“I’m sorry to hear that,” Richard said finally. “He was a friend of ours. I’ll be honest, if you’d told us this a few months ago, we might’ve had a different reaction. You see, we found out—”
“That if the children bring the Books together, they will die. I just learned of it myself.”
“Then you understand how it made us question everything! Who Pym really was. Did he intend to sacrifice our children for some greater good? We just didn’t know.”
“He did care for them,” Clare said firmly. “However much we talked about it, we always came back to that. We told ourselves that he must know something we didn’t, some way of saving their lives.”
“Only, that wasn’t a chance we were willing to take on faith. That was the point of the message we sent the children. But if Pym is dead…”
Though they had been speaking in hushed tones, their voices were the only sounds in the streets, and Gabriel felt how exposed they were; they had to move.
“You are right,” he whispered. “Pym cared for your children, and he believed there was a way they could use the Books and not be destroyed themselves.”
“But how?” Richard demanded. “What did he tell you exactly?”
“Very little. Just that he had come to believe that the answer was in the prophecy itself, that there was more to it than even he knew. When I learned the Countess guarded a secret, I thought she might have the knowledge we sought. That is why I tracked the Secretary. Finding you was mere chance.”
“So Pym didn’t tell you,” Clare said, “how to find out the rest of the prophecy?”
“No.”
Then Gabriel turned to glance around the corner of the alley, to ensure that the way was still clear, and so he missed the look that passed between the man and woman.
“Come,” he said.
They hurried on through the streets, stopping a few minutes later at the edge of a square, in the center of which was a statue of a man on a horse. Both man and horse had strangely gigantic heads, the man’s topped by an even more gigantic plumed hat. Gabriel peered into the shadows of the shuttered shops and cafés. All was still.
“I don’t hear anything,” Clare said.
“No,” Gabriel said. “That is what worries me.”
He pointed at a small street on the opposite side of the square.
“If something happens, keep running—straight on. You will come to a bridge; cross it and go up the hill. Keep going and you will find an airfield.” He gave them the name of the pilot. “Tell him you are my friends and to take you to San Marco. Once there, he will direct you to a ship that will take you to Loris.”
“But you’re coming too,” the woman said.
“I intend to,” Gabriel said. “But do not wait for me.”
He pulled Granny Peet’s sword from its sheath while also drawing a long knife from a scabbard at his waist.
“Now.”
They had gotten as far as the man on the horse when the first Imp leapt from behind the statue’s pedestal. Gabriel didn’t break stride, but swung his sword with such force that the jagged-edged sword the Imp raised to block the blow was driven downward, clubbing its owner in the face. Then, with a backhand swipe, Gabriel separated the creature’s head from its body. He saw three more Imps rushing out from the side streets.
“Go!” he shouted. “Do not stop!”
The couple ran on; he heard their footsteps disappearing down the alley behind him as the first two Imps drew near. He had fought Imps many times before and knew their ways. They were a magical crossbreed between boars and men, and they had retained much of their bestial heritage. Part of that was an inclination to fight in packs. And Gabriel knew that the two Imps attacking him from the front were a diversion from the one circling behind, and after he used his sword to block the first blow, he immediately ducked and heard the creature’s blade slice through the air above him. In the same motion, Gabriel was spinning, and he felt his sword cut through the creature’s legs. Gabriel didn’t pause—he knew the other two Imps would already be closing—and from his crouch, he exploded upward, his sword parrying the downward blow of the third Imp as he drove his long knife through the creature’s chest, twisted it, then pushed the creature away. Before he could turn, he was knocked sideways by a blow from the first Imp’s mace—a glancing blow, fortunately, as a direct one would have shattered his shoulder. He staggered and caught himself on the pillar supporting the stone rider. The Imp’s next blow was aimed at Gabriel’s head, but he ducked and twisted as the creature’s mace tore a hunk of stone from the pedestal. Gabriel continued his twisting movement, and in his mind, he already saw how his sword would swing upward, entering the Imp’s lower left side and exiting just below the creature’s right arm. But as he spun, his foot slipped on a slick patch on the cobblestones and then he was on his back, the Imp above him, raising his mace to crush him—Then everything stopped. The point of a sword was protruding from the Imp’s chest, and the creature slid forward and crumpled on the stones, revealing the children’s father standing there. Behind him, the Imp Gabriel had stabbed with his knife was trying to rise, an action that was abruptly stopped when the children’s mother brought down a mace on the creature’s head.
The children’s father reached out his hand, and Gabriel took it.
“I will say this.” Gabriel sheathed his sword, wincing as pain blossomed in his shoulder. “You follow directions as well as your children.”
“Listen,” Richard said, “there’s something we need tell you.”
“Not now—”
“The prophecy, we might know how to find out the rest of it. Where to look, I mean.”
Gabriel said nothing for a moment, but merely stared at them.
“So we can’t go with you to Loris,” Clare said. “We want to. You don’t know how much we want to see the children. But if what you say is true, that discovering the rest of the prophecy is the key to saving the children, then we have to—Wait, what’re you doing?!”
Gabriel had taken both their arms and started walking quickly toward the alley.
“There is no time to lose.”
Richard said, “You mean—”
“Yes, I am coming with you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Carriadin
Emma woke once during their journey to find that darkness had fallen and the wizard had hung a lantern from an iron spike in the front of the boat. They were still moving at the same steady pace, and, raising herself up, Emma could see other lights, presumably of other rowboats, strung across the water and fuzzy in the misty darkness.
She listened for the sound of the metal ship’s engine, but heard nothing.
Emma felt woolly-headed and heavy-limbed, as if she were somehow still asleep, or dreaming, and she lay down again and fell fast asleep.
She woke once more—it must’ve been hours later—and saw cliffs ahead in the darkness, a shoreline, and there was a break in the cliffs, the mouth of a river, and it seemed they were heading toward it. She felt anxious and tense, and was sweating, though the night was cool.
“What is troubling you?” the wizard asked.
“Nothing.”
“I don’t think you’re being completely honest with me.”
“Fine. What do you know about the book?”
“The what?”
“That’s great. You’re real helpful. Row the boat.”
In truth, she hadn’t expected much. And what, really, did she need to know, besides that they were getting closer? And they were; the tugging at her chest was stronger and more insistent with each stroke of the wizard’s oars. So why did she feel so unsettled? She let her mind wander, and soon found herself thinking of something Michael had said the night before, when they’d all been gathered around the fire. He’d said it almost in passing, while talking about the Reckoning, what it did, why it was called the Reckoning. He’d said there were two meanings to the word. One was something you owed. The other meaning was judgment.
> Emma had no problem with the idea that the book could kill someone—in this case, the someone being the Dire Magnus. But the idea that she’d have to judge a person (and judge them for what, on the basis of what, she had no idea) made her deeply uneasy. Killing someone felt fast and full of fury; it was over in a moment. Judging someone, you had to think about stuff; there’d be things that weren’t clear. She didn’t want that responsibility. That kind of thing was more for Kate. Or even Michael.
But didn’t she want to be their equal?
Yeah, but not like that. There had to be some, well, easier way.
And was that even really it? For as she sat there, swaying with the movement of the boat, Emma found herself remembering the dream she’d had that first night in the land of the giants. In the dream, she had come upon the book only to be attacked by thousands of shadowy figures. Then, as now, she had woken trembling and sweating. Why? What was it about the book that scared her so?
“You should try to sleep,” the wizard said.
“Oh, be quiet,” she muttered, then lay back down and was asleep in an instant.
When she woke again, there was a hand on her shoulder, the boat wasn’t moving, and it was light. The wizard was leaning over her. She pushed his hand away and sat up.
The boat was moored at a wooden dock at the edge of a brown-green river. There were a few other boats tied up nearby, but they looked neglected. She could see a path going up the bank and, in the distance, sloped roofs and the gray stone walls of houses. It was very quiet, and the light was oddly muted. Emma didn’t see anyone else around. The wizard climbed onto the dock and she followed, adjusting Michael’s dwarfish knife so that it was tucked snugly into her belt.
“What is this place?”
He shrugged. “It’s very curious. I’m not sure where this is, or why we’re here, I only know that I am taking you where you have to go. And we are not there yet. Come, my dear.”
In so many ways—how he tilted his head slightly to the side when he was thinking, how he called her “my dear,” how he seemed to feel no need to explain anything and just assumed she would follow along, which, of course, she did—he was Dr. Pym. And yet without his memories, he wasn’t. It confused her and made her uncertain about how to approach him.
Emma let herself feel the pull of the book; he had indeed brought her closer. Then she coughed, and realized that her eyes and throat were burning and that what she’d taken for cloud cover was actually a low, thick ceiling of smoke.
“What’s burning?”
The wizard said he didn’t know; he began walking up the pier.
“Where’re you going?” Emma asked.
“You must be hungry. We will get you something to eat. Then I will take you the rest of the way. That is my charge.”
Somewhat grudgingly, Emma followed him down the dock and into the village. It looked like she was stuck with him for a while, and though she never would have admitted it, part of her was glad.
—
“Where is everybody?” Emma said. “What happened to this place?”
They were walking through the center of what could have been a charming village. There were stone houses, people had kept gardens, trees lined the streets. But the houses were empty, the gardens brown, the trees leafless or burned and broken at the trunk, and there were small fires burning seemingly everywhere. It was like the aftermath of some war or devastation.
“I do not know,” the wizard said. “Something terrible.”
“Yeah,” Emma said. “Duh.”
She said nothing more, but she felt an uneasiness, a sense of following a path that had been laid out for her long before, of walking into a trap.
They came to a square lined with dark-windowed shops.
“Come on,” she said, taking command, and led him to a small grocery.
A bell tinkled as she stepped through the door, and Emma waited but no one emerged from the back. There were loaves of bread (stale, she tried to break one on the counter and failed), several kinds of nuts, some sawdust-tasting chocolate, fruit—apples and what looked like plums, all wrinkled and sour—and though none of it was that fresh or good, it helped quell the gnawing in her stomach.
“I don’t get it,” she said, through a mouthful of mealy apple. “There’re apples and bread and nuts. How can they grow all this stuff here? Do they have farms?”
“And what did you imagine the world of the dead would be?” the wizard asked. “A featureless desert where spirits float about, moaning for all eternity? This world is as solid and complete as the one above. There is water here; you have seen it. The air nourishes you with each breath. The land is fertile. If you can live here, then why not a tree? Or—” He looked away sharply. “We should go. Now.”
He was already heading to the door. Emma followed, shoving more apples in her pockets. A few minutes later, they were outside the village, striding down a dirt road. The wizard took her arm.
“We must leave the road. Which way do we go?”
She realized he was asking her. She allowed herself to grow quiet, to feel the pull of the book, then pointed off through the burned-out forest that stood close by. Soon, they were out of sight of the road, and soon after that, they heard voices and the stamp of feet. They froze, listening, until the sounds had faded away.
“They’re looking for me, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the Dire Magnus.”
“I do not know who that is. But there is a great evil in this place.”
“Yeah,” Emma said, fear giving an angry edge to her voice. “It’s the world of the dead! ’Course it’s evil! Look around!”
The wizard shook his head. “The world of the dead is not evil. Indeed, it could be a paradise. Imagine that village we passed through, full of noise and people. Imagine this forest green.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“You do not believe me. But the fact remains that those who hunt you brought their evil with them. This world itself is blameless. It exists only as the place where the dead wait.”
“What’re you talking about? Wait for what?”
“To be reborn.” He spoke in the same automatic way he had in the shop, like someone who’d been taught a thing by rote. “The universe has been created and destroyed, over and over. It’s happened before and will happen again. The spirits of the dead bide here until the time of rebirth. It could be a thousand years or a day. To the dead, it is all the same. They exist in an eternal present.”
Emma thought she understood what the wizard was saying, that the dead just hung around here till the universe started over. But she couldn’t get past the idea that when you died, you forgot everything you had built up in your life, including the people you were closest to. No wonder all those people walking on the road had looked like zombies. Everything that had mattered to them had been stripped away.
“But why do they have to forget who they were? It’s not fair!”
The wizard shrugged again. “That’s death, child.”
With her eyes watering from the smoke, Emma gazed out at the burned and blackened forest. The wizard could say what he wanted about its being a paradise; as far as she was concerned, this place was hell.
“Let’s just find the book so I can get out of here.”
—
The farther they walked, the more difficult it became to breathe. When they reached a stream, the wizard wet a cloth, which Emma tied around her mouth and nose. The smoke grew so thick that she even let Dr. Pym take her hand so she could walk with her eyes shut, relying on him to warn her of roots and rocks.
Finally, she felt him stop.
“Open your eyes.”
They had come out of the woods, and Emma looked, half knowing what she would see.
“I’ve been here before.”
The wizard actually seemed surprised. “How is that possible?”
“The Dire Magnus pulled my spirit out of my body and sent it to look for the book. I saw thin
gs. This place, the fires. And I saw this.”
They were standing before a nearly vertical rock wall that rose thousands of feet into the air. A winding, twisting staircase was carved into the rock. High up, Emma could see dark clusters that she took to be birds.
“He sent my spirit into the world of the dead. I guess I should’ve known. I never really thought about it; I didn’t want to.”
Just then there was an explosion above, accompanied by a furious, collective cawing, and a black cloud swirled down toward them. Emma’s instinct was to duck, but Dr. Pym gripped her arm, silently commanding her to be still, and the swarm of birds swept over her head, once, twice, and then flew back up the cliff.
All except one. Emma saw that the bird—her mind supplied the word raven—had landed at the bottom stair. And then it was not a raven at all. The creature now before them had the body of a human, with a human’s legs and arms, but a raven’s head, with a great, shiny black beak. It was wearing a dark cloak with a hood.
It was the same one she had seen in her vision.
“A carriadin,” the wizard said. “A guardian of this world. It will guide you the rest of the way.”
“What?! You’re leaving me with that?!”
“My charge is ended. I can go no farther. And it will not harm you.”
Emma looked at the bird-creature, then up at the cliff. She could feel the book close by. The old wizard knelt, placing a hand on her arm.
“I do not remember you. Or your brother and sister. Or any of my life before this. But if I injured or betrayed you while I was alive, I can only ask for your forgiveness.”
Emma stared at him. She didn’t want to forgive him. She was still hurt and angry. But she found herself, against her will, thinking of all the things he had done for them, all the times he had been kind or patient or understanding, moments that had felt real, not planned or manipulative.
“Maybe…you thought you were doing the right thing or…you had some idea how to save us. I don’t know. But you weren’t always terrible.”
“Thank you.”