises of the others, so it sounded like three times as many creatures in an instant cacophony strong enough to make the Unwanteds nearby hit the dirt in fear.
Alex put his hands over his ears and watched in horror. “Oh dear,” he said. He hadn’t thought that one through, that was for sure. He whipped his head around as creatures flew and stormed past him, some joyous, others furious, all of them still not understanding what had happened. “Rufus!” Alex called out when he saw his squirrelicorn teammate from the battle, but it was no use. Everyone else was shouting too, and no one could be understood.
Alex’s eyes landed on Jim, who stood up rather gingerly, testing his legs and wings, but he seemed well enough. The ground shook as the girrinos got to their feet. And then Alex’s heart caught in his throat. Abruptly he turned and shouldered his way desperately through the masses, trying not to get trampled, trying to head toward the shore against the flow of traffic as everyone else went to find friends and make their way into the mansion to find shelter, food, and the comfort of their rooms. Nearby Alex saw the beloved octogator, Ms. Octavia, rise to her tentacles, and he watched as someone unwittingly knocked her glasses off her alligator snout. Alex reached for them and handed them to her, thrilled to see his instructor alive again. “Find Sean or Mr. Appleblossom!” Alex called out to her before she was picked up by some students and swept to safety.
Each second that passed was excruciating as Alex forced his way through the bodies toward the shore, but finally the crowd thinned. Before long Alex was left alone on the beach, a most bizarre feeling after weeks of no room to breathe, much less stand alone and contemplate. But Alex wasn’t thinking about that. He held his trembling hand up to shield his eyes from the sun and stared at the water.
“Come on,” he whispered, the breeze tumbling around him, and he ripped his fingers through his hair to move it out of his eyes. “Come on,” Alex said again, pleading this time. He sank to his knees, not trusting himself to stand any longer, the waves lapping up around his legs. He strained forward, blinking away the burn in his eyes. “Come on!” he shouted at the water, his voice ragged and catching on the words. “Come on, Simber! You should be here by now! Everyone else is alive!”
Another moment of silence and nothingness. Then two. Alex lowered his head, picturing the cat reduced to a pile of sand at the bottom of the sea. His chest caved in to sobs. “You said you wouldn’t leave me,” he whispered. He covered his face, overwhelmed with sorrow.
And so it was that in the midst of chaos and color and light, in the glorious rebirth of a magical world, there remained two small vessels dark and drained. And those vessels were the heart and the soul of a brokenhearted young mage, sobbing alone in the sand.
It was only then that the sea before him exploded.
Breaking the News
It was as if the sea had wings, its destination the sky. The water shot up like a geyser to an enormous height, and once it reached its zenith, it fell back to the surface in sheets, slapping and booming like thunder, until only the creature responsible for the watery show remained airborne.
At the first sound Alex had looked up, and now, with his chest stuck in a gasp and his heart throbbing in his throat, he scrambled to his feet and began waving like mad to the giant stone cheetah half a mile out.
It took Simber a good deal less time to cover the distance than it had taken Alex, who’d been dragging the unconscious Meghan through the water, and before Alex could fully comprehend that his beloved Simber was truly not melted into silt on the sea’s floor, the cheetah descended and came to an elegant stop next to Alex. He arched his back and shook himself wildly, his stone skin rippling as water fell around him.
“Simber,” Alex breathed, and when the beast had finished shaking, Alex flung himself around the cat’s neck and held on for dear life.
After a long moment, Alex found his voice again. “I don’t even know where to start,” he said, his face pressed against the cold stone of Simber’s neck. He smeared his tears across his dirty cheek, trying to wipe them away.
“I can only guess what went wrrrong,” Simber gargled. He cleared his throat.
“We lost . . . a lot,” Alex said, then closed his lips and pressed them together.
“The last I rrrememberrr, we werrre on ourrr way home. Then I woke, of all places, underrrwaterrr.” He shuddered at the thought. “It took a bit of time to get my bearrrings and swim towarrrd the surrrface.”
Alex nodded and let go of the cheetah but was unable to look the statue in the eye.
Simber regarded the boy’s ragged, dirty appearance carefully, and wrinkled up his nose. “How long has it been since I . . . frrroze?” He began to lick the remaining droplets of water off his back and legs.
Alex took a breath, hoping to steady his voice. “Weeks,” Alex said.
Simber stopped licking and stared hard at the boy. His expression didn’t falter, but his eyes gave away everything. “Couldn’t Marrrcus . . . ?” He stood alert and sampled the air, his ears moving wildly. “Wherrre is he? Why arrre you wearrring his rrrobe?”
Alex couldn’t speak. His lip trembled.
“Alex!” Simber roared. “Answerrr
me!”
“He’s dead!” Alex shouted, more from fear than anything. When the cat reared back in shock, Alex said it again, softer this time. “He’s dead. Most likely from the moment you fell to the bottom of the sea.”
Simber stared at Alex for a long moment, searching the boy’s face. And then he closed his eyes. His head fell. “Tell me,” he whispered.
Alex swallowed hard, his throat still sore and dry as toast. “Meghan and I were thrown from the boat. She almost drowned. We barely made it to shore. When we did, Artimé was gone.”
“Oh, Marrrcus.” Simber, eyes still closed, winced as he imagined it. His beloved creator, his closest friend. The cat held very still for an excruciatingly long moment, as if pulling his thoughts together to make sense, accepting the realization of it, bracing himself for what was to come. And then he opened his eyes. “And you brrrought Arrrtimé back,” he said, not a question.
Alex swallowed hard. “Yeah. Finally. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m just . . . I’m so glad to see you.”
Simber lowered his head so that his eyes were even with the young mage’s. “I’m verrry prrroud of you,” he said.
“Some people left,” Alex whispered. He dropped his gaze, the lump in his throat too big to allow his voice to come through.
It may have been an accident, but Simber’s muzzle brushed against the side of Alex’s head, which nearly looked like an act of kindness, but no one was around to point it out. In a gentle voice, Simber asked, “Wherrre do things stand now?”
When Alex could speak, he said, “It’s pretty crazy right now. Everyone headed for the mansion because we’ve been, sort of, well, starving to death, I guess. I sent Florence and Ms. Octavia to find Sean and Mr. Appleblossom for answers. I hope they’re settling everyone down. I had to come here. I had to . . . wait for you.”
“Of courrrse,” Simber murmured, but his stony brow furrowed. “Sean and Sigfrrried? Not Clairrre?”
“She’s . . . ,” Alex said, and shook his head. “She’s gone too.”
“No,” Simber said, the word turning into a ferocious growl that hurt Alex’s ears. “Who is rrresponsible forrr this?”
Alex’s face paled. He gazed in the direction of the gate. “The new high priest of Quill. Aaron Stowe.”
“The new . . . ?” Simber’s jaw opened, but for once he was incapable of finishing. Just as he attempted to repeat Alex’s words a second time, Sky came running up at full speed. She seemed surprised at the size of Simber and planted her feet into the sand to stop her momentum just short of her goal, not wanting to get too close to the beast, as she’d never seen him before. She reached out carefully to grab Alex’s arm, tugging at him and gesturing for him to follow.
Her expression worried Alex. “Something’s wrong,” Alex said to Simber. “I’ll tell you everything when I get a chance. Come on.” He followed Sky, who had taken off at a run.
“Indeed,” Simber said, and he loped alongside the two. Several yards before they reached the mansion, Simber stopped. “Something’s shaking,” he said.
Alex held up. “What? I don’t feel anything.”
Sky urged Alex onward.
“Something is shaking,” Simber said again. “The mansion. It’s shaking.” He looked hard at the mansion and then bounded toward it. “Something is terrribly wrrrong inside.”
Behind the Wall
Once the first blocks of Quill’s wall near High Priest Aaron’s palace had been removed, the rest of them came down much more easily. Between meetings about how to distribute the extra food items to those who had earned it, and planning sessions where Aaron gave Eva lists upon lists of fairly useless chores to keep her busy and test her loyalty, the new high priest made his way to his office window to watch the progress. All day, the same something niggled at him: Why would Justine have built the wall in the first place if there was nothing to worry about on the other side? Was it simply her way of controlling the people of Quill through fear? If so, it didn’t sit quite right with Aaron.
Toward the end of the day, all the workers but one had begun to slow down, much to Aaron’s distaste. It was distracting to have to keep checking on them only to see most of them taking short breaks to drink water or rest their tired backs. Even more frustrating was the one who worked solidly, for Aaron would have liked to find fault with him especially.
After one such trip to the window, Aaron had had enough of their slacking. Frowning, he strode out of his office and down to the palace entry, flying out the door with his cloak billowing behind him. There was a strong breeze coming through the opening, which was both delightful and unsettling, for Quill rarely had much more than a tiny hint of wind coming over the walls. Aaron felt so exposed. Putting a hole in the wall alongside the palace—perhaps that was not one of Aaron’s smarter ideas. But look at Artimé, he argued. They’re even more exposed, and nothing ill ever befell them from the outside.
He approached the men, who began working much harder at the sight of him. “You’re slacking off,” he said to them. “If you continue at that pace, I’ll make you stay past dark.”
The one who’d been working hard all along put his shovel down and looked at Aaron. The others who’d noticed did double takes and backed away.
“I haven’t slowed my pace,” the man said, wiping the sweat from his brow.
The other workers gaped.
Aaron’s nostrils flared. “You’ll address me properly, or . . . ,” He couldn’t think of anything, and his face flushed.
The man nodded solidly, but his voice quavered. “All right. I haven’t slowed my pace, Son, and you know it. I’ve always worked my hardest and taught my children to do that too.” He hesitated, then blindly barreled onward, his voice cracking. “I don’t care who you are now. You’ll show your father some respect.” He stood stone still, but his eyes flitted about, as if he knew he’d gone too far.
Aaron flinched and heat rose from his collar. His mind whirled. He couldn’t allow a Necessary to speak to him like that—not even his father. Not in front of other Necessaries. If he didn’t do something, word would spread that he was weak. If he didn’t do something immediately . . .
“Guards!” Aaron shouted. Two of them came running to Aaron’s side. “Take this man to the Ancients Sector,” he said, his voice wavering the slightest bit. “His time of service in Quill is done.”
Mr. Stowe stared at Aaron. Aaron stared back, a feeling of horror growing inside his chest when he realized what he’d just done. But he didn’t take it back.
The guards grabbed Mr. Stowe by the arms and shoved him toward a Quillitary vehicle. The man’s lips parted and a shocked look came over his face, then one of pain. “Aaron, no,” he said. “Your mother . . . ”
Aaron’s face was stone. His mother—she was pregnant, he remembered from when he’d seen them in the crowd at his speech several weeks prior. Would she care that her husband was dead? She hadn’t seemed to care about Alex when she thought he was dead.
Mr. Stowe’s shoes slipped in the gravel as he struggled to look back at Aaron, his eyes pleading. Aaron’s gaze narrowed, and as the guards pushed his father into the vehicle, Aaron turned to the other workers. “You may want to work harder,” he said in a sinister voice.
Stricken with fear, the workers began at a frantic pace to disassemble the remaining blocks. Behind Aaron, the guards drove off with Mr. Stowe, the man’s bowed head visible through the back window. As soon as the noise of the jalopy had quieted, Aaron turned back to the palace and stomped inside to his office.
“Secretary!” he screamed. “Come at once!”
Eva was there in a flash. “What is it?” she asked, alarmed.
“I’ve sent my father to the Ancients Sector.” He looked at her, and now he couldn’t stop the fear that bled into his eyes. “He was disrespectful.”
“Your father?”
“He was one of the workers.”
Eva had to work very hard not to react. What she really wanted to do was punish the spoi
led boy herself, right that minute. But all she said was, “I see.”
Aaron turned and began to pace. “He didn’t address me properly! He made me look like a fool!” He swiped his hand across his desk, sending papers flying. “What else could I have done?”
Eva didn’t think he wanted an answer. “If you want me to tell you that you did the right thing . . . ” She didn’t finish, for fear it would get her sent to join Mr. Stowe.
Aaron rounded his desk and gripped the back of his chair, muttering to himself. “He deserved it. He knew very well what he should have done.”
Eva closed her eyes briefly and sighed, not loud enough to be heard.
“Even if he was right, he shouldn’t have said it like he said it.” He began pacing again.
Eva waited until Aaron had finished muttering, and then she said, “Shall I send a vehicle to retrieve him, High Priest?”
Aaron’s face twisted in indecision. He pounded his hands on his desk in anger. And then he pressed his fingers to his temples. “Yes,” he said finally. “Send him home, on the condition that he remains silent on the matter.”
Eva Fathom nodded and set off to stop an untimely death.
“Wait,” Aaron called after her, and she stopped and turned to look at him.
“There is one more condition. Tell him that he and my mother and any future . . . children . . . of theirs must be loyal to Quill. They will make an oath never to pledge loyalty of any sort to my brother, or to Artimé, as long as they live.”
Eva waited to make sure he was finished, and then she said, “I will see to it myself.”