The Bootlace Magician

by Cassie Beasley

  He dashed past the ticket stand and into the meadow. To the left, half a football field away, Porter was chivying a clamorous group of animals and magicians through a Door.

  Micah wanted to go to them, to see if the Lightbender and Terpsichore had made it out that way, but the locator knot was urging him toward the right. He followed, running flat out into what looked like nothing but empty meadow.

  By the time he spotted the distortion in the air, it was too late to slow his pace. The dire hawk stood in the tall grass with its huge wings outstretched and angled—a wall of meadow-colored feathers. Micah barreled right into one of those wings and toppled backward, feeling like he’d smashed into a stack of bricks.

  He tried to cry out, but he couldn’t stop gasping. He lay in the grass, panting for air, and waited for the hawk to fall on him. There was no escaping now. Not when the bird was this close.

  Micah shut his eyes. The last things he would hear were the bellowing of the dragon and the distant shouts and screams coming from the menagerie.

  Let the Lightbender be all right, he thought. Please let them all be all right.

  But nothing happened.

  Why wasn’t the dire hawk attacking? It couldn’t possibly have missed someone running into it. Micah opened his eyes and looked cautiously up at the bird.

  It was staring right at him over the top of its wing, pinning him with one wicked yellow eye. They gazed at each other for a long moment, then the hawk blinked.

  It turned away as if it hadn’t seen Micah at all.

  Shocked, Micah sat up. What’s it doing?

  He took in the bird’s posture, tracing its nearly invisible form with his eyes. The way the huge wings were spread . . . it was almost like the hawk was shielding something in front of it from view.

  And the locator ring was pulling Micah in that direction.

  Still breathing hard, but trying to do it more quietly, Micah crawled forward through the grass. The bird heard him. It must have. But it didn’t move a muscle.

  When he reached tail feathers, he got to his feet, staying in a crouch. He was too short to see over the tops of the dire hawk’s wings. He slowly rose up onto his tiptoes, but the bird was still just a little too tall.

  Micah started to shuffle sideways, intending to walk around the hawk, but it whipped its neck around and glared at him, this time with both eyes, as if to say Don’t you dare.

  Its hooked beak was bigger than Micah’s head.

  Micah held up his hands in a gesture he hoped the bird would find placating.

  He was sure now that whatever was in front of the dire hawk was important, that he needed to see it, and that the creature wanted him to do so. But how was he supposed to manage that when the hawk wouldn’t let him go around it? And why wouldn’t it just move its wings out of the way?

  Because it couldn’t?

  No, Micah realized. Because someone has given it an order.

  Maybe he’d been wrong to think of the dire hawk as an enemy. After all, it had set Yuri down when Micah distracted Victoria for a minute. It was so large compared to a human that it probably hadn’t even realize how much damage its claws had done to the magician’s shoulder.

  Maybe, just maybe, it was doing everything it could to help defeat its mistress.

  Well, there’s only one way to see over it if I’m not allowed to go around.

  Micah approached the dire hawk’s back and reached for a handful of soft feathers. When the bird didn’t move, he decided that was as good as an invitation.

  With the way the hawk stood, straight and tall, the climb was awkward. But Micah managed it by jamming his foot against the base of the huge tail and clambering with his arms and legs up the bird’s back. After a brief struggle, he got his hands around the place where one of the dire hawk’s wings met its body.

  Trying not to pant too loudly, Micah craned his neck and peeked over the feathered shoulder.

  The Inventor lay on her side in the grass, covered by a familiar shield of blue light.

  She was hurt. Micah couldn’t see any wounds, but he could tell by the way her lips pressed against each other and the way she held her body so very still. Her eyes were shut tight, and only her hands were moving, twiddling knobs and buttons on her shielding device.

  Some of the knobs were missing from the metal cylinder, one of the little glass bubbles on the end was broken, and as Micah watched, the blue light flickered.

  Victoria Starling, kneeling on the ground just outside the shield, stretched out her hand.

  The Inventor smashed her thumb into a button, and the protective light brightened.

  Victoria chuckled quietly. “Go on then,” she said, her voice hoarse. “You can’t keep it up forever, and your friends are all distracted.”

  Her eyes were fixed on the Inventor’s belt. Clipped to the side, as it usually was on moving days, was Fish’s shrunken aquarium.

  Inside his small tank, Fish was burning with such a brilliant white light that it looked like the Inventor was wearing a star on her belt.

  No! thought Micah, horrified. No, Fish. This isn’t it. This isn’t your Moment.

  But as he slid down the dire hawk’s back, he remembered Geoffrey saying, “They get impatient sometimes, Ideas do.”

  And if Ideas could be too impatient to wait for their Moment, Micah was betting they could be too terrified as well. Fish must know somehow what Victoria planned to do with him. She was going to take him far away, so that his Moment wouldn’t count for anything, and the only way Fish could stop her was to go out in a glorious blaze, a big flash of inspiration that would fall on everyone at Circus Mirandus.

  Instead of just Victoria Starling.

  Micah’s feet hit the grass, and he clamped his eyes shut, thinking hard. He brought the locator knot to his lips and pressed them to it. Not yet, he thought. Not yet. I’ll save you. I promise.

  He had no clue whether or not Fish heard him.

  But he knew what he had to do. What the dire hawk wanted him to do.

  He just . . . didn’t know how.

  * * *

  Micah tried to see the overlay.

  He had done it before, when he was afraid. And he was afraid now—for the circus and for the Inventor and for himself and for Fish. He thought it ought to be enough.

  But though he stretched his mind in every direction, he couldn’t find any golden connections. And though he stared at the knot bracelets wrapped around his arm until his eyes burned and blurred, he couldn’t see anything but string.

  He couldn’t speak aloud. Not so close to Victoria. But inside his soul, he begged and pleaded for something to happen.

  None of it worked.

  The dire hawk was hiding Micah from Victoria, but he knew he didn’t have forever. The Inventor was hurt. She would pass out. Or she would . . .

  And then it would all be over.

  I did it once, he thought. Why, oh why, can’t I do it now?

  Victoria would kill him this time. Micah knew it.

  But somehow, the thought of losing Fish this way was even more painful.

  Grandpa Ephraim brought you to the circus in his boot, he thought. And he told me so many stories about this place. And because I can’t do it, that’s all going to be for nothing.

  Micah felt like he was breaking in two.

  His body started to shake, and he realized he was crying silently. He clutched at the bootlace on his wrist and fell against the dire hawk, pressing his face into the warm feathers.

  I’m sorry, he whispered in his heart. You didn’t deserve this. None of the birds did.

  How many had died for Victoria? How many had flown into the dragon’s maw? Was it still happening, even now?

  The dire hawk’s body trembled, and Micah remembered Chintzy, her chest feathers quivering as he carried her to Porter’s bathtub. How
could one helpless red parrot possibly have survived everything that had happened today?

  He dug his hands deeper into the hawk’s feathers, and he imagined he could sense the war raging within the bird, the way it fought against Victoria’s bonds.

  He admired its courage. Inside of himself, Micah felt like some battle had already been lost. I’ve got nothing left.

  His focus was shattered, and his heart ached. He was drained. Maybe he had enough energy to untie his own shoelaces, but as for freeing the dire hawk? He just couldn’t do it.

  I’ve got to give the dire hawk something. Even if it’s small.

  The bird was trying its best. Micah owed it every last bit of magic he could find. He sighed into the feathers, and thought, Well, if I can still untie my shoes, then you can have that.

  He thought of how simple it was, to tap the laces of his shoes so that the knots fell apart.

  He tightened his grip on the bird. You’re a big feathery sneaker now, dire hawk. And whatever ties you to Victoria is just a shoelace.

  So.

  Come loose.

  Somewhere, in a world Micah couldn’t quite find, a rope of golden light splintered.

  And in the back of his mind, he felt it. Just like when he’d untied the rope ladder from the tree house all those months ago.

  The snap.

  A FEW SECONDS

  The dire hawk lunged forward.

  Micah fell on his hands and knees.

  A high-pitched scream split the air, but it was cut off so quickly Micah wasn’t quite sure he’d heard it. Something warm and wet spattered against the back of his shirt. He was so startled it took him a few seconds to get back on his feet, and by the time he did, it was over.

  Victoria Starling was dead.

  Micah stared, barely understanding, as the dire hawk launched itself off the ground, carrying what was left of Victoria into the sky.

  Clutching its bloody prize in a single claw, the bird called out, and in its voice, Micah heard not victory.

  But joy.

  FAR

  Micah knelt on the ground by the blue shield, trying to ignore the blood-splattered grass beside him. The dire hawk was still calling overhead, its voice piercing, and from somewhere farther away, Micah heard the other two hawks cry out in answer.

  “Inventor,” he said, reaching toward the shield, not sure if he should touch it. “Are you all right? It’s Micah.”

  It took a minute, but the Inventor opened her eyes.

  Micah breathed a sigh of relief. “Victoria,” he said. “She’s gone.”

  It felt like an ending, but he knew it wasn’t. As the Inventor’s shield dissolved, Conflagration roared. Even this far away, the sound made Micah’s stomach clench.

  But something about the roaring was different from before. There was less anger in it and more pain. Micah looked around quickly.

  Conflagration had heaved himself on top of the distant menagerie tent. The drakling bellowed. His scales began to split. He shook himself all over, and from one of his sides, a single, damp wing unfurled like a sail.

  Heart galloping, Micah turned back to the Inventor. He couldn’t watch the dragon’s metamorphosis. It would only distract him.

  He plunged his hand into his pocket and found the vial of silver potion Firesleight had given him. He held it out to the Inventor. “It’s from Rosebud,” he said. “Firesleight said to take it if I was hurt. I’m okay, so you should have it.”

  She nodded and opened her hand. Micah placed the vial in it, and she closed her fingers around it.

  At her belt, Fish was still shining bright enough to hurt Micah’s eyes. And the locator on his finger was pulling so hard that it had begun to cut into his skin.

  “What do I do?” Micah asked. “How do I help?”

  “Take the Idea,” she said, her voice weak but sure. “Run.” She pulled in a shallow, shuddering breath and winced. “Run to Porter.”

  Micah was so grateful to have clear, easy instructions that he would have hugged the Inventor if he’d thought it wouldn’t hurt her.

  “But what about you?”

  She gave him a tiny smile. “I’ll be fine.” She opened her hand to reveal the potion. “But you . . . you must hurry. The Idea can’t be allowed to disperse. Not so near the dragon.”

  Micah had worried about so many things, but not that.

  “But Conflagration’s . . .”

  A monster who feeds on magic, he thought. And the Lightbender had once said that an Idea was the purest sort of magic. If Fish’s power fell over the circus, would it affect the dragon, too?

  “What would happen?” Micah breathed.

  “Not sure,” said the Inventor, her voice thin. “Can’t take the risk.”

  Micah reached for the clip that held Fish’s aquarium to the tool belt and found the tiny hinge that released the tank. He grabbed the cool glass and felt the contents slosh, but he couldn’t even see Fish. The light was too painfully bright.

  He stood up to go, and the Inventor drew in a shuddering breath. “Micah,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am?” He leaned over to hear her better.

  “Far,” she said. “Tell Porter . . . to send you far.”

  * * *

  Micah was too tired to run anymore, but he stumbled forward as fast as he could, Fish’s aquarium blazing in his hands.

  He headed across the meadow toward Porter, forcing himself not to look back at the tents when he heard screams and crashes and those terrible roars. Almost there, he thought. Just get to Porter.

  Then came the blast of heat.

  It was so sudden and so powerful it felt like something had slapped him. Micah couldn’t stand not knowing. He spun and saw The Mighty Conflagration soaring over the roof of the menagerie. Deep red flames danced in the air around him, dissipating as he swooped through them.

  The dragon’s scales were a vibrant shade of emerald now, and his immense wings—clawed at the tips—were an almost translucent lime. He threw his head back, and red fire shot up, fountaining toward the clouds. And hanging there.

  The crimson flames burned and burned even though the dragon had stopped producing them. He flew around the fire fountain, roaring with a dark delight, and Micah realized with shock that the dragon didn’t just breathe fire.

  He could control it.

  Conflagration hovered above his flames, and they grew, fanned by the wind from his wings. They spread, boiling over the menagerie, moving in a way that was more like liquid than any fire Micah had ever seen.

  Then Conflagration tucked his wings in close to his body and dropped like a stone toward the roof of the tent.

  The flames fell with him.

  “No!” Micah yelled.

  The flames splashed down against the fabric, and the dragon’s full weight landed on the roof. The biggest tent at Circus Mirandus didn’t catch fire. It vaporized. The entire menagerie disappeared in an eye-searing flash of red flame.

  The wind and heat from the explosion reached Micah a moment later, blowing his hair back and forcing him to slam his eyelids shut. He held Fish’s aquarium to his chest. The locator knot was jerking on his finger so hard that he thought it might break the bone.

  Get to Porter.

  He sprinted the last few yards, pushing past a pair of scratched and bruised acrobats who were trying to drag a panicked orangutan toward the safety of the Door without hurting it.

  “Porter!” he shouted, waving one arm. “Porter, it’s Fish!”

  The magician had been staring up at the dragon, his face horrified. When he heard Micah, he whirled.

  “Micah!” he exclaimed. “You need to get through the Door.”

  “Where does it go?” Micah asked, stopping in front of him.

  Porter had a cut on the side of his face and dried blood on his neck. “Does it matte
r?”

  Micah held up Fish’s aquarium.

  “Oh, wonderful,” Porter grumbled, holding his hand up to block the blinding light.

  “Where does the Door lead to?” Micah said urgently.

  “Norwich.”

  “Is that far?” Micah asked. “The Inventor said Fish had to go far away. Because of the dragon.”

  Porter looked taken aback. “How far away?”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t know.”

  Porter grimaced. “Micah, this is important. Did she mean it had to go a few miles away? Or does it need to leave the country?”

  Micah was breathing hard. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t ask. She was hurt, and she only said far.”

  “You’re covered in blood,” Porter said, his eyes widening. “Is—”

  “It’s not the Inventor’s,” Micah said quickly. “The dire hawk ate Victoria. Porter, what do we do?”

  Porter turned to look at the tents. The dragon was back in the sky, searching for another target.

  “I think we have to assume that far means far,” he muttered. “But that’s going to be a problem.”

  Porter’s long-distance doors were all back in the warehouse, Micah realized, and half of them were in splinters.

  Conflagration was exhaling fire into the air, building up another pool of that deadly red flame. Please no, thought Micah. Not again.

  Which tent would it be? Who might be standing in the dragon’s path?

  But suddenly, Porter was smiling.

  “Will you look at that?” he said. “She really can do it.”

  At first Micah didn’t understand. Then he saw that the dragonfire was behaving differently this time. As Conflagration fanned it with his wings, it was dimming instead of building. The outermost whorls of flame were being snuffed out.

  “Firesleight!” shouted Micah. “She’s fighting back!”

  “A magician who can control dragonfire,” Porter said. “Now that’s something I’ve never seen.”