Rage felt sick.
Why would Uncle Samuel agree to a meeting if he wasn’t planning to get rid of the responsibility of looking after Rage? Perhaps he had guessed that she had been trying to keep him from learning about it.
She calmed down, telling herself she didn’t really know what had happened. Going restlessly to the window, she peered out. It had begun snowing lightly again. There was mist rising that gave the white landscape a strange, ghostly look, as if everything in the world were dissolving.
Rage thought about her uncle and found herself going back through the house to the extension. The last few nights at home, he had gone to his room early, saying he had work to do. It had not occurred to her before to wonder what work he meant. She went to the desk. All his books and papers were as they had been except for two notebooks that had been set aside. She took up one of them. It was new, while the one under it was battered like all the others that her uncle had brought from the jungle.
Rage flipped through the new notebook. It fell open at a point where the writing broke off halfway down the page.
It has been some time since I have felt so restless. I think I must soon consider moving on again. I have done as much as I can be expected to do here. One cannot always see everything to the end. Someone else will take on where I leave off. There are so many things that torment me when I am not engaged in a project. I must see if I can get funding for some research into
The scrawled writing ended at this point, and Rage closed the book, biting her lip and wishing she had never opened it. It was one thing to suspect that her uncle wanted to leave and another to see it in his handwriting. The diary note and the call from Mrs. Somersby were proof that her uncle was intending to leave. Rage carefully put the notebooks as she had found them and left the little study, closing the heavy extension door behind her. As she walked back to the kitchen, her legs felt wooden, and only when she sat down did she discover that tears were rolling unchecked down her cheeks.
Billy sat up and licked at her face. She fended him off gently and stroked him until he lay back down, then she lay down beside him, hooking one arm around him and cuddling close. It was warm in the kitchen, but the chill inside her would not go away. Tears kept falling and falling until Billy’s fur and the pillow under her were both sodden. At last, she began to feel sleepy, and wearily she summoned up a mental image of the wizard as she had last seen him.
But instead of being transported to the wizard, she found herself in a dream of mist again, wandering and hearing her uncle calling out her name. She saw him and went closer. For a moment, he didn’t see her, but then his eyes widened and she realized that he was staring at her.
“Rage?”
“Why do you always go away when people need you?” she asked.
“This is a dream,” her uncle said, and he dissolved into snow and mist.
Rage made herself think of the wizard. To her relief, she felt the pulling sensation in her middle that she now associated with dream-traveling.
Rage and Billy were standing in a vast, silent, round room with mirror-smooth black flagstones underfoot. Before them, an old man sat slumped on a stone bench, oblivious to their presence. Rage made a motion warning Billy not to speak. The sole source of light was a cluster of lanterns suspended from a long chain in the center of the enormous chamber, but their light made little impression on the dark. Turning back to the old man, Rage knew that she would not have recognized the wizard if she had not expected to see him. His mouth hung open, his chin resting on his chest, and his once sleek ponytail of silver gray hair lay lank and tangled on his shoulders. His unkempt black beard was streaked with dull gray.
Swallowing her reluctance, Rage walked over to the wizard and bent down to look into his face. The wizard wore the same jeans and T-shirt he had worn at their last meeting, but over them was a heavy, hooded cloak, and he had a thick scarf about his neck. His hair and face were spotlessly clean, as were his hands, clasped together loosely in his lap. Rage thought that whatever his captor had subjected him to, the old man had not been physically neglected.
The wizard stirred. Rage became aware of a humming sound. She wondered if they had set off some sort of alarm, but no one shouted out to them to stop. The silence seemed deeper than ever as Billy pointed to the wizard’s bound hands. A steel cord ran from the chain between the manacles, over the wizard’s lap, and behind him to a big metal disk embedded in the black stone. Rage bent closer. The chain was welded, which meant there was no way they could free the wizard.
Rage thought she heard a noise and glanced around. The smokiness in the air had cleared a little, and she saw that it was not a round chamber but a circular tower. She and Billy were standing partway up the tower on a wide stone ramp that ran in a flat spiral around the walls. In the middle of the tower was only empty space. Rage went warily to the edge of the ramp to look down. It was about ten turns to the bottom, and there seemed to be nothing down there but the end of the ramp and, presumably, a door out. Looking up, she saw that the ramp continued circling as far as her eye could reach. Feeling slightly dizzy, Rage backed away from the edge. She stumbled, and Billy gasped. The sound became an alarming susurrus of gasps that filled the air about them. But still there was no outcry.
Rage looked up once more. This could not be Stormkeep, for she would have seen such a tower from the hidden tunnel. She was about to turn back to the wizard when she noticed the most horrible thing of all: hundreds and hundreds of metal wheels were embedded along the curving ramp. Seated at the base of each, on a bench like the wizard’s, were people, many small enough to be little people or children.
Billy touched her and then his nose and then he shook his head. He did it again and she tried to understand what he was trying to tell her. That he couldn’t smell something, but what? He pointed to the people and then repeated his pantomime. Now Rage looked around, and the eerie silence of the place struck her. Not one out of the hundreds of people spoke or moved. If she had not been able to see the wizard’s chest lifting and falling, she might have thought all of them dead. Rage turned back to the wizard and stumbled again. She looked down at her feet in puzzlement and saw that she was wearing her zebra-head slippers! She shrugged off her dismay and turned to the wizard. She shook him gently. At first, he did not respond. Then, just as she was wondering if a spell hadn’t been laid on him, the wizard opened his eyes. They were so like her uncle Samuel’s eyes that it took her breath away.
Rage swallowed a lump in her throat and shook his shoulder a little more firmly. “It’s me, Rage Winnoway,” she whispered. Her words seemed to fly out in a thousand hissing echoes. But gradually the rustling fell into silence. Still there was no outcry, though the hum continued.
The old man was staring at her incredulously. “You are real!” he mumbled. Even his mumble set up an echo that went on forever.
“Hush,” Rage whispered as softly as she could.
“Don’t worry about the noise,” the wizard rasped. “No one listens.”
Rage came closer. “I will free you from the manacles if you can tell me how.”
He shook his head. “Why are you here?”
“We came to close the winter door,” Rage said, trying to ignore the echoes.
“There is no way to close the winter door! Didn’t the firecat warn you and the others as I commanded?”
Rage stared. That had been the warning the firecat had been meant to deliver? “There must be a way to close it,” she protested. “Rue used soul magic and she said there was.”
“She squanders her life for a glimpse of our dwindling tomorrows,” he mumbled. His eyes began to droop again, and Rage wanted to shake him.
“Where is this tower and who imprisoned you here? Was it the Stormlord? Does he have a wizard to do his bidding?”
“I am tired,” the wizard said, giving her a dim look. “Let me sleep.”
Rage shook him angrily and his eyes opened. “I won’t stop bothering you until you tell me what you dreamed
that made you come through the winter door without waiting for the others.”
He gave a feeble shrug. “Wizards are wizard business.”
“You dreamed of the other wizard, then? The one who made the winter door? Does he serve the Stormlord?”
The wizard said nothing. “If you don’t care about yourself, then answer me for the sake of Valley,” Rage said loudly.
The wizard roused at last. “I failed as anyone would have done. The best thing you can do is to leave this hellish place.” His eyes filled with tears. “You cannot know how the memory of Valley haunts me.”
Rage almost shouted in her frustration. “Look, I told you that the witch Mother says it is possible to close the door. Why would she say that if it weren’t true?”
“She misread the vision,” the wizard said bleakly. “There is no hope. We are all doomed. Better to forget the sun and laughter and light.”
Rage felt like slapping him, despite the fact that he was an adult.
“Who stopped the sun rising here?” Billy spoke for the first time, his voice gentle.
The wizard’s bleared gaze shifted to him. “No one stopped the sun, lad. This was a world created without it.”
“But the rebels believe—” Billy began.
“They are wrong,” the wizard said. “They speak of visions brought by their ancestors who stumbled here from other lands.”
“The people in the settlements think the Stormlord stops the sun rising. They think he sends storms to punish them,” Rage insisted, calmer for Billy stepping in and helping.
“The Stormlord cares nothing for them. It is they who cause the storms,” the wizard said flatly. He slumped back. “People always create their own misery.”
“What do you mean?”
The wizard only shook his head, and Rage dropped to her knees before him again. “I thought that you were wrong for running away to leave Grandfather Adam grieving and longing for you, but this is worse. It’s not brave to give up and die. It’s cowardly!”
The wizard began to laugh. Rage backed away warily. “Someone will hear.”
“The Stormlord knows that you are here in his tower. In his fortress. He knew it the moment you came.”
Rage and Billy exchanged an alarmed glance. Then Billy said to the wizard, “Won’t you help us to help you? We only came here to free you.”
The wizard’s laugh was harsh, the veins in his throat standing out like cords. “I would have to kill myself to save myself. I have wanted to die but that is not permitted.”
A wave of sadness flowed through Rage. She and Billy had wasted their time coming here. But what did it matter if the wizard was right? They were all doomed, now or later, when the deadly winter from Null flowed into Valley and then into her world.
Billy touched her arm, and she noticed that the vibrating noise had increased in volume. He was grimacing as if it hurt him.
“Is it an alarm?” she asked softly.
The wizard reached out and caught at Rage’s sweater. “Do you hear that? You did it, and if you don’t leave now, you will find you can’t go.” When Rage did not move, the wizard threw himself forward against his bonds. “Go while you have the chance!”
“We can’t leave here until I wake,” Rage said.
The wizard’s eyes widened, and Rage thought it was because of what she was saying, then she realized he was looking past her. Billy was now looking beyond her, too, his expression one of blank horror.
“Turn,” said a voice behind her with the abrasive hiss of sand over sand.
Above the edge of the platform, the shape of a tall, lean human hovered on great, whirring transparent wings. It was impossible to tell if it was male or female because its long limbs and body were encased in pale shimmering armor. Its head was hidden in a helmet cut into myriad sections, reminding her of the eye of a fly. It carried a gleaming lance tipped with a glass spike and capped at the base in gray stone.
“What is it?” Rage whispered.
“A gray flier,” the wizard rasped. “I warned you to go and now it is too late.”
“Silence.” The flying creature’s voice was the rattling whir of a cicada.
Billy flinched.
“Walk,” it ordered, jabbing its lance to the upward ramp.
Before they could react, another creature exactly like it flew out of the dark void at the center of the tower and landed on the platform behind them. It was impossible to tell the two apart as they turned their helmets to one another. Then one of them turned to the wizard and touched the metal plate in the wall behind him with the blunt end of its lance. There was a flash of blinding light, and the wizard gave a hoarse scream and fell heavily to his knees. He was still manacled, but the sinuous metal cord that had been fixed to the wall had been severed. The wizard retched and groaned.
“What did you do to him?” Billy demanded, moving to help the old man. Two identical blades flashed out to rest with delicate peril against the front of his jacket.
“Back,” one of the creatures buzzed. “No communication.”
Rage kept herself from screaming, frightened one of them would stab Billy, but the effort of staying silent made her heart hammer.
Billy backed off. “I just wanted to help him.”
“Walk,” the fliers said in unison. The air reverberated with the echoes of their buzzing voices.
Rage exchanged a swift, frightened glance with Billy as one of the fliers hauled the wizard to his feet. The wizard staggered.
“Where are you taking us?” Billy said, using an aggressive tone so unlike his usual gentle one that Rage guessed that he was trying to draw the creatures’ attention.
One of the fliers gestured upward again. Billy obeyed, turning to walk up the ramp, and Rage did the same. When Billy glanced at her, she took the chance to signal her puzzlement at their being taken to the top of the tower. “Maybe their master lives up there,” he murmured.
“Silence,” commanded the flier behind them, lifting its lance. “No communication.”
Rage dared not say anything more. She looked back at the wizard shambling along like a sleepwalker and again felt an unwanted stab of pity for him. He might have failed his responsibilities and neglected those who cared for him, but as far as she knew, he had never knowingly set out to hurt anyone.
She tripped in her zebra slippers and wished that the alarm in her world would hurry up and go off. She wasn’t sure you could die while dream-traveling, but she didn’t want to test it out. Then her heart sank as she remembered that she had not set the alarm! She told herself it didn’t matter. Her uncle might come home, or the phone might ring, or she might just wake at any second. For the wizard’s sake, she must be careful to let the Stormlord—to whom she assumed they were being taken—understand that the wizard had nothing to do with their activities, for when she and Billy vanished, he would be left to bear the brunt of the Stormlord’s displeasure.
Stumbling again in her oversize slippers, she wished uselessly that she were more sensibly dressed. It was going to be hard to get the master of Stormkeep to take her seriously, dressed as she was. She had not looked at the other prisoners, but when they passed a small child, Rage wondered what the poor little mite had done. The child seemed to her not so much asleep as sunk into some evil dream. Was this “aligning,” then? They passed a young woman, and it struck Rage that the prisoners bore deep-etched lines of despair, no matter their age. The vibrating hum did not cease, though it had dropped in volume when the gray fliers appeared.
The ramp ended at an open doorway. Rage followed Billy through, her heart thumping. She was startled to find that they were in a snowy, cobbled courtyard. It was night, and it took her a moment to realize that what she had taken for a tower was actually a hole cut down into the stone pillar upon which the fortress had been built. That was why she had not seen it.
The walls of the fortress rose smoothly on all sides. The only light was shed by torches flaring dully blue above, throwing leaping shadows to the cobbl
es below. As they began to cross the courtyard, Rage noticed rank upon rank of gleaming gray fliers standing motionless in perfect grid formation. Rage remembered that Elle thought they might be machines.
Two fliers standing in the arched doorway stood aside at once and allowed the other two fliers to herd their three prisoners through. Not a word was exchanged. The fliers directed them along a passage. Like the houses in the settlement, it had no ornamentation. Rage wondered if the Stormlord was human.
They entered an enormous rectangular room, passing more battalions of winged warriors to arrive at the sole piece of furniture—a plain black chair. It ought to have looked absurd in all that space, but somehow it did not. A man sat upon it, clad in a great mass of rich gray cloaks and wrappings. His stooped posture and slumped shoulders made him seem old, and his face was dreadfully white and wasted. He looked so full of despair that Rage wondered if he was not the Stormlord but another prisoner that had been made to suffer unthinkably.
Then Rage gasped. Behind the black chair, to one side, was a great, sleeping pack of the giant beasts that had chased her and Logan: neither pigs nor wolves, she saw now, but something of both. They were hard to look at because their shapes seemed to shimmer from one thing to another and then to something else.
“Stop,” buzzed the flier behind Billy and Rage, although they had already stopped.
The wizard shuffled to a halt beside them.
“What do you smell?” Rage whispered to Billy, nodding toward the man on the black seat.
“Emptiness,” he whispered back. “Same as those people in the tower.”
“No communication,” warned the winged creature at their side.