Wallace tucked his thumbs into his belt and shook his head. “Never fear, lad. Wallace the dwarf knows how to keep a secret. Always said, a fella’s private life is private.” Then he added, “Even when it’s deeply, deeply strange.”
It turned out to be difficult not to flinch when advancing directly toward a rock wall, but Michael simply closed his eyes, and when he opened them a moment later, he was walking along a narrow gap between two peaks. And he could now hear drumming and shrieking in the distance, and there was light up ahead that wasn’t starlight.
The others were waiting on a slope that tumbled down into a wide valley, and as he joined them, Michael saw, stretching away in both directions, a vast, dark, teeming mass, marked everywhere by orange-red plumes of fire. Michael knew he was looking at an army, and the sheer size of it made his legs tremble. He heard Wallace step up beside him and mutter, “Blimey but that’s a big bloody army.”
“There,” Gabriel said, pointing.
Michael looked and saw the fortress perched on a rocky spire in the center of the valley. It was lit by torches, and Michael could make out the tower rising crookedly into the sky. Was Emma there, or had she been moved for the ritual? If she had been moved, how would they find her?
Michael was thinking this when, from the corner of his eye, he saw lightning snake across the sky. At the same moment, there was another crack, and he saw, on the opposite horizon, more lightning and a massing of dark clouds. It was a storm such as Michael had never seen, for it seemed to be coming from all directions at once and converging on the valley at incredible speed.
“Princess,” the wizard said, “are you ready?”
Wilamena nodded and pulled something from a pocket at her waist. Michael recognized the golden bracelet that had once turned her into a dragon.
“But that was cut off! After she rescued us and brought us to the elves!”
“True,” Dr. Pym said. “But I had a feeling that having a dragon on our side might come in handy. I reworked the enchantment and had a dwarfish smith forge a clasp so that the Princess could don and remove it at will. You might want to back up.”
And Wilamena, who had snapped the bracelet over her wrist, was already transforming into the huge, golden-scaled dragon that Michael had met in Antarctica. Her back stretched wide and long; her fingers grew into talons; great, batlike wings fanned outward from her sides; she fell to all fours as a tail whipped into existence; and as the dragon’s head swiveled toward him, Michael saw that the princess’s liquid blue eyes had turned blood-red.
“Hello, Rabbit,” the dragon said in a deep, purring rumble.
The lightning was now rippling at the edges of the valley. The wind slammed into Michael, nearly knocking him off his feet.
“My friends!” the wizard shouted. “The Dire Magnus will have committed much of his power to completing the Bonding. He is vulnerable. But there is little time! We must be speed itself!”
Michael was hoisted up by Gabriel, and an instant later they were all seated on the dragon’s back, and Wilamena, with one powerful leap, sprang into the air.
—
The old white-eyed wizard touched Emma’s forehead with one gnarled finger, muttering under his breath, and she felt a tremor pass through her body, as if everything in her was being shaken loose. Then he turned, nodded to Rourke, and one of the Screechers stepped forward and hoisted her onto its shoulder. Emma tried to struggle, but the touch of the creature’s cold, half-decayed hands made her nauseous, sapping all her strength. And really, what was she going to do? Escape? Rourke led them down the tower stairs and down more stairs and then out into the courtyard, the thock-thock of the old man’s staff steady and constant behind them.
In the center of the courtyard was a large fire, its flames whipping about wildly in the wind. Two more of the red-robed figures circled the fire, chanting and tossing in what looked like handfuls of sand or dust that caused the flames to rage even higher, and the white-eyed wizard moved to join them. Imps and Screechers lined the courtyard walls. A wooden chair was brought forward, and Emma was placed facing the fire, close enough that she could feel the heat against her skin. Her arms and legs were bound to the chair with leather straps.
From every corner of the sky, lightning arced toward the fortress.
The Dire Magnus was nowhere to be seen.
“Never fear, child,” said Rourke, as if reading her thoughts. “My master’s power is all around us.”
Emma said nothing. Up until the moment she had been placed in the chair, she had been certain, absolutely, one hundred percent, willing-to-bet-her-life certain that she would be rescued, that Kate, Michael, Gabriel, Dr. Pym, all of them, any of them, would come and take her away. But as she saw the flames leaping above her, she realized, finally, that no one was coming. She was alone.
The robed figures were chanting more and more loudly, but the wind took their voices. She looked at Rourke and it was on her tongue to plead with him to stop, words that, days before, it would have killed her to utter. But she was too terrified to speak. She could only bite her lips and whimper.
She wanted her sister. It wasn’t even about being rescued now. She wanted Kate there to hold her; she wanted to feel her sister’s arms around her, hear her voice saying that it would all be okay. But Kate hadn’t come; no one had come.
She would not cry; that was the one thing she wouldn’t give them.
Don’t be scared.
Emma jerked her head round; it was his voice. But where was he?
I’m helping you fulfill your destiny. And mine too.
What’re—and she realized, with a start, that she was thinking her response, not speaking it—what’re you doing to me?
I’m sending you out to find the Reckoning. That is, I’m sending part of you.
And before she could ask what he meant, something began to happen.
It was almost as if the air around Emma was thickening. She felt it pushing against her eyes, her eardrums, the palms of her hands, even the balls of her feet. And then it was inside her, squeezing her bones, her organs, her heart, and she began to feel that something was being pressed out of her, out of every fiber and cell of her body, as if she were a piece of fruit that was being wrung dry. And the thing that was being taken from her was both insubstantial and yet somehow vital. She tried to hold on to it, whatever it was, but she couldn’t. She felt the thing leave her body, and then, for a single strange, awful moment, she saw it in the air before her, shimmering, and then, with one wrenching yank, it was pulled into the fire, and Emma fell back against the chair, empty.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Wizard Pays His Debt
The wind knocked into them, throwing them about the sky. A lightning bolt shuddered past, close enough for Michael to feel the electricity tearing apart the air. Seated just behind the dragon’s head, Michael found he had nowhere to grip, and he had to use his thighs to squeeze the scaly, barrel-like body. But he would have tumbled off for sure had not Gabriel, sitting behind him, kept one arm wrapped around his middle.
Once they were over the fortress, Wilamena banked into a tight circle so that they were looking down into the courtyard, a single bright patch in the darkness below.
“I see her,” the dragon said. “She is tied to a chair. I count forty morum cadi and Imps. Rourke is there as well.”
“I will deal with Rourke,” Gabriel said.
“There are also three necromati,” the dragon continued. “But I do not see the Dark One.”
“He is there.” Dr. Pym’s voice came from behind Gabriel, and he was shouting to be heard over the rush of wind. “We must be fast. Gabriel will hold off Rourke. Wallace, Captain Anton, and Princess Wilamena will deal with the Imps and morum cadi. Leave the necromati to me. Michael, you must free your sister.”
“Okay!” Michael’s hand went to his side; the dwarfish blade was still there.
“I could just lift her away,” the dragon said. “We could be gone in an instant.”
> “No,” the wizard shouted. “The ritual has begun! Her spirit must be returned. Now—dive!”
And Michael felt Gabriel tighten his grip as the dragon banked even more sharply and, with a few beats of her wings, plunged into a steep, spiraling dive. The icy air whipped past him, and Michael threw up a hand to keep his glasses from flying away. The Chronicle, in the pouch of his bag, flapped about behind him as figures in the courtyard rushed into view. His eyes watered, but Michael could still make out the lines of morum cadi and Imps, he could see the red-robed figures around the fire, he could see Rourke, his bald head reflecting back the flames.
And then he saw Emma, her head bowed, looking so small and vulnerable.
I’m here, he thought. I’m coming.
Then, when they were still a hundred feet above the courtyard, Rourke looked up.
Michael didn’t hear the giant man’s shout—the wind rushing past was deafening, but the effect on the assembled Imps and morum cadi was instantaneous. Blades appeared all over the courtyard, and Michael saw Rourke move a step closer to Emma and pull a pair of long, curved knives from under his coat.
Then Wilamena was swooping twenty feet over the courtyard, and Michael felt Gabriel’s arm pull away, and he glanced back to see Gabriel leap off the dragon’s back, flying through the air to smash feet-first into Rourke’s chest, carrying with him all the force of their dive and knocking the man to the ground; then Michael whipped his head back around as Wilamena unleashed a torrent of flame that consumed an entire third of the courtyard along with a dozen Screechers and Imps, and she was beating her wings, slowing to land, but before her claws had even touched the stones, Wallace and Captain Anton, ax and sword out and ready, had already leapt off her back.
“Go!” Dr. Pym yelled, pulling Michael off the dragon and pushing him toward Emma, who now sat unguarded beside the fire. “Go!”
As Michael ran toward his sister, he heard Wilamena unleashing another jet of flame and he saw Rourke starting to rise while Gabriel battled Imps and morum cadi on all sides, and Captain Anton and Wallace were running beside Michael, flanking him, and just before he reached Emma, Michael looked over to see Dr. Pym advancing toward the three red-robed figures, two of whom had stepped forward, while the third—an old, gray-haired man who was leaning on a staff and who had something wrong with one of his eyes—hung back, and Dr. Pym’s hands burned with blue fire—
And then Michael was kneeling before Emma and he forgot everything else.
Her arms and legs had been tied to the chair with leather straps. Her head had fallen forward so that her chin rested on her chest. Michael couldn’t see any injuries, there were no cuts or bruises, but her hands and face were filthy, and she was wearing the same clothes she’d been abducted in days before.
“Emma!”
He cut her bonds; her hands fell into her lap, but her head stayed lolled forward, her eyes closed.
“Quickly!” Dr. Pym’s voice carried over the din of battle. “The Chronicle!”
Turning slightly, Michael saw that two of the red-robed figures had become pillars of fire, burning where they stood, and the old wizard was facing off against the gray-haired man, who now struck the courtyard with his staff so that a crack opened in the stones, splintering across to Dr. Pym, forcing the wizard to leap away from the widening gulf, and Michael heard, or thought he heard, Dr. Pym say, “I’m sorry, old friend,” as he waved his hand and flames erupted about the man. Michael turned his back on the scene, reached into his bag, and pulled out the Chronicle. The heavy red-leather book seemed to hum in anticipation, and there was a similar stirring in Michael, knowing that he would soon be in touch with its power. Then, just as he’d begun to open it, he felt something behind him and spun about—
—
Kate had been given no inkling about when the rescuers might return, but she’d assumed it would be several hours at least, and perhaps much longer. She told herself this so that she would not worry as the night crept on; but she knew that she would worry even so, every second till Michael and the others returned with Emma.
They had left at dusk from the open terrace where the Council had been held, vanishing into a portal created by Dr. Pym. Afterward, Kate had stood there alone, watching the sun sink into the sea and hugging herself against the gathering chill.
By now, it was fully dark and the lights of the approaching boats were strung out like jewels flung across the black table of the sea. She turned away, intending to go down to the port where King Robbie was overseeing the work to fortify the harbor. But ten minutes later, through no conscious decision, she found herself again in the Garden, under the arms of the great tree, sitting beside the black pool.
In the gloom, the tree seemed even more massive and primeval, the pool darker and more still, and she closed her eyes and felt the power radiating outward, through the roots under her feet, through the branches above her, through the air. And as before, she felt calmed. She sat down on one of the flat, white rocks that were arranged in the clearing. Time seemed to slow. Her anxiety about Emma and Michael ebbed.
She found herself thinking about an exchange between Gabriel and Dr. Pym that had taken place just before the group had departed. She’d only heard some of what was said, but the tenor of the conversation had made a deep impression. In the past, Gabriel had always been very deferential to the wizard. But his attitude as the two of them had spoken on the terrace had been challenging and wary. Then there was the snippet that Kate had overheard, the wizard saying, “I understand your feelings. I only ask that you trust me a little further. The prophecy is the key….”
What had they been talking about? Why would Dr. Pym have to ask Gabriel to trust him? Did this have something to do with the warning their father had given Michael about not allowing Dr. Pym to bring the three Books together? And what did he mean about the prophecy? Kate decided that when Michael returned, she would convince him that they had to speak to Dr. Pym. Enough with the secrets and the not knowing.
She was not sure exactly when she was aware that someone was behind her. She didn’t hear anyone approach. There was no snapped twig. No one coughed or said her name. She just suddenly knew that she was not alone.
She turned, and the world stopped.
He was standing six feet away. She would’ve said that he was in shadow, but the whole clearing was in shadow, only speckled here and there with slivers and flecks of starlight. He was wearing the same clothes she had last seen him in, more than a hundred years before. His dark hair was messy, his eyes almost black in the gloom.
He wasn’t real; he couldn’t be. And she told herself to shut her eyes, count to ten, and he would be gone.
She had gotten as far as three when he said her name.
When she opened her eyes, Rafe had not moved.
He said, “It’s a trap; he knows they’re coming.”
—
Michael watched as the boy emerged untouched from the fire. Michael was less surprised than Emma had been by his apparent youth. After all, Michael had encountered him once before, in the ghostly church in the Fold, the crossover point between the worlds of the living and the dead. So it was not his age that momentarily froze Michael, but rather his perfect calmness and self-possession in the midst of the chaos. The last of the red-robed figures, the old white-eyed man, was engulfed in flames and quickly turning to ash, but the boy didn’t even look over. In fact, he was smiling.
“Pym”—he laced the name with contempt—“I have so looked forward to this moment.” Michael felt the boy’s eyes move from Dr. Pym to him. “And you even brought me Michael.”
Pym’s response was to mumble a few words that Michael couldn’t quite hear and flick his right hand outward. The courtyard wall behind the boy was covered in thick vines, and they whipped out and wrapped around him, encircling his arms and legs and body and dragging him to the ground.
“Princess!” the wizard shouted, and Michael saw the golden dragon leap across the courtyard to hover over the strug
gling body and unleash a blue-white blast of flame. Michael turned his head away, but the heat prickled the hair on the back of his head. When the roar of the flame stopped, he heard another noise, a grinding and crunching, and he saw Dr. Pym swing his arms forward, and the fortress’s tower teetered in the sky above them. Michael threw his body across Emma just before the crash jolted them sideways and shards of rock peppered his back and arms, and when it was finally silent—an eerie silence, the only noise the storm still gathering overhead—he turned with the dust stinging his eyes and saw the mountain of broken black stones where the boy, the Dire Magnus, had stood.
Then Dr. Pym swiveled on him, shouting:
“For mercy’s sake! He won’t stay trapped long! Bring her back! Now!”
And Michael turned to his sister, opened the Chronicle, and was stopped.
Emma was looking right at him, and there was such emptiness and desolation in her eyes that it stabbed Michael in the heart.
She said, “You’re too late.”
—
Gabriel heard the wizard shouting, but he didn’t look over. Rourke was bearing down on him, his knives (which in a normal man’s hands would’ve been swords) moving so fast that Gabriel was blocking on instinct and guesswork.
It was astonishing that Rourke was even up and fighting, considering the force with which Gabriel had struck him after leaping from the dragon’s back. But nothing about Rourke was normal, and Gabriel now had cuts on both arms and a gash across his ribs, while Rourke was bleeding from a deep cut on his shoulder and a blow to his forehead that Gabriel had delivered with the butt of his sword.
Gabriel had seen the toppling of the tower and knew Rourke had noted it as well, but if the giant was at all discouraged by his master being subdued, he gave no sign.
“I’m surprised at you, lad”—the tip of one of Rourke’s knives sliced through the air an inch from Gabriel’s eye—“still helping the old wizard. Weren’t you listening when I told you that he’s leading the children to their doom?”