“Don’t get me wrong,” said Arti. “I want to help. It’s just that…I’m not special. I don’t know anything about being a knight or a scribe or what the future should be. What if I wasn’t supposed to pull the words from the tome? Maybe I just got lucky. Maybe it made a mistake.”
“I understand your misgivings,” said Merl, “but it’s no good questioning the tome’s decision. Any good librarian knows the reader doesn’t choose the book, the book chooses the reader. The Grail Tome picked you; the task is yours. When the final page is all that remains, you must write it.”
Arti blew out a long breath. “How long would it take for the other pages to be filled—if they weren’t burned away, I mean?”
“I can’t be sure,” said Merl. “The words are coming faster with each passing day. At best, we have a few weeks. Not near as much time as I’d hoped to prepare you.”
“Prepare me? What do you mean?”
“I must teach you how to scribe. After we take the book from Morgan, you have to write The History’s final page.”
“But the Grail Tomes are written in Old Ferencian. I don’t know that language.”
“You don’t need to.” Merl lugged the damaged book away, setting it gently inside the rear bench of the motorhome before sitting down on its cushioned lid.
“In the years following Morgan’s betrayal, I looked for a way—any way—to set things right. I researched the Order and the scribes who penned the Grail Tomes. My investigation took me to the four corners of the world: North and South Verin; Astenga, and Crent; to the Great Hall of Parmell; and, of course, the Scriptorium in Ference where the books were born. Fact and myth are history’s bedfellows; it’s hard to wake one without disturbing the other. But, bit by bit, I pieced together the story of the tomes—and the two pens that wrote them.
“They were wielded by the most gifted scribes of the ancient world—an Astengan mystic named Merrill and a Crentian called Wyzera, or The Wizard. The pens translated their writers’ thoughts into Old Ferencian, each word and phrase and sentence perfect. But a pen of power will answer to only one living writer. It was true then, as it is now.
“Morgan has a Grail Tome, so we must assume she has Wyzera’s pen and that she’s able to wield it. The other has been safely hidden by the Order for millennia. It’s here on the island, Arti, and I’m going to take you to its keeper.”
Gal had heard enough. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere but home. You’re nuts!”
“You can’t go home,” countered Merl. “It isn’t safe. You’re just lucky I found you before Morgan did.” He patted the bench below him and mumbled, “It must have worked, after all.”
“But I have to go back,” insisted Arti. “I need to get something—it’s really important. Please.”
Merl saw the desperation in the girl’s eyes and puffed in frustration. “Alright,” he relented. “We’ll stop there after you get the pen, but you’ll have to be quick about it.” He waived his finger at them. “In and out.”
Arti sat in the passenger seat, Gal propped between her and Merl on the wide center console. The motorhome’s engine rumbled to life, and blue smoke bellowed from its rusty tailpipe, filling the garage. Even with the windows closed, oily fumes assaulted their senses. Arti coughed, eliciting memories of the night she escaped her burning home, echoes of fear and sadness and loss. She choked back the emotions with the exhaust, energized by the renewed hope Merl had given her. If she could take the complete Grail Tome from Morgan Fay and write its final page, she could change the future and save her parents. She prayed it wasn’t too late.
“Her name is Vivian, and she’s the oldest surviving member of our Order,” said Merl, driving the vehicle slowly from the garage, careful of the large protruding mirrors on each side. “She has a little shop at the end of the island on the lakeshore. She…doesn’t like me very much. Blames me for all Morgan has done.” He paused, clearly troubled by the verdict. “I told her that if I ever found the one who could pass The Test, I would send him…” Merl glanced apologetically at Arti, “I mean her for the pen. I expect she’ll want to question you.” He frowned. “To make sure I haven’t made another mistake.”
The motorhome passed the dealership’s main building, burping more smoke as it rolled onto Center Street’s bumpy asphalt. Two more left turns had them heading east on Water Street. The narrow beach at Smugglers Bay appeared on the right, just below a hill peppered with reeds. A little farther on, warehouses replaced the vegetation, trucks loading and unloading goods in steady streams from long docks jutting out into the wide Avalon River. Traffic flowed to and from the main arteries of Hill and Bay Streets, the most direct routes from Isle’s southern shore to the East and West Bridges that crossed the Coin Canal into Main.
Halfway down Water Street, they passed the Cauldron, Big Billy Johnson’s arena where Arti and Gal had seen the young man fight. Arti remembered how handsome he was and how he moved like a dancer.
“That’s where we saw The Poet,” she said, pointing across the street at the huge warehouse. “The one with the tattoo.” Merl glanced out his side window at the massive building but said nothing, his silence making Arti believe he thought the young man’s presence on the island was mere coincidence.
Passing Billings Bay and the old Fisherman’s Wharf, the street narrowed to one lane. A large tilted sign marked the final intersection at Park Avenue. Gal read the words out loud: “Dead. End.”
They drove to the very tip of the island where the Avalon River opened into Lake Ogden. An old home stood at the water’s edge behind a pair of towering oaks. It was a neat two-story board and batten painted bright blue with white shutters. A sign hung from a post at the end of the walkway leading to the house: Lakeside Antiquities.
As Merl turned the motorhome around—a task made difficult by the narrowness of the roadway—Gal pointed to a car parked next the house.
“Holy crap!” she said. “That’s a F’rencian Charger! I ain’t never seen one before—‘cept in pit’chers.” The sleek white sports car sat low to the ground, wide tires hugging chrome rims, angled windows tinted black, its contoured body exuding shark-like grace and ferocity.
“They gave one of those away on Eyes on the Prize last year,” said Arti. “They’re r-e-a-l expensive.”
Merl took note of the car as he edged the motorhome up to the end of the walkway, stopping in front of the sign. “What are you going to tell her?” he asked, for the third time.
Arti sighed. “That you sent me for the pen.”
“And?”
“I should answer all of her questions.”
“Good,” said Merl, nodding anxiously. “We’ll wait for you here and keep watch.”
“You’re not coming in?”
“No,” said Merl. “I told you, Vivian wouldn’t be very happy to see me. I’d just be in the way.”
Gal shuffled across the seat behind Arti. “I’m goin’ with her.”
“That’s not a good idea,” growled Merl. “You’ll only—” Before he could finish, Gal had already jumped out of the vehicle, winking back at him as she slammed the door.
Arti paused next the signpost and took a deep breath. The last time she was this nervous she had to do a presentation in front of her class at school—and it had not gone well. Gal waited beside her, pretending not to notice how uneasy her friend was. As a distraction, she pointed her finger up at the sign and asked, “What’s that word?”
“An-ti-qui-ties,” said Arti. “It means old things. She sells them.”
Gal scowled, “Who’d wanna buy somethin’ old?”
Arti smiled at her and started toward the house. She knocked on the white paneled door and was answered by a woman with a thick accent. “Come in. We’re open.”
The entrance led to a hallway with a hardwood floor covered in old rugs. There were objects everywhere, pottery and lamps, wooden trunks, and pieces of blown glass. A tall grandfather clock was nestled in the corner just below a set of stairs leading up to the
second floor. A brass pendulum swung back and forth behind an etched glass window below the clock’s gold face.
An archway framed by painted moldings joined the hallway to the next room. Small tables were scattered about the space, covered in an assortment of merchandise made of metal, wood, and porcelain. It took a while before Arti noticed the woman leaning over a long, narrow counter adjacent to the far wall with a large aquarium at its end. Bubbles percolated up through the water, and brightly colored fish dodged between rocks and weeds sticking up from the glass tank’s pebbled bottom.
The woman was no taller than Gal, with silver hair tied back at her neck. Her attention was on a gold ring propped on the counter which she inspected through a tiny lens held over one eye. With her other hand, she grasped a small tool, guiding a sparkling red gem pinched at its tip toward the ring’s setting.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said, concentrating on the task.
As they waited, Arti noticed Gal eyeing a glittering blue sapphire pendant with a delicate gold chain hanging from a hook next the archway. She had seen the same look in her friend’s eyes on many occasions—just before something of value disappeared into her pocket. Arti glared at Gal, shaking her head slowly and mouthing the word, “NO.”
“A beautiful piece,” said the woman. “I can see why it caught your attention.” Emerald green eyes smiled up at Arti. “Would you like me to take it down for you?”
“Um…no thanks.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can help you with, please ask. My name is Vivian.”
“I know.” Arti’s throat was suddenly dry. “Merl sent me for the…pen.”
The woman’s demeanor changed immediately. Kindness became caution, warmth suspicion.
“Has he now?” Without lowering her eyes, she set the lens and tool aside. “What’s your name?”
“Arti. Arti Penderhagen.”
“And your friend?”
“That’s Gal.”
“And where is Merl?” asked Vivian.
“He’s waiting outside,” answered Arti. “He thought I should see you alone. But…Gal…um…insisted on coming with me.”
“He’s afraid of you,” blurted Gal. Vivian couldn’t help but smile at her candidness.
“Come closer, Arti,” said Vivian. Arti did as she was told, carefully navigating among the tables until she was standing next the counter.
“You say Merl sent you for the pen. That means you passed The Test.” Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, what did you have to do?”
“I had to pull the words from the tome, the book Merl saved from the library.”
Vivian leaned toward Arti. Although small in stature, the movement made her as intimidating as a giant.
“And what did you see that others have not?”
Arti took a nervous step back. “It was the oath of the Knights of Maren…in Old Ferencian. I didn’t know what it meant until Merl told me.”
“The oath! Of course!” said Vivian. “So simple. So…perfect.”
The old woman studied Arti, appraising her, searching for a hint of deceit. Finding none, she smiled and said, “Well then, there’s no sense wasting time.”
Vivian edged her way along the counter and passed behind the aquarium. With her features distorted by the water and glass, she reached down and retrieved a small wooden box. Setting it down on the counter, she waived Arti closer.
“I’ve kept the pen for a very long time. It once belonged to Merrill of Astenga, one of the Grail scribes.” She removed the box’s lid. “This is Excalibri.” Vivian lifted the pen from the container, offering it to Arti. Gal squeezed in beside her to get a better look.
Made of bright, shining silver, it was shaped like a miniature sword, with a tiny pommel, hilt, and guard at its top, the “blade” tapering to a sharp vented nib. Arti reached out to take the pen, and the instant it touched her hand she felt a sudden pulse of energy, a warm burst of light that startled her. Gal felt it too, jumping back as if she’d been shocked.
“W…what was that?” asked Arti, afraid to move. “What just happened?”
“There’s nothing to fear,” Vivian assured her, satisfied with the result. “That was the final proof I needed. The bond is made. The pen and your will are one.”
Arti turned Excalibri from side to side, examining it from every angle, admiring its beauty and craftsmanship. It felt so light and balanced, as if it had been made for her hand. She held it out for Gal to look at.
“Cool,” she said.
“You hold it well,” approved Vivian. “Like a true scribe of old.” She retrieved something else from below the counter. The small spherical container was made of the same silver as the pen, with a hinged top. On it was engraved a cup identical to the one found on the Grail Tome’s cover.
“This is Excalibri’s well,” said Vivian. “But the ink inside lacks one important ingredient. Do you remember the Knight’s oath?”
“Yes,” said Arti. “‘The book is my shield, the pen is my sword, the ink is my blood.’”
Vivian pulled back the inkwell’s lid. “Give me your hand.”
Gently grasping Arti’s index finger, and holding it over the mouth of the container, Vivian withdrew a pin from a drawer beneath the countertop. “Just a little prick,” she warned. “It won’t hurt.”
Arti pulled away. “What for?”
“The ink is your blood, Arti. Without it, Excalibri cannot write.”
Arti offered her hand again, wincing as Vivian poked her fingertip, directing a small drop of blood into the silver sphere.
“There. Done,” she said, closing the lid. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
Arti sucked on her finger as Vivian returned the pen to its case, setting it beside the inkwell.
“The pendant comes with them,” said Vivian. She smiled at Gal and nodded at the archway. “Well, go ahead.”
Gal hastily weaved her way through the cluttered tables to where the jewel was hanging. She carefully took it down, coiling the delicate gold chain in her hand, admiring the sparkling blue gem.
“Thanks,” she said. “I won’t sell it. I promise.”
Vivian ushered the girls to the door. “You have much to do, and little time. Best you were on your way.” She looked out at Merl waiting in the motorhome, and Arti could see her regret.
“I’ve been pretty hard on him. Would you do me a favor and tell him I’m sorry? He found you, after all.”
Arti nodded, and Vivian hugged her. Afraid she might be subjected to the same treatment, Gal stepped back and stiffly offered her hand. The old woman laughed as she shook it.
As Arti and Gal walked from the house, Vivian called after them. “Good luck, girls.” She watched until they were almost to the road, then she spoke to someone standing behind her at the top of the stairs.
“Were you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Follow them.”
As soon as Arti and Gal got back in the motorhome Merl started spewing questions. “Well? What happened? What did she say? Did…did you get it?”
Arti cradled the pen and inkwell in her lap. “I got it. The pen and the ink.
“Ink? Yes, off course, I never thought of that.”
“And she says she’s sorry,” added Gal.
Merl turned the key in the ignition. “She said that? Really?” He looked back at the house, but the door was closed.
His questions continued, and Arti told him everything, repeating every detail of the short visit with Vivian—between Gal’s directions to the school. Merl was particularly impressed by the blood ritual.
“I never came across anything about that in my research. I wonder how she knew.”
A cough from Gal interrupted his musings. She pointed down the street. “That’s it up there. Go by a bit. We’ll go in the back way.”
“I don’t like this,” said Merl. “Make it fast.”
The motorhome rolled up to the cracked curb next an overgrown yard at the rear of t
he school. Arti placed the pen and inkwell inside the glove box and jumped out, with Gal following close behind. Entering the building through the squeaky rear door, they hurried down the hallway past the gymnasium, turning toward the main office and the records room in back of it. Gal untangled the key from the sapphire pendant hanging around her neck and bent to unlock the heavy steel door, pushing down on its warped handle. As soon as it swung open, she went straight to the lamp on the table and lit it. Then she grabbed a canvas bag from the floor next her bed.
“I’ll pocket the coin,” she said, “and bring some food. We’re only takin’ what we need; everythin’ else stays.”
Arti nodded, but it was the letter from her parents she had come for. We love you. Mom and Dad. She removed the letter from a folder on the file cabinet and carefully slid it into the front pocket of her hoodie, before stuffing some supplies into the duffel bag.
Holding the lamp in one hand, her tied-off canvas bag in the other, Gal paused in the doorway, looking back at the room that had been her home for over two years. Arti could see how hard it was for her to abandon it.
“We’ll come back someday, Gal,” she promised.
“Ain’t no big deal,” said Gal, her voice unsteady. She shut off the lamp and set it gently on the floor, pulling the door closed behind them.
As the girls turned the corner to the main hallway leading outside, they saw a tall figure standing at the exit. Arti’s heart leapt into her throat. That same dark profile had blocked her way once before.
“It’s him! It’s the Flame!”
The Incendi captain wore no disguise, his presence in the jet-black uniform and fedora a clear violation of the truce between Morgan Fay’s Corporation and Big Billy Johnson’s island syndicate. Gal spun around, ready to lead Arti back the way they’d come, knowing the window next the main office offered another way out. But a quick glance around the corner revealed three more Incendi troopers armed with lighters closing on them from that direction. They were trapped.
As he passed through a wide shaft of light coming from one of the classrooms, Arti could see the officer’s face below the angled cap. It looked as cold and hard as marble. “You must be the one who helped her get away last time,” he said to Gal. “You’ll pay for that.”
The Book Knights Page 9
