The Author's Blood (9 page)

In the Highlands it is said that someone will go to the ends of the earth for a cause. This, of course, does not mean that there is an end to the earth but that nothing will stop him from achieving his goal.

However, in the Lowlands, there truly was an end of the earth, at least in terms of a place a person would never want to go.

As Owen had come through the fourth portal, he had read a passage near the end of
The Book of the King
. With renewed interest he pored over it, committing it to memory.

Call unto those who are poor, those who are outcast, those who cannot see or hear, the ones who need good news but are left in the throes of despair and don't know that help is on the way. The pain of those who have been cast into ravines of grief has reached the King. Behold, the one who will bring healing to the land has come and will rescue even those who feel beyond hope. They will become shining followers of the King and his Son, helping usher in the new wholeness.

This passage had jogged something, but it wasn't until Owen stood over Watcher's grave that the thread running through his mind connected with words of the past. A conversation with her when they were escaping Connor's wrath came floating back. He had looked into the distance from the Valley of Shoam and asked what lay in the other direction.

Watcher had shuddered and said, “Wilderness as far as you can imagine. And a place known as Perolys Gulch.”

“Who lives there?”

“A race of cursed people. Outcasts. Diseased. If ever you even dream of going there, you will go alone.”

Owen had been surprised at Watcher's fear. She was usually eager to venture into any setting, no matter the danger, but just the mention of Perolys Gulch had made her voice tremble.

Owen felt pain in his stomach even now at the memory. She had not known she was predicting something that would come true.
“If ever you even dream of going there, you will go alone,”
she had said, and now, on the back of Grandpa, that was exactly what Owen was doing. He grieved Watcher anew, holding on to the hope that he would one day see her again—or that something of her would survive.

He had left Rogers at the Dragon's secret hideout and had given him an assignment, assuring him he could accomplish it and reminding him how important his success was. Owen knew Rogers could slip into any situation undetected, for this was his gift.

The mists rose in the foreboding darkness, and Owen huddled close to Grandpa's back to keep the cold wind from his face. The sun had receded over the horizon behind them where he had first entered the Lowlands, now washed out by the breaching of the Mountain Lake. Trees lay like toothpicks at the bottom of the valley, and he strained to see the home where Bardig and his wife had lived.

As they flew the scenery changed. Owen had ventured through the desert near Erol's home and crossed the Valley of Zior, but he was not prepared for what he saw now. The ground rose and fell in a jagged pattern, and the landscape was filled with rocky crags. He had never seen trees like this—bare bark and no leaves or needles. They looked like twisted sticks, their branches reaching toward the sky like worshippers raising their hands to God for help.

It was so barren—even more so than the desert—that it pained Owen to look at it. He was sure the land had once supported plant life, but now the area looked like something only a Dragon would love.

They flew toward a precipice that overlooked a cavernous valley, and Grandpa pulled his wings up and headed in the opposite direction. Owen guided him back, but once again the transport flyer balked at venturing into the chasm. Speaking gently, Owen coaxed him near a rocky ledge, but though he had developed a great power to influence animals—even the most evil of beasts—he could not get the flyer into the valley.

“All right,” Owen said. “I can see you are frightened. Wait for me here.”

Grandpa looked back at Owen, and his eyes said, “You will never return.”

Owen stroked the beast's flank. “I promise I'll be back.”

Talea grabbed a stick from the woodpile. The stranger stayed in the darkness, but she could tell he was shaking. At first she thought he was crying, shrinking in fear, but then she looked closer.

“Why do you laugh?” she said.

When he moved into the light, she stepped back and raised the stick. “Don't come any closer.”

“I come with an important message,” he said with a deep voice and a wonderful smile.

“I'll scream for Drucilla!”

He held up a hand. She could tell he was young, and his eyes looked kind and not at all evil like Drucilla's or the guards'.

“I mean you no harm, princess.”

Talea cocked her head. “Princess? Have you come to mock me? How did you get in here?”

“‘Nothing that lasts is ever quickly attained,'” the stranger said.

She squinted. “What?”

“I did not even know you would be here. But I can tell by watching that you are decent and trustworthy.” His gaze fell on the chain manacled to her leg. “I was sent to find the eggs of the Dragon. As for how I got in here, I can only say that stealth is my gift.”

She held up the stick again. “I cannot allow you to get near those eggs.”

He bowed and stepped back. “I have no quarrel with you. You are an innocent bystander.”

“If anything happens to
any
of them, I will die as well as my mother, father, and brothers.”

The stranger bit his lip and looked at the fire. Compassion showed on his face, though Talea still feared he might lunge at the eggs.

“Where is your family?” he said.

“In the dungeon. But if I tend these eggs and keep them safe until they become hatchlings, Drucilla will release my family back to our farm. We can live again in peace.”

The stranger clasped his hands as if begging. “I must gain your trust, but I can't do that here. It's crucial that I get you away from this place and that the Dragoness not know of my presence.”

“Leave,” Talea said. “I won't tell her.”

He shook his head. “You don't understand. You are in grave danger. She will never let you live in peace; she will tear you to pieces. You would not understand this danger unless you had heard what the book said. The Wormling told me—”

“Wormling? And what book? Books have been banned here from before I was born.”

“I know. Please, now allow me to tell you of—”

The stranger stopped as a
thump, thump, thump
came from the hallway.

“Drucilla,” Talea whispered. She dropped her stick and sat quickly on the stool, spreading the foul grease on the eggs. The door swung open, and Talea looked up at Drucilla as if nothing were wrong, but her heart beat furiously, and she wondered if the Dragoness could smell her fear.

“I heard voices,” Drucilla said.

Talea stared at the eggs, then back at her mistress. “Voices, Your Majesty?”

The Dragoness's eyes swept the room. No one was there. Talea wondered if the stranger had gone out the window or scurried behind the far fireplace.

Drucilla summoned a guard and asked if he had heard anything.

“The girl talks to herself, perhaps to the eggs,” he said.

Drucilla turned back to Talea. “My babies need their rest if they are to grow into strong young dragons. Do not speak to them or do anything to disturb them. It won't be long until they see their father.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

When Drucilla marched away and the door closed, Talea whispered, “Are you still here?”

The stranger moved, and she was amazed at how he had blended in with the stone walls. “Yes. Thank you for not alerting her.”

Talea wiped her hands and leaned toward him, speaking just loud enough to be heard. “Who is this Wormling, and what does he have to do with me?”

“Oh, he is wonderful! You would love him. He has come here from a place where books are read at will and stories pass from parent to child. Songs too.”

“It
does
sound wonderful. But why would a person who lives there come here?”

The stranger crept closer. “That's the best part. He was given
The
Book of the King
and has read beautiful passages to me. He was sent to help us and the people of his world.”

Talea's eyes brightened. “The writing of the true King is in the book?”

“Yes.”

Finally they introduced each other and shook hands, Rogers telling her, “My parents were killed by the Dragon. I have sworn allegiance to the King, his Wormling, and his Son, who is soon to return.”

“My father has talked about that,” she said. “Please, you must get this Wormling to save my family.”

“That is not my role here. The Wormling gave me a specific charge to locate the eggs of the Dragon and then wait for him.”

Talea cocked her head. “How could the Wormling know the Dragon had a mate and eggs? That seems impossible.”

“He told me he found clues in the book. Words he did not understand—could not understand until now.”

“And where is he?”

Rogers looked away. “He wouldn't say, but he was quite solemn when he left.”

Talea grabbed Rogers's sleeve. “I cannot wait for him. You must help me. You must rescue us. Surely this Wormling is kindhearted and would want you to.”

“I'm sure he would,” Rogers said. “But if I act too soon, I could frustrate his plans. I must wait for him.”

Talea's mind raced. “Then do this. Go to the dungeon and locate my family. Get word to them that help is on the way.”

Rogers stared into her eyes. “That I can do, princess.”

If you have ever climbed a mountain without a rope to make sure you do not splatter if you fall, you will understand how Owen felt descending a treacherous crevasse. With each step and slippery handhold, he moved closer to a fog-shrouded area he could not see through.

Owen's foot slipped, sending rocks cascading down the side. He hung there, listening for the strike of the rocks against the floor of the canyon, but it was either a bottomless pit or so deep he couldn't hear the impact. He pulled himself up to a ledge, catching his breath, stilling his heart, choking back the panic.

What would happen to the Lowlands if I never came out of this abyss? Is there some backup plan by the King? Am I still protected by some other being—a stand-in for Nicodemus—or am I totally on my own?

To keep fear at bay, Owen immediately brought to mind several passages from
The Book of the King
.
Strength is chosen
caused his heart to soar.
To act in fear is to admit you do not know the truth,
another passage said.
A true follower of the King will respect him and fear no other.

As a trickle leads to a creek, a creek to a stream, a stream to a river, and a river to the sea, Owen's thoughts turned from fear to his father.

Another memorized passage reminded him of the Queen, his mother—her goodness, her wisdom, and her care.
The love and compassion of the Son's mother reach to the ends of the Lowlands and restores the broken and beaten and bruised. The outcast will receive the comfort of her presence.

This was why Owen was descending this precipice even now, carefully measuring each step. The book foretold not only good and pleasant and hope-filled things but also those that caused tears and questions and the stomach to clench. Everything in Owen told him his mother had been sentenced to this place of the downtrodden and forgotten. His heart had been set on this rescue ever since his trip from the Highlands. But a passage kept coming back to him, one he had not memorized, so before he reached the fog below, he sat on a shelf and pulled the book from his pack.

Do you seek someone wise—an intelligent, learned person? The King has taken the understanding of the most respected and has shown it to be silly. Even the silliness of the King is wiser than anyone who thinks himself smart. The King's weakness will overcome the enemy's strength, for he chooses to use the weak, the weary, the lowly, and the despised so no one may be prideful. Indeed, the enemy will fall by the hand of the King, who works through those with no voice, those with no standing, and those in exile.

Owen closed the book and continued, entering the white mists as he mulled over the passage. Soon his footsteps echoed, so he called out and his voice returned too. He stopped, thinking he might be next to a parallel canyon wall. He squinted but could make out nothing through the thick, white soup.

Owen's first impulse was to continue, however (and this has been such an important word throughout the short life of the Wormling), for some reason unknown to him, he hung there and waited. When the fog showed no signs of dissipating, he shouted to Grandpa, pleading with him to enter the chasm.

His voice echoed so loudly that Owen wanted to clamp his hands over his ears, but that is unwise when clinging to the side of a mountain. He yelled again, this time commanding the flyer to descend, but again there was no response.

Finally, holding on with both hands, he used his right foot to test the next level and found there was none. Suddenly, his left foot slipped and he dangled perilously.

“Grandpa!” Owen shouted. “I need you now!”

His arm strength ebbing and unable to find purchase with either foot, Owen was quickly running out of options. He could let go and hope the drop was short. Or he could swing himself to the other side and try to grab the wall that must be there. Something, after all, was making his voice echo. Either option required a great leap of faith, but the latter seemed better than dropping until plopping.

He was about to leap to the other side when he heard a
whoosh
and then a
kerflaaaap
and then another
whoosh.
Grandpa's spindly legs appeared overhead, and his outstretched wings sent the fog billowing just enough to reveal that the wall that would have been Owen's destination was but a thin veneer of rock that surely would have broken off with his weight. And below? A cavern so deep that Owen's mouth dropped at the sight of it.

However (again this great word), directly below him lay about two feet of open space before a short ledge that led to a pathway. All Owen had to do was drop onto this ledge without falling over the side.

Do not doubt in the dark what you know is true in the light
sprang to Owen's mind from the book. The light was soon gone, because as quickly as he had arrived, Grandpa screeched and lifted away, leaving the fog to settle around Owen again. He let go, reached the sand on the pathway, and landed on his seat, thankful he hadn't swung out into the abyss.

“Who goes there?” a gruff voice said. “Answer or you're dead.”