She escaped the mermaids' palace, and its horrible coldness, even as she heard its groaning reverberate deeper behind her. She swam down, down, closer and closer to where Kyran was swimming away. She tried to shout at him, but the garment she wore seemed to be losing its magic, and her voice wouldn’t obey her. She looked behind her at the castle. The climax would come soon, the end of the palace, whatever end that might be. She was too near it. The groaning and rumbling stopped suddenly, and in the horrible, hanging silence, Posy heard Kyran’s voice shouting her name. He was swimming quickly toward her, but still so far away—too far.
A deafening roar struck Posy then, like a blow to her body and ears and mind, and the palace walls fractured and fell apart before her eyes. A brilliant light exploded from the destruction, right from the tower she had leapt from, and shone upward for a single moment, a fleeting beacon. The roar continued, and everything was in it—fury and grief, relief and joy, ecstasy and peace. Posy had a thought to put her hands to her ears, to shield herself in some way from the terrible force of it, but the thought barely crossed her mind before she lost consciousness altogether.
* * *
But the ending was not to be so easy. Posy heard a voice within her, calling her by name, pushing through the hollow places within her, shining a glaring light on the loneliness she felt and chasing it away. It was a father’s voice, deep and calm. It said her name, over and over, calmly, but so firmly she knew it meant for her to awaken. She felt so peaceful now, with the voice spreading through her whole body, that she had no wish to wake. She knew also that she must. She had what seemed to be long-ago memories of a handsome black-haired, dark-eyed boy whom she loved, and a lost princess.
She awoke to pain, gasping helplessly. Kyran’s face, pale from fear and exhaustion, peered at her in torment, and joy flooded it when he saw her open her eyes.
“Posy, Posy,” he kissed her forehead, her temple, her eyelids. “I couldn’t have stood it. I couldn’t have.”
Posy looked around and realized they had not gone anywhere at all. She still lay on the sea floor where she had fallen. Kyran was here with her. The remains of the palace lay before them, so horrible she had to turn her face from them. She saw a girl, looking terribly young and pale, with ropes of golden hair falling over her slender body, lying near her. Posy rolled over to reach a hand out and touch Evanthe’s cheek lightly.
“Yes,” Kyran nodded, his face grim. “She lives,” he said quickly, answering the question in Posy’s face. “But what kind of living this is, and how to wake her, I do not know. Right now, all I know is that we must go. Our shrouds will lose their enchantment soon, and we will die if we do not reach the surface quickly.” His dark eyes analyzed their surroundings.
Posy shook her head, feeling she had just come out of a deep sleep, but her mind flew sharply to a thought, and she spoke it without hesitation, “We must find the way we were meant to go.”
Kyran turned to look at her and said, “That is what Adamaris told us. But what does it mean?”
Posy sat silently, staring ahead blindly. She wasn’t thinking, exactly, but things inside of her churned and worked as they had never done before. She knew she had not undergone such horror for nothing, and she was right.
“Up, from where the tower was—the one I came out of,” she said finally. “That is the way out of the Glooming.”
“How do you know that?” Kyran asked, trying to keep the skepticism from his voice. “And how will going up from there be any different from going up from here?”
Posy remembered the emptiness she had felt in the mermaid palace. It had been like a black hole, deep enough to swallow her soul, dark enough to make her forget who she was. But then she had seen the devastated palace, and the pillar of light rising from its ruins. The light had risen from the very place she had thought would be the end of her. No, there was no doubt in her mind. They were things that flashed within her for a moment and were gone, but it would take much too long to tell it all to Kyran. They had to leave.
“You will have to trust me,” she said, holding his gaze. She knew beyond a doubt she loved him the moment she saw the decision in his face, the immediate trust. He nodded, bending at once to lift his sister into his arms, ready to follow her.
Posy swam ahead, glancing frequently behind her to be sure Kyran kept up. Straight up, where the brief beam of light had pointed the way, they swam for what seemed to be hours, but it was only minutes. The rocky mountain beneath the lake formed a wall on one side of them, and soon Posy saw that the wall surrounded them, narrowing. This was the only way, she told herself. This funnel they swam through could have been reached in no other way than the one they now swam.
But Posy knew her arms and legs could not endure much more of this swimming. She seemed to feel the coldness in the water more; she thought the water pressed around her body with more force. Her limbs felt heavy and awkward, and her breathing became labored and choked. The magic garment she wore was losing its power. In panic, she looked behind her. Kyran was struggling also—more so, for he carried the weight of his sister.
“Hurry!” she tried to call to him, but water came rushing into her mouth and her eyes began to blur and sting.
Posy knew there was nothing she could do for Kyran. He would have to save himself. Trying to save each other now would only drown them both. She struggled to swim, ever upward, until her head spun wildly and her lungs were like fire in her chest. Every pretense of the shroud was gone now, and the icy water nearly paralyzed her body. The voice came to her again, then, amidst the chaos of her body and mind: “Fight, Posy.”
She fought. She fought until she knew she couldn’t do it any longer. And then she fought some more. Her mind screamed angrily at the voice within her, since her voice could not. What use is fighting now, when it’s impossible?
“Fight,” the voice commanded, returning her anger with a mighty anger of its own.
And she broke through the surface of the water at last, gasping and nearly weeping with pain and fatigue and relief. Sun splashed onto her face, blinding, and she closed her eyes against it. Posy pulled herself onto the bank, collapsing before her feet were out of the water. Kyran was close behind her, lifting his sister onto the bank first before pushing himself out of the water to fall beside Posy. Posy felt him kiss the top of her dripping head before she lay it down on the sodden grassy bank and sleep overwhelmed her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Author’s Words
The cold woke Posy. The sun had dried her dress and hair, but the night air seemed to creep inside of her, and the cool ground was like a soulless stone beneath her. She raised herself up to a sitting position with a groan, every inch of her aching, and peered cautiously around. They were in a tiny clearing, surrounded on three sides by thick forest, and on the fourth side by the deep pool of water they had emerged from only hours before. The full moon hung like a brilliant silver ornament in the sky, larger and brighter than any moon Posy had seen in her own world. It flooded the glade with a white light and flung deep shadows into the trees.
Kyran was a small distance away, attempting to start a fire. He had carried Evanthe away from the water’s edge and had covered her with his own cloak. If Posy had not known it was the princess, she would have thought the small lump next to Kyran was a bundle of blankets, it was so tiny, so unnaturally still. Kyran’s dark head turned as he heard Posy stirring and he rushed to her side.
“I have not been awake for long,” he said, “but I believe this place is enchanted.”
“What?” said Posy, feeling her legs tremble weakly beneath her as she tried to rise. “Why do you think that?”
“I cannot start a fire here, no matter how I try.” His voice was hushed. “And the wind has not blown even to flutter a leaf, nor has the surface of that pool moved since we came out of it. There is magic here.”
Posy shivered and nodded. “Then what should we do?”
“I think,” said Kyran, his black eyes gazing u
pward, “that something will happen here soon. The moon is full tonight, and that is when magic happens, so all the old stories go. We could wait ... wait until the moon is risen high.”
“And then?” Posy asked, watching the shadows move on Kyran’s face.
“Then we shall see,” was all he would say.
“Your sister?” Posy’s eyes moved to the small form on the ground next to them.
“The same,” Kyran answered, jaw clenched. He told Posy how he had found the princess, and what he had done. He told her the words she had said before she had gone into the deep slumber she was now lost in. “She breathes, and shudders now and then, though she does nothing else. She will not speak now at all or even open her eyes. But as long as she lives, there is hope. We have not rescued her for nothing.” His voice held stubborn determination.
Posy hoped this was true, though looking at the princess, it was hard to have any faith in it. She looked like she was gone from the world already. Her lovely face was ashen and stony as death. Not a muscle of her face or body moved, and Posy wasn’t sure how Kyran knew she breathed—she couldn’t see Evanthe’s chest rising and falling. She remembered with a sudden peculiar thrill that the princess had indeed died many times before, in this strange story—a sacrifice for the Plot. Then she recalled what the Centaurs had told them—that any who died beyond the Borders of the Plot could not come back from death. Posy turned her face from Kyran to hide the hopelessness that she knew was written on it.
The slow scrape of Kyran’s sword made her turn swiftly back around. His eyes were fixed on the edge of the surrounding trees where a small shape moved along the ground there. Posy’s heart beat faster, and then she saw that the shape was that of an owl, pearly white in the moonlight, bright eyes dimmed by something like misery. Or pain.
“Nocturne?” Kyran said suddenly, stepping toward the creature and lowering his sword slightly. Posy recognized him too. He had been the one who came to her room on the night of her rescue.
“Yes, yes, it’s me, Prince,” came the small, weary voice. “Please don’t kill me, I’ve come so far!” and the owl collapsed into a feathery heap.
Kyran and Posy only had time enough to run to the owl’s aide, take in the extent of his pitiful injuries, before they saw a large shadow on the ground before them, so large it seemed to block out the light of the moon for a moment. Posy gasped and turned around, but it was upon them. A large bird swooped straight over them as they both fell to the ground. Posy only saw the flash of a sharp black beak, heard expansive wings thrusting air aside with a hiss. Kyran rolled where he had fallen and sprung to his feet again, sword held out before him.
The creature swept past them and landed in the still pool of water, sending gently skidding waves before it, its vast white wings held wide and high to slow its flight. It slid silently across the water, its head tilted downward toward its white slope of neck, its eyes, glittering like black diamonds, fixed upon them.
“A swan.” Posy's words were more like breathing than speaking.
“I am a swan this night, yes,” said a voice Posy knew. She walked toward the dark pool, her heart pounding. She didn’t know what she felt, exactly, but she knew she feared this creature, and yet didn’t fear it. She felt in some part of her that she should run from it, but every fiber of her body seemed to long for it all the same.
Kyran grabbed Posy’s wrist before she could walk far, trying to pull her back to his side. “No,” was all he said.
Posy heard fear in his voice, too. She shook him off gently and whispered, barely knowing what she said. “Put your sword away, Kyran. I know who this is.”
The swan ruffled its wings at this, and its beautiful head lifted. “Yes, you know who I am, child. You would think the young prince would recognize the one who wrote him as well.”
“Who wrote ...?” Kyran’s voice was incredulous. “You can’t be! You cannot be the Author.”
“I suppose I should ask, ‘And why not?’” The swan’s voice seemed to laugh as it spoke these words. “But, you know, you would have no answer for me. Why shouldn’t an Author be able to enter into his own story when and how it pleases him? Many have done so before me.”
“But I ...” Kyran’s voice shook. Posy instinctively turned to take his hand, limp and cold within her own. “I didn’t know you were real. No one does. They all think you’re a myth, or a legend from long ago—a story no one believes anymore.”
The Author ... a story within his own story, thought Posy.
“Hmm.” The swan’s black eyes seemed to darken even further as it glided beneath the shadow of a tree. “And is this what you believe, Prince? That I am a myth?”
Kyran’s eyes never left the swan’s face, but his answer was long in coming. The silence of the night seemed to drag on until Posy thought he meant not to answer at all. Finally, his voice barely more than a whisper, he said, “No.”
The trees seemed to sigh and the moon, high above them, shone brighter.
“But,” Kyran continued unexpectedly, “though I believe you are what you say, I cannot pretend to understand why you have left this story for so long? Your story. Why have you allowed it to fester and rot until it is so far from what it was meant to be, so long ago when it was written?”
“You remember when it was first written, then?” The swan’s voice was not eager, but hopeful.
“Yes, I do now.” Kyran bowed his dark head. “I didn’t while I was within the Kingdom ... I didn’t remember much of long ago. But it has been coming back to me, slowly, these many days I have been in the Wild Land. And the more I remember of the beginning of the story, the more I know how it has been twisted.”
“And the more it breaks your young heart, yes,” murmured the creature, emerging from the shadows, magnificent in the moonlight. “Who better to know that than I?”
Posy heard a rustling noise, followed by a squeak of dismay. She turned to see that Nocturne had regained consciousness and was staring, wide-eyed, at the swan. “I knew it!” The owl hobbled unsteadily toward them. “I knew magic would happen in this place! I knew I would find you here!”
“Yes, little owl,” the swan’s voice smiled. “And how brave you have been! Come.”
Nocturne didn’t hesitate at all, but went stumbling toward the bank where the swan was now rising out of the water. It lifted one great wing and gathered the owl to him beneath it. It bent its head in a fluid, soothing movement, as if it would whisper secrets to the little creature tucked beneath its wing. Posy and Kyran both stood, still as statues, watching. At last, the swan lifted its wing and Nocturne walked away from it, his injuries gone as if they had never been.
Posy gasped, and knew that if she had a question in her mind before, she didn’t now. Only the Author of this story could have such absolute power over it. Kyran watched Nocturne thoughtfully a moment, then nodded, turning his eyes to the swan.
“You didn’t answer me,” Kyran said. “I need to know where you have been for so long, and why you left the Plot and its characters helpless?”
The swan lifted its neck high and let out a trumpeting call that hit the trees and bounced off the water’s surface. “I need not answer any question you have, boy.” The voice held the same tinge of anger that had urged and commanded her to fight for her life only hours before. “I wrote you, you are mine,” it continued, its voice as hard as its diamond eyes. “But I do not write everything you do and think. I do not write every decision you make. Not because I cannot—but because I will not. Perhaps someday, when you are a father, Prince, you will understand how empty is your heart if your child is a hollow toy that you can move where you will him to be. No—there is no joy to be found if you cannot watch as he struggles to become himself, finds the borders and decides to cross them for himself, sees the enemy and finds the strength to fight against it.”
Kyran’s face was stony. He made no response.
“I would not love my characters,” whispered the Author, “if I did not let them live. They
must live, though it means making many mistakes.”
“Cruel and fatal mistakes, Author.” Kyran’s voice shook, like a child who struggles to keep up a face of anger when all he really feels is sorrow.
“Yes, cruel. And, yes, many have died. This is the price of freedom, and of choice, and of wisdom. And when you have gained wisdom of your own, young Prince, you will know that no one can make a choice other than this for one that he truly loves. There can be no other way. That is the law of this and every other story ... if it is a true one.”
“But they are your characters! We are your characters!” Kyran exclaimed. “I—I don’t want to be a puppet, but—but ... couldn’t you have at least helped us when we needed it? My sister, look at her!” he shouted. “She is nearly dead from what she has been through, and none of it was her fault. And my father—the one who caused this suffering—sits on his throne now and he feels no regret or sadness that he has lost us. No remorse for the many cruel things he has done to us.”
Posy could feel the words in the air, though the Author didn’t speak them. How can you know what your father thinks and feels? Perhaps the question came from her, though, and not the Author at all.
Tears streamed down Kyran’s face now, and Posy felt her heart breaking for him. He knew what true emptiness felt like, as did Posy—indeed, as did many people in many worlds. It seemed to overwhelm her, this thought of so many people, all of them alone with their sadness. She stood and cried her own tears, for her own grieving heart as well as Kyran’s. It was like a cup full of poison was being poured out, emptied, ready now for something new—something good. She looked up and saw, with a sting that felt like both pain and joy, that the swan’s eyes dripped tears black as blood in the moonlight, and the deepest sorrow was etched across its noble face.
“My children,” said the Author, its black beak like a slash of midnight across the background of soft water. “Someday you will understand, someday you will know ... you have to learn for yourselves, just as you have to fall and triumph for yourselves. If I do it for you, if I write the words for you to follow blindly, and the decision is not made in your own heart, then you are mere characters indeed. If you can choose to forget me, as many have done, that means you can choose to remember me as well.”
The Word Changers Page 20
