The Copper Gauntlet

by Holly Black

  “That’s probably not the best idea,” Call said. “The others —”

  One of the Chaos-ridden grabbed hold of Tamara, slinging her over his back. She struggled in its grasp. “Call!” she shouted, panicked.

  Two of them hauled Aaron off his feet, while a fifth lifted a kicking and screaming Jasper into the air.

  “We will carry them all,” the Chaos-ridden holding Call told him, but that didn’t seem to calm them down any. “We can move more swiftly this way.”

  Call was so surprised that he didn’t give any orders at all, even as the Chaos-ridden’s steps came more swiftly. They began to lope and then run, Havoc alongside them. They ran and ran, covering so much ground that Call couldn’t imagine himself walking it.

  This close, Call had expected the Chaos-ridden to smell like rot. They were supposed to be the dead, after all, reanimated by void magic. But their odor was more mushroomy, not unpleasant, just strange.

  Aaron looked uncomfortable. Tamara looked exhilarated and terrified in equal measure. But Jasper’s expression was unreadable to Call, a blankness that might have been fear or despair or nothing at all.

  “Call, what are they doing?” Tamara shouted over to him.

  Call shrugged awkwardly. “Carrying us? I think they’re trying to be helpful.”

  “I don’t like this,” Aaron said, sounding like he was on a particularly dizzying ride.

  Faster the Chaos-ridden went, magic propelling them forward, through the woods, over fallen leaves, through streams and over stones, through brush and ferns and bramble. Then, as quickly as they began, the Chaos-ridden halted their march.

  Call found his feet, dropped down on the sand of a beach, the slivered moon above them casting a silver path over the water.

  The Chaos-ridden began to move in more tightly, the path between them narrowing as they made their way down the beach. Call could hear the ocean, the lap of the waves.

  Three rowboats were tied to poles out in the water, rolling gently with the tide. If Call squinted, he could make out a stretch of land in the distance, visible only because it interrupted the reflection of moonlight.

  “Evil Island?” Jasper asked.

  Call snorted, surprised that Jasper had said something. He was probably being serious, Call decided, as this seemed an unlikely time for him to acquire a sense of humor.

  “Chaos-ridden,” Call said, “how do we get across?”

  At his words, three of the Chaos-ridden waded into the sea. First, they were up to their thighs in the water, then it was at their waists, then their necks, then it covered their heads completely.

  “Wait!” Call shouted, but they were gone. Had he just put them to death? Could they die?

  A moment later, pale hands rose from the sea, untying the rope binding the boats. And then, pulled by unseen hands, the boats floated toward shore. The Chaos-ridden rose from the depths, their faces impassive as ever.

  “Huh,” Aaron said.

  “I guess we get in,” Tamara said, going to one of the boats. “Aaron, get in the boat with Call.”

  “How does that make sense?” Jasper demanded.

  Tamara looked at the Chaos-ridden. “So the Makar can’t get drowned before Call stops them.”

  Jasper opened his mouth to object and then shut it again.

  Call climbed gingerly into the boat. Aaron followed him.

  Jasper settled himself in the second boat and Tamara took Havoc and went to the third.

  The Chaos-ridden dragged them out to sea.

  For all the driving Call had done with Alastair, the only boats he’d been on were ferries carrying a vintage car or some other antique object back from some semi-remote location where Alastair had purchased it. That and the little boats that navigated the tunnels of the Magisterium.

  Call had never been so low in the water, out on the open sea. The waves were black in every direction, the spray icy on his cheeks and salty enough to sting his mouth.

  He was scared. The Chaos-ridden were terrifying, and the fact they listened to him didn’t make them any less monstrous. His friends wanted to get away from him — maybe even hurt him. And still ahead were his father and Master Joseph, both unpredictable and dangerous.

  Aaron was sitting hunched up at the prow of the boat. Call wanted to say something to him but guessed that anything he had to say wouldn’t be welcomed.

  The Chaos-ridden walked along, under the sea, pulling the boats with them. Call could see their heads beneath the waves.

  Finally, the patch of land ahead of them resolved into a landscape. The island was small, not more than a few miles across, and densely covered in trees. The Chaos-ridden pulled the small craft up the beach with their wet hands. Call clambered out of the boat, Aaron after him, and joined Tamara and Jasper on the shore. Tamara had been holding on to Havoc by his ruff; Havoc barked and scampered over to Call. They all watched as wave after wave of the Chaos-ridden came up on shore like drowned pirates from a ghost story.

  “Master,” the leader said, when they were all assembled. He had stationed himself near Call, like a bodyguard. “Your tomb.”

  At first Call misheard him. You’re home, the thing had seemed to say for a single hopeful moment. But those weren’t the words at all.

  Call stumbled, nearly falling in the sand. “Tomb?”

  Aaron gave him a strange look.

  “Follow,” said the Chaos-ridden leader, setting off through the woods. The rest of the army crowded around, their bodies dripping, and herded Call and the others toward a path. It wasn’t lit, but it was wide, with white stones that caught the light marking the edges.

  He wondered what would happen if he ordered the Chaos-ridden to walk single file. Would they do it? Did they have to?

  Then, with that thought in his head, he began to have other giddy and strange imaginings of what he could command the Chaos-ridden to do. Line dance. Or hop on one foot. He imagined the entire advancing army of the Enemy of Death, hopping into battle on a single foot.

  A small, crazed giggle escaped his mouth. Tamara looked over at him, worriedly.

  Nothing like your Evil Overlord cracking up, he thought and then had to tamp down another completely inappropriate burst of nervous laughter.

  That was when the path took a sudden turn and he saw it — a massive building of gray stone. It looked old and weathered by years and sea air. Two crescent-shaped doors formed the entrance; set high on one of the doors was a knocker in the shape of a human head. The archway was carved with words in Latin. ULTIMA FORSAN. ULTIMA FORSAN. ULTIMA FORSAN.

  “What does it mean?” Call wondered aloud.

  “It means ‘the time is closer than you think,’ ” said the leader. “Master.”

  “I think it means something about the last hour,” Tamara said. “My Latin isn’t great.”

  Call looked at her, puzzled. “It means ‘the time is closer than you think.’ ”

  Jasper looked surprised. “That’s right. It does.”

  “Call, why’d you ask if you already knew?” Aaron said.

  “Because I didn’t know until he told me!” Call said, exasperated. He pointed at the leader of the Chaos-ridden. “Didn’t you hear him?”

  There was another horrible silence. “Call,” Tamara said slowly. “Are you saying those things are talking to you? We knew you were talking to them but haven’t heard them talking back.”

  “Mostly him,” Call said, jabbing a finger toward the leader, who looked impassive. “But yeah. I can hear them talking and — didn’t you hear him back in the clearing? When he called me ‘master’?”

  Tamara shook her head. “They’re not saying words,” she said quietly. “Just mumbling and groaning.”

  “And making weird sounds like muffled screams,” put in Aaron.

  “It sounds like they’re speaking perfect English to me,” said Call.

  “That’s because you’re like them,” Jasper spat. “Their souls are all hollowed out and they’re nothing inside and neither are you
. You’re nothing but the Enemy.”

  “The Enemy made these creatures,” Aaron said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “He would have had to understand them because they served him. And you understand them because …”

  “Because I am him,” said Call. It wasn’t anything they didn’t know, just another horrible piece of proof. “I’m so creepy I’m creeping myself out,” he muttered.

  “Master,” said the leader. “Your tomb awaits.”

  He clearly expected Call to step up to the huge mausoleum and walk right in. And Call was going to have to. This was their destination. This was where Master Joseph was going to meet Alastair.

  Call squared his shoulders and started toward the door. Havoc bounced along beside him, clearly in his element. Behind Havoc came Aaron, Tamara, and Jasper.

  “Oh, my God,” he heard Tamara say in a horrified voice. It took him a second to realize what she was reacting to. What he had taken for a door knocker in the shape of a head was actually a real, severed human head, mounted on the door like the head of a deer.

  It had belonged to a girl, a girl who didn’t look much older than the rest of them. A girl who must have been killed recently; she would barely look dead at all if it wasn’t for the fact that the skin around the base of her neck was cut raggedly across. Her mahogany hair, blown by the wind, whipped around her oddly familiar face.

  Tears sprang to Tamara’s eyes, rolling over her cheeks. She wiped them with the back of her hand but otherwise didn’t even seem to notice that they were falling. “It can’t be,” she said, walking closer to the door.

  Call felt like he’d seen the girl’s face before — but where? Maybe at the party at the Rajavi estate? Maybe she was one of Tamara’s friends? But why would her head be displayed here, like a grisly trophy?

  “Verity Torres,” Jasper said quietly, the words coming out almost like a whisper. “They never found her body.”

  Call was struck by how lost Aaron looked, shivering in his thin shirt. Staring at the last Makar who’d defended the Magisterium. If he’d lived a generation earlier, this would’ve been him. His head nailed up there as a terrible warning.

  “No.” Aaron blinked hard, like he could dispel the vision in front of him. “No, it can’t be her. It can’t.”

  Call felt like he was going to throw up.

  Then the eyes on the head opened to show milky marbles without pupil or iris.

  Tamara gave a little cry. Jasper put a hand over his mouth.

  The dead lips moved, and words came out. “As my name means truth, I assure you I am what remains of Verity Torres. Here sleep the dead, and the dead guard them. If you desire entrance, three riddles I will ask you. Answer them correctly and you may go inside.”

  Call looked at the others helplessly. He’d been counting on the fact that he was Constantine Madden to get them into the building, but the head of Verity Torres obviously didn’t recognize him.

  “Riddles,” Tamara said in a quavering voice. “Fine. We can do riddles.”

  “What do you call something that’s not behind you?” the girl asked in an odd voice that didn’t quite line up with the way her mouth moved.

  “Oh, no, that’s not funny,” Call said. “That’s not a good joke.”

  “What are you talking about?” Aaron asked. “What’s the answer? In front?”

  Tamara looked even more upset. “Ahead,” she said. “A head. Get it?”

  Verity Torres laughed a croaky little laugh. There was no laughter in her eyes, though; they stayed white and blank.

  “Who did this to you?” Aaron asked suddenly. “Who?”

  “It had to be Master Joseph,” said Tamara. “Constantine had already left the battlefield by then. He was in the caves at the Cold Massacre —”

  “Busy stealing other people’s bodies to live in,” Jasper interrupted. And even though the words cut, Call was staggered with relief that Constantine Madden couldn’t have done this horrific thing; that he had been busy being reborn as Callum. Of course, the Enemy had done other terrible things. But not this.

  “That wasn’t a true riddle,” the head said, ignoring Aaron’s question. “That was just for practice.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Jasper said, babbling with terror. “We’ve got to go.”

  “Go where?” Aaron demanded. “There’s hundreds of Chaos-ridden behind us.” He squared his shoulders. “Ask away.”

  “So we begin,” Verity said. “What begins and has no end, yet is the ending of all that begins?”

  “Death,” Call said. That one was easy. He was glad. Good at riddles was nowhere on the Evil Overlord list.

  There was a clicking, grinding noise, a bolt on the inside of the door sliding back.

  “Now the second riddle. I wear you down, yet you will mourn me once I fly. You can kill me, but I will never die.”

  The Enemy himself, Call thought. But that wasn’t a good riddle answer, was it?

  They exchanged looks. It was Tamara who spoke.

  “Time,” she said.

  Another scraping noise. “And now the last,” said Verity. “Take it and you will lose or gain more than all others. What is it?”

  Silence. Call’s mind was racing. Lose or gain, lose or gain. Riddles were always about something bigger than they seemed to be. Love, death, wealth, fame, life. There was no sound but the distant moaning of the Chaos-ridden and Call’s own breath. Until a sharp, shaking voice cut through the quiet.

  “Risk,” said Jasper.

  The head of Verity Torres let out a disappointed sigh, those terrible eyes closed, and there was a last clicking noise. The door swung open. Call could see nothing beyond it but shadows. He was shaking suddenly, colder than he’d ever been in his life.

  Risk.

  He looked back at Aaron and Tamara, took a deep breath, and stepped over the threshold.

  The tomb was dimly lit by stones along the wall that reminded Call of the glowing rocks inside the Magisterium. He was able to pick out a corridor leading to what looked like five chambers.

  Turning back, he glanced at the assemblage of horrible, staring figures with their coruscating eyes. The leader fixed his gaze on Call.

  Call tried to make his voice firm. “Remain here, children of chaos. I will return.”

  They bent their heads as one. Disturbingly, Call saw that Havoc was among them. His wolf had also bent his head. A wave of sadness overwhelmed him — what if Havoc had only stuck by him because he’d had to? Because that was what he’d been created to do? The idea was more than Call thought he could bear.

  “Call?” Tamara called. She was partway down the hallway, Aaron and Jasper beside her. “I think you better come see this.”

  He looked back at the army. Was he being ridiculous, not bringing at least one of them to protect him? He pointed to the leader. “Except you. You come with me.”

  Trying to push Havoc out of his thoughts, he limped inside the mausoleum. The leader of the Chaos-ridden followed him, and Call watched as he shut the doors carefully behind them, blocking out the outside world.

  The leader turned around and looked expectantly at Call, awaiting instructions. “You’re going to follow me,” Call said. “Protect me if anyone tries to hurt me.” A nod. “Do you have a name?”

  The Chaos-ridden shook his head.

  “Fine,” Call said, “I’m going to call you Stanley. It’s weird if you don’t have a name.”

  Stanley had no reaction to this, so Call turned and started down the hall. He was halfway along the corridor when he heard Tamara call his name again. “Call! You need to come see this.”

  Call hurried to catch up with her. He found her with Aaron and Jasper, huddled in front of an alcove. As he and Stanley approached, they moved aside, letting Call have a clear view.

  Inside the alcove was a marble slab … and on top of the marble slab was the body of a dead boy with a mop of dark brown hair. His eyes were shut, his arms at his sides. His body was perfectly preserved, but he was c
learly dead. His skin was waxy white, and his chest didn’t rise or fall. Though someone had dressed him in white funeral clothes, he still wore the wristband marking him as a student in his Copper Year.

  Carved on the wall behind him was his name: Jericho Madden. Piled around the body was an assortment of strange objects. A ratty-looking blanket beside a bunch of notebooks and dusty tomes, a small glowing ball that seemed to be almost depleted of its charge, a golden knife and a ring emblazoned with a sigil Call didn’t recognize.

  “Of course,” Tamara whispered. “The Enemy of Death wouldn’t have built a tomb for himself. He didn’t think he was going to die. He built this place for his brother. Those are his grave goods.”

  Aaron stared in fascination.

  Call couldn’t speak. He felt something twist inside him, the yearning ache of something he’d hoped to feel when he saw his mother’s handprint in the Hall of Graduates. A connection to love and family and the past. He couldn’t stop staring at the boy on the slab and remembering the stories he had heard: This was the brother Constantine had wanted to resurrect, the brother whose loss led him to experiment with the void and create the Chaos-ridden, the brother whose death had caused him to make death itself his enemy.

  Call wondered if he would ever love anyone that much, to forswear everything else for him, to want to burn down the world to get him back.

  “They were so young,” said Aaron. “Jericho had to be our age. And Verity was just a little older. Constantine never even made it out of his twenties.”

  The Mage War had consumed all of them like a fire. It was horrible to think about — but at the same time, Call had never heard anyone say Constantine’s name with such compassion before.

  Of course it was Aaron. He had compassion for everyone.

  “Over here,” said Jasper. He’d wandered a little farther down the corridor and was staring into another alcove. The strange glowing stones along the walls cast an eerie light over his face. “Someone we know.”

  Call knew who they would find before he got there. A skinny boy with stick-straight brown hair and freckles, his blue eyes closed forever.