The Fire Chronicle (27 page)

He began rolling up the cuff on his pants.

“Stop that. What did you do?”

“Do? Oh, nothing … much.…”

Michael gave his best glower. He was honestly rethinking whacking the man in the head. The deranged Guardian seemed to get the message. He reached into one of the pockets of his cloak and drew forth a folded patch of cloth.

“Bert used to be quite the hand at potions. They taught us magic, the wizards did. Long ago.” He unwrapped the cloth and displayed a scorched needle. He began murmuring, like someone repeating a recipe, “Two parts dragon’s blood. Three parts deathshade. Ground-up sloth tongue, not too fine. Water from an untouched stream. Add salt. Heat. Then one quick prick”—he made a jabbing motion with the needle—“and silence.”

“You drugged her?”

The man nodded, then reached into another pocket. “Beetle?”

“I don’t want a beetle! Is she”—Michael had to swallow before he could find his voice—“is she alive?”

“Oh yes, yes. Still alive. But the life has been stopped within her. Like a frozen river. Quite a powerful little potion. One prick.” He jabbed the air with the needle again.

“So how do we fix her?! She’s my sister! I’m supposed to be looking out for her.”

All of Michael’s relaxed, rapport-building demeanor was gone. He wanted to grab the man by the beard and shake him.

“Can’t.”

“Can’t what? Can’t tell us? Because my friend here—”

“Can’t fix her. No antidote. At least, none Bert has. But she doesn’t look that bad. And you could put her somewhere nice. She would really brighten up a room.”

“My sister is not a piece of furniture!”

“Of course, of course,” agreed the man, “but she’s not going to be much good for conversation anymore, you do realize that, don’t you?”

“I’m going to cut off his head,” Gabriel growled.

The man’s bottom lip began trembling, and he let out a low moan.

“Oh, stop it!” Michael snapped. “You’re supposed to be the last of an ancient order of warriors. Have some dignity.”

As the man pulled his cloak over his head in an effort to hide, Michael took a moment to regroup. This wasn’t going well.
There seemed to be no quick way of restoring Emma, and the more time that passed, the more likely it was that the dragon would wake up, and then what? As much faith as Michael had in Gabriel’s strength, a dragon was, after all, a dragon. And he still didn’t understand the relationship between the Guardian and the dragon. Was the man the creature’s master? It didn’t appear so. But clearly there was something between them, or the dragon would have killed the man long ago.

Michael found that he was unconsciously rubbing the blue-gray orb that hung around his neck. Could the glass marble possibly help? Should he just smash it, as Emma had suggested? What if it had been sent by their enemies? With Emma frozen, smashing the orb seemed too much of a risk. Michael slipped it back inside his shirt.

Plan B, Michael thought. We leave now. Before the dragon wakes up. Gabriel carries Emma back to the plane. We find Dr. Pym—assuming he’s still alive—and he fixes Emma. Then we all come back for the
Chronicle
.

Reviving Emma had to come first.

But Michael also knew they couldn’t leave without hearing the deranged Guardian’s story. There was no telling what might help them when they returned for the
Chronicle
.

“I want you to tell us everything. How you came here. What happened to the other Guardians. Where the dragon came from. Start at the beginning. But be quick.”

“And if you lie to us,” Gabriel said, “I will most certainly chop off your head.”

They had not moved from atop the tower, and as the man spoke, Michael glanced now and then at Emma. Part of him kept expecting her to start laughing and announce that she had been playing a practical joke and wasn’t frozen at all.

But she stayed just as she was.

Don’t worry, he promised silently. I won’t leave you like this.

“Four thousand years ago,” the man began, “when the world was a very different place than today—much dustier, for starters—there was a council of big-brain wizards in the city of Rhakotis on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.”

To Michael’s great annoyance, the man seemed unable to tell the story without indulging in any number of digressions, on topics as diverse as the varieties of edible fruits, the intelligence of camels, the stupidity of birds, and his own astonishing amiability. Along with all this, he made repeated offers for Michael and Gabriel to share his supply of beetles, offers that Michael and Gabriel always declined while pressing him to get to the point.…

“And these big-brain wizards decided it would be a wonderful idea to write down their greatest, most terrible, most secret secrets, the ones that concerned the very making of the world. In the end, they created three books.” The man held up two fingers. “One dealt with time. One with life. And one with death. And they were locked away in separate vaults below the city—which really was a lovely city.”

There followed a disquisition on the many charms of Rhakotis, till a growl from Gabriel prompted him to continue.

“Then the big-brains in their braininess created an Order
of Guardians who were sworn to protect the Books with their lives. There were only ten Guardians at any one time, but they were versed in both magical and nonmagical combat and were supported by the power of the wizards.” He scratched his beard. “Time passed. The big brains grew soft and were perhaps not quite so big as they once had been. This is where Bert enters the story. He was a young Guardian. Bright-eyed. Zealous. Amiable, oh my—”

“Skip that part,” Michael said.

“And then everything changed.” The man leapt up and began pacing back and forth, waving his arms about violently. Michael and Gabriel moved in front of Emma so the man didn’t strike her by accident. “It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, Bert was atop the watchtower—out of nowhere, a thousand ships materialized off the coast. Fire filled the sky. Dragons appeared in the east of the city. Sand trolls attacked from the south. It was Alexander, the boy conqueror, and the big brains were doomed. Alexander was too strong. Had too many dark wizards in his army. It was up to Bert and his brothers to get the Books out of the city. But by the time they reached the vaults, only the
Chronicle
remained. The other two books were already gone.”

The man’s mind seemed to drift off. He stood, stroking his beard and murmuring, “Not Bert’s fault, did his best, can’t fault old Bert…,” until Michael called him back.

“In the end, only four Guardians escaped the city. The rest died in the fighting. The survivors fled south, to the bottom of the world. There were elves living here, in the ice and snow. At first, Bert liked them. He should’ve known better.”

“Why?” Michael asked. “What’d the elves do?”

The man didn’t answer; he was caught up in his story.

“Bert and the others tapped into the power of the book. The valley became lush. They gained long life. They hid the
Chronicle
anew and built this fortress. More time passed. Century upon century. They had a scrying bowl that showed the outside world. So many changes. But though they searched and searched, they saw no traces of the two missing books.” The bearded, wild-eyed man faced them, grinning. “But they learned of the prophecy. The Keepers of the Books would appear. They would bring the Books together once again. Bert convinced the others it was their duty to guard the
Chronicle
until its Keeper arrived. Then … then …”

His energy abruptly ran out. He slumped onto the tower wall. Michael and Gabriel had to wait several moments for him to continue.

“Men are not meant to live for thousands of years. The minds of the strongest become dry and brittle. One of Bert’s brothers decided that he was the
Chronicle’
s Keeper, and Bert and the others were keeping it from him. Brother slew brother! O murder! O treachery! The blood! Terrible! Terrible!” He covered his face with his beard and spoke through the matted hair. “Bert’s false brother was finally slain, but then only Bert and one other remained. Not enough to defend the
Chronicle
. Bert’s last brother ventured forth, in an attempt to find the true Keeper. Poor, brave soul! Poor Bert, all alone!” And the man began bawling once more.

Michael glanced at Gabriel. They were thinking the same thing. The other Guardian, the one who had left, had to have been the skeleton that Michael and Dr. Pym had discovered in Malpesa.

“So where’d the dragon come from?” Michael asked. “And what did the elves do that you don’t trust them? And would you please stop crying?”

The man dropped his beard and laughed, slapping his knees in joy. “Yes! Yes! The elves! It was when Bert was alone that the elves showed their true colors. Tried to steal the book! But they didn’t know that Bert and his brothers had brought a dragon’s egg from Rhakotis! Bert hatched it in the heat of the volcano! Bonded it to the
Chronicle
. When the elves marched on the fortress, well …”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Michael chuckled. “I’ll bet they weren’t expecting that!”

Then he saw Gabriel scowling and dropped the smile.

“And that”—the man clapped his hands, apparently pleased with himself—“is that! Now”—he leaned forward, peering at Michael—“tell Bert the truth. Have you come for the book?”

“Well … yes—”

“Ha! Knew it! But the real question, the big question …”

The man came closer, his breath rasping through his beard. He placed a trembling hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“… Are you the Keeper? The one Bert has been waiting and waiting for?”

Past the dirt and matted hair, the man’s face was unlined.
Only his eyes betrayed his age. They were eyes that had lived with one single purpose for nearly three thousand years; they were asking: Is it over? Is it finally over?

They were the saddest eyes Michael had ever seen.

“Are you the Keeper?”

It should have been a simple question to answer. Michael had been told he was the
Chronicle’
s Keeper by Dr. Pym. And then he’d felt the book calling to him through the snowstorm. Still, saying it, acknowledging it, was somehow different.

But there was no hiding from the eyes.

He said, in a whisper, “Yes. I am.”

The madman nodded and took his hand from Michael’s shoulder. “I suppose we’ll soon see, won’t we?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“You want to restore your sister, yes? The screaming shin kicker?”

“Of course—”

“And you’ve seen the forest. That was once ice and snow. What do you think called it to life? The
Chronicle
! It will revive your sister! Awaken the life sleeping within her! It is the only way.”

“Then let us waste no more time,” Gabriel said, and started for the stairs. “We know it is in the volcano.”

“No!” The man jumped to block him. “The dragon will kill you!”

“But don’t you control the dragon?” Michael demanded. “You said you hatched it from an egg!”

“No, no, no! The dragon doesn’t obey Bert! The dragon
serves the
Chronicle
! Bert is suffered to live because Bert serves the same purpose. However”—once again, he leaned close to Michael—“the
Chronicle
is hidden in the volcano, yes, and the dragon will kill any who enter. Even Bert. But the true Keeper can pass unharmed.” He gripped Michael’s shoulder. “To save your sister, you must go into the volcano and face the dragon—alone.”

Not surprisingly, Gabriel wanted to go in Michael’s place. He said that the Guardian’s warnings were meaningless.

“Why should we take the word of a madman who eats beetles as candy?”

“Says him,” muttered the Guardian. “He hasn’t tried them.”

“At the very least, we should go together.”

They were still atop the tower. Emma was still frozen. Only the sky had changed, softening from inky black to a deep, dark blue. Michael held firm.

“We can’t both go. What if we’re killed? There’d be no one to look after Emma. And if you went alone and got killed, I couldn’t carry her out of here. I have to go, and you have to stay. That’s all there is to it.”