The Fire Chronicle (33 page)

“It is a long journey back to the plane, and we will be hard-pressed to arrive before nightfall. Still, we cannot walk on empty stomachs. How much food is kept in the fortress?”

“Oh, quite a bit,” the elf princess said. “I can show you.”

Sensing his chance to escape, Michael said that while she and Gabriel did that, he was going to try and wash the mud out of his hair, and he hurried out the door.

Michael went directly to the keep. Slivers of light stretched across the floor of the chamber. The Guardian sat lashed to a column, his hands tied behind him, his chin resting on his chest. Michael stopped a few feet away. He was trembling; he had kept himself together ever since Emma had woken up, knowing he could come here.

“I need you”—he tried to keep his voice from shaking—“I need you to tell me how to use the
Chronicle
. Princess Wilamena tried to tell me, but … she must’ve missed something or not known it. I need to know what I’m doing wrong. You know, I know you do!”

Slowly, the man lifted his head off his chest and looked at Michael. Amazingly, he seemed even more ragged and wretched than before. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was matted with dried blood, and his tunic was ripped open at the shoulder.

But upon seeing Michael, he smiled. “So you used the
Chronicle
to bring back your sister. What happened, boy? I want to hear all the details.”

“Just … tell me how to use it. I have to know. Please.”

“You don’t want to say, fine. I will. For a moment, you were connected to your sister. Her heart became yours. Anything she’s ever felt, you felt. And I’m guessing that you didn’t like it, did you?”

His tone was gleeful, and what he described was exactly what Michael had experienced. He had felt the power of the book rising and rising, but he’d been entranced, enchanted, and by the time he’d finally realized what was happening, it’d been too late. Like a swimmer who finds himself in a strong current and can only watch the shore recede, Michael had been carried out to sea.

Or rather, he’d been carried toward Emma. Just as the Guardian had said, her entire life had opened before him. Not just her life, but her heart. He’d understood what it had been like growing up as the youngest sibling, with no memories at all of their parents, no memories of a life that didn’t involve moving from orphanage to orphanage, no family but him and Kate. He’d understood, at a level he never had before, that he and Kate were Emma’s entire world, that Emma, the bravest person he knew, was completely governed by fear, the fear that she would somehow, someway, lose her brother and sister and then be utterly alone. And Michael had felt how, when he’d betrayed her and Kate to the Countess, the slender foundations of her world had been destroyed. And he’d understood how much it had cost her to forgive him, to trust him again, but how that sense of certainty
she’d once felt, knowing that her brother and sister would always be there, had never returned.

“Just tell me,” he said, wiping the tears from his face, “what I’m doing wrong.”

“What you’re doing wrong? The only thing you’re doing wrong, boy, is imagining that you’re the Keeper.” The man leaned forward, furious now, straining against his bonds. “The
Chronicle
forms a connection between you and whoever’s name appears in the book. That person’s life, however awful, however terrible, however painful, becomes your life. What they feel, you feel. That is the way it is.”

“But—that’s not fair!” Michael cried, knowing he sounded like a child, but not able to stop himself. “The
Atlas
just takes you through time. Why can’t—”

The man laughed. “It is the Book of Life! And life is pain! The true Keeper must be able to bear the pain of the world. Is your heart that strong, boy? I don’t think so. You can scarcely carry your own pain, much less anyone else’s. The moment I saw you, I said, This boy hides from life. He’s doing everything to run away from pain. But there’s no running away from the book.” The Guardian spat, and the look on his face was pure scorn. “You wanted the
Chronicle
—it’s yours. But you’re not the Keeper!”

Michael found a barrel of water along the side of the keep and dunked his head, again and again, scrubbing at the hardened bits of mud still stuck to his hair and scalp. When his hair was as clean as it was going to get, he dried his face on his shirt and leaned against the barrel, taking long, slow, deep breaths.

“Michael?”

Quickly slipping on his glasses, Michael turned about. It was Emma.

“I was looking all around for you.…”

“Sorry,” he said, “I—”

“Are you mad at me?”

“What?”

“I just thought you might be mad at me. You know, for not listening to you last night and getting caught—”

“Of course not. No. How could you think that?”

Water dripped from his hair onto the lenses of his glasses, but Michael saw Emma clearly, with her muddy hair and dirt-streaked face; she looked small and uncertain.

“Only, you didn’t seem all that glad to see me, and then you just kind of ran away … and … I can’t believe the things you did.” Her eyes were shining with tears. “You fought a dragon for me, and I didn’t say it before, ’cause it’s none of that elf girl’s business, but I’ll never, ever forget what you did, never, and if you’re mad—”

“Emma, I’m not mad at you. I just …” And he knew he had to say something, so he chose something that at least was true: “I was scared. I’m sorry.”

Emma let out a sob of relief and rushed at him, seizing him in a fierce clench. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve listened to you.” They stood like that for several seconds, and Michael, who’d just barely succeeded in stitching himself together, thought he might break apart all over again. Be strong, he told himself, you have to be strong.

Finally, Emma stepped away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Hey, wait for me, okay?”

Moving past him, she went up on tiptoe and leaned over to dunk her head in the now-cloudy water in the barrel. It was midmorning, and the sun was bright and warm. Michael could feel his own hair drying. Already he was telling himself that he would never use the
Chronicle
again. It was enough that they’d kept it from the Dire Magnus.

When Emma was finished, she shook her head, spraying water in all directions.

“Hey, Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I see the book?”

Michael only hesitated a second, then went to his bag and pulled the
Chronicle
from where it was nestled beside
The Dwarf Omnibus
. He stood there quietly as Emma flipped through the pages.

“Where’s my name? I thought you wrote my name.”

“It disappeared.”

“And you really used your own blood as ink?”

“Yes.”

“Gross. And this is the pen thing?”

“The stylus.”

“Huh.”

Emma ran her hand over the rippled design on the cover and handed the book back. Without looking at it, Michael slid the
Chronicle
into his bag and slipped the bag over his shoulder, feeling its weight settle against his hip. He let out the breath he’d been holding.

“So is it yours? Like how the Atlas is Kate’s?”

“I guess so.”

“That must mean the next one’s mine. I hope I don’t have to write in it with my own blood. I mean, no offense, but
bluuh
.”

Michael thought about telling her that the next book was the Book of Death, then decided that that information could probably wait.

“Michael, honest, are you sure you’re okay?”

He looked at Emma, her damp hair sticking up all over her head, and thought, She’s alive; whatever the cost, it was worth it.

He said, “I’m fine.”

And he managed something like a real smile.

“Can I ask one more question?”

“Sure.”

Then Michael saw a familiar, mischievous sparkle in Emma’s eyes and he braced himself for what was coming:

“Is Princess What’s-Her-Name your girlfriend now?”

“No,” Michael said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Emma grinned. “You sure about that? ’Cause—”

“Of course I’m not his girlfriend!”

They both turned and saw the elf princess standing beside the corner of the keep, hands on her hips, glaring imperiously at Emma.

“Oh la! We are
much
more serious than that!”

“Gotcha,” Emma said, smiling broadly at her brother.

“Now,” Wilamena went on, “I come with two messages. First, breakfast is ready. Second, there is black smoke in the valley. Apparently someone named Rourke has found you.” She clapped her hands. “So, I hope you’re both hungry.”

There was no time to talk, no time for Kate to ask Rafe how he had found her, how he’d disguised himself as Rourke. No time, for that matter, to ask why he’d come for her. After the glamour that had cast him as the giant, bald Irishman faded, and shouts and the thudding of boots sounded up from below, Rafe grabbed her hand and they raced up the stairs, through a door, and out onto the cold of the roof.

The night air swept away the last of Kate’s grogginess, and it was then, looking out at the untouched snow, with Rafe’s hand still tight around hers, that she had a single moment of hesitation.

“What?” Rafe demanded. “What is it?”

What could she tell him? That she had just learned that the Dire Magnus, her enemy, was not one man, but many? That the
new Dire Magnus was to be chosen that night, and he, the very boy now rescuing her, was next in line?

“We have to go!”

And she let herself be pulled away.

As they came to the short wall that bounded the edge of the Imps’ mansion, Kate saw that the roof of the next house was a full story lower. She started to balk, but Rafe placed his hand around her waist and leapt. They fell and fell, landing in a thick cushion of snow, and Rafe was up instantly, pulling Kate to her feet, and they were off and running once again. The snow was high and heavy, and it was awkward for Kate in her new boots and dress, but Rafe kept urging her on, vaulting the short walls that separated the houses, weaving between the chimneys and the snow-banked summer gardens; they were halfway down the block when Kate glanced back and saw the figures of four Imps charging after them.

“They’re—”

“I know!” Rafe said. “Keep running.”

Kate could see the end of the block ahead, and past that the wide gap of the avenue. The wet snow dragged at her legs and dress, and she could hear the stamping footsteps of the Imps closing in from behind.

“There!” Rafe shouted.

Kate looked to where he was pointing, ahead and to the left, and she saw the long, dark snake of the elevated train. The tracks ran along the avenue, just below the tops of the houses. The train would be even with them in seconds, and Kate realized then what Rafe meant to do. But it was impossible; there was no way—

“Hurry!” Rafe yelled.

The first snowcapped train cars were already rattling past.

“We can’t! It’s going too fast! We—”

“Just jump!”

Then they were at the end of the block; there was nowhere else to go; she could hear the rasping of an Imp at her shoulder, and, holding Rafe’s hand, she jumped.

It was further than she’d thought. At least seven feet between the edge of the building and the train. For a moment, they hung in the air; Kate could see the train moving below them, and she feared they would land in one of the gaps between the cars and fall down and be crushed. Instead, they hit dead center on the roof of a car; but the second they hit, her feet slipped on the snow, the boy’s hand was ripped from hers, she landed hard on her hip, her momentum carrying her forward, and before Kate knew what was happening, she was sliding over the side of the train. Scrambling, she caught herself on a railing, so that she hung off the train, forty feet in the air, as it tore down the avenue.

She heard another heavy
thump
further down the train and knew that at least one Imp had also made the jump. She told herself she had to do something, pull herself up, break through a window, anything except hang there, but just then the train jerked around a corner, one of Kate’s hands slipped, and she swung out wide, dangling now by just four fingers, and she saw the street below her, the carriages, the horses, the people, and then the train straightened and she swung back, slamming against the side of the car. She glanced up to see Rafe and the Imp struggling atop the train, and then the train twisted again, she was losing
her grip, finger by finger, and one of the bodies, she couldn’t tell which, went flying past her, and the next thing she knew someone had grabbed her wrist and was pulling her up.

“Are you okay?” Rafe asked. “Are you hurt?”

Kate shook her head. She was still stunned, still trying to understand. They were alone on top of the train. Rafe was kneeling before her, his hands on her arms.

“Scruggs gave me a glamour to sneak into the house. That’s why I looked like Rourke. But I hadn’t quite planned out the whole getting-away part.”

Kate began shaking and couldn’t stop.

“Why … why did you come back for me?” Her hair had come loose and blew around her face, and she had to shout to be heard over the sound of the train. “Why would you do that?”