Little Donny placed a huge hand on the man’s shoulder and spun him around. “On your way, now,” he grumbled, closing the door behind him.
Staring through the wide window at the dark arena below, Big Billy erupted, “Flames on my turf! In uniform, no less! And in broad daylight!” He slammed a fist down on the arm of his chair. “She’s gone too far. It’s disrespect.”
Little Donny frowned and nodded his agreement. “Just to chase some kids? It don’t make no sense, Boss.”
Big Billy turned and winked at the huge man. “Good lad. That’s the meat o’ the potato. If the older girl’s a decap, she must be somethin’ special for Fay to send her Flames over.” He shook his head. “But she promised she’d never do it. That she’d stay on her side. The kid must be worth a lot to her.”
“What are you gonna do, Boss?”
“It’s an insult, my boy, and I can’t let it stand—it ain’t good for business. I’m gonna make her pay for what she wants. Send word to every one o’ my captains, from the Coin Canal to the Docks, from the Lookout to Island Park. I want the girl and old man that was drivin’ the truck, and the other kid if she’s still alive. And give all the boys fair warnin’: The Poet may be with ‘em, they should travel in numbers.”
Gal tried to rise, but the eruption of pain in her head forced her back down. She closed her eyes, begging the world to stop spinning, but was answered by the sour taste in her throat promising another torturous bout of vomiting.
A hand lifted her head gently, and she heard a woman’s quiet voice. “Lance, hand me the pail. She’s going to be sick again.”
There was something familiar about the woman’s accent, but Gal was too ill to care. She heaved violently and spit into the pail, convinced she was slowly being turned inside out. With every beat of her heart, a drumming pain pounded at her temples making her wish she was dead.
Gal’s forehead was wrapped in a cotton bandage, a spot of blood seeping through the material above her left eye. The whole side of her face was puffed out and bruised a deep purple, making it look like she was wearing a ghoulish mask. Her right arm was slung across her chest, fingers splinted and bound. Supported by Vivian’s hand, she slowly collapsed back into the bed, wary of any sudden movements that would ignite another explosion of pain. Finding the pillow, Gal lost consciousness again, and Vivian dabbed her neck gently with a wet cloth to cool her, noticing a loop of twine tied to a silver key overlapping the gold chain and sapphire pendant she had given her.
“Will she make it?” asked the young man standing helplessly next the bed.
“I’ve given her something for the pain and to reduce the swelling. The next few hours will tell.” Vivian sighed, “If there’s internal bleeding, we may lose her.”
He lowered his head. “I should have been there sooner…before he could...”
Vivian put a hand on her nephew’s arm. “It isn’t your fault, Lance.” She looked down at Gal. “I blame myself for not sending you with them. I pray it didn’t cost this child her life.”
“There is only one to blame,” said Lance. “I will find the man who did this and avenge her.” But his words carried a tinge of doubt. “He should not have survived that kick. He’s been trained, I’m sure of it. And very well.”
Together, Vivian and Lance kept vigil through the night, taking turns delicately ministering cool compresses to Gal’s neck and face to reduce the swelling and allay her fever. It was shortly after sunrise when the girl stirred.
“Water,” she mumbled. “Thirsty.”
Lance could see the relief on his aunt’s tired face. She tipped a cup to Gal’s lips. “Just a little,” she said. “You can have more, later.”
Gal squinted up at Vivian with her good eye. “Arti? Is she okay?”
“Arti is fine,” said Vivian. “Just rest. You’ll be together soon.”
Gal tilted her head slightly, noticing the young man standing behind Vivian. “I’ve seen you before. At the Cauldron.” A stab of pain forced her eye closed, and she winced. “You’re The Poet.”
“Yes,” said Lance. He could see how difficult it was for Gal to speak. “Try to rest. We can talk when you are well.”
“But there ain’t much time,” said Gal, fighting the pain battering her skull. “If you’re one of them knights, she’ll need your help. The Flame, he’s gonna kill her.”
Lance moved to the edge of the bed and rested his hand on Gal’s shoulder. “I will not let that happen.” He leaned close to her, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Paci et guarigne a coraggia.” Peace and healing to the brave.
The words were like a delicate caress; Gal lied back and drifted to sleep.
CHAPTER 15
Morgan Fay choked back her rage and fear, lips tightly pursed as if she was about to explode. Trembling, she rose unsteadily from her chair and turned to look out through the tower’s narrow window. The island in the distance mocked her.
“I ask you to do one simple task, and you fail me!” she screamed.
Mordred stood in front of Fay’s desk, head bowed, eyes averted. He slumped like he was carrying a tremendous weight, his knees about to buckle under the load.
“She had help,” he croaked, knowing the explanation would fall short. “An old man. And another…trained in the Art.”
Fay spun around as if she’d been slapped. “A knight? Are you certain?”
Mordred nodded feebly, hoping the information would temper her rage. “His kick had the strike of words. He…surprised me.”
Fay looked down at the massive tome opened on her desk. The letters continued to appear, snaking their way across the page. With each passing day, they came faster, taking The History ever closer to its conclusion. She clenched her fists and sneered at Mordred.
“I want guards posted at the castle day and night; only Victor Herrat and his staff are permitted on the grounds. Is that clear?”
Mordred nodded again.
Fay looked hard at her son. “Before the Lighting, you will find the girl and kill her. Alone.”
Mordred started to speak, but Fay cut him off. “No more words. Don’t come back until it’s done.”
The Incendi captain straightened, gritting his teeth. For a brief moment, a flash of anger ignited in his eyes, and he had to fight his desire to strike out. His mother saw the look and thought it best to soften her tone. Mordred was a weapon—her weapon—but like a trained beast answering the whip, he had a wildness that could never be completely tamed. One too many lashes, and he might turn on her.
She smiled softly and took his hand. “Please do this for me, Son. I trust only you.”
Surprised by her tenderness, Mordred’s thin face brightened. “I will, Mother,” he said. “I promise.”
Threading his way down the spiraling stone staircase, Mordred arrived on the landing next the door with its bright flame insignia and noticed Victor Herrat hastily shuffling down the hall toward him, one pudgy hand holding his cap in place, the other wrestling with the scarf trailing in his wake.
“Captain! Captain!” shrieked Herrat, giving Mordred no option but to stop.
“I have an important matter to attend to, Director,” said Mordred. “Please, make it quick.”
Herrat huffed and puffed a moment before he managed to force the words out. “Miss Degan is missing!” he cried. “Gone! No one has seen her since yesterday, and her parents are in a panic.”
“Miss Degan? Missing? Are you certain?”
“Yes,” said Herrat. “A neighbor saw her leave. With a suitcase. They found her vidlink in pieces.” He covered his face with his hands. “The Lighting. We planned on filming the ads for it tomorrow. I’m ruined!”
Mordred was stunned. Gwen Degan, a decap? He felt a sudden hollowness in his chest. The beautiful young woman he had believed in and admired was a lie. A work of fiction. How had he been fooled?
If her disappearance had come at any other time, Mordred would have gone after her, made her pay for her deceit, made her pay for his fee
lings. But the mission his mother had given him was more important; even Gwen Degan would have to wait.
“I’ll put out a warrant,” said Mordred, maintaining his composure. “I suggest you find someone else for the ads.”
Gal drifted in and out of consciousness for another day and night, with Lance and Vivian taking turns watching over her. Her left eye was ringed by a deep shade of purple, but Vivian’s careful checks on its pupil revealed no dilation, a good sign. It was under Lance’s watch that Gal finally came out of her fretful sleep.
“I’m thirsty,” she said, gently probing her bandaged brow with the fingers of her good hand.
A tired Lance nodded and poured a glass of water, lifting it slowly to her lips. She took it from him, with a painful frown. “I can do it.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked. To Gal, the handsome young man’s smile and accent seemed like remnants of a dream.
“I’m okay,” she answered, swallowing the cool liquid, experiencing the strange sense of déjà vu. “Did I talk to you before?”
“Yes, you and Lance are already acquainted,” said Vivian, stepping into the room. She looked relieved. “You were in quite a state. You look much better now, but you must take things slowly. It will be a while before you can exert yourself.”
“The Flame. I remember,” said Gal. “We were at the school. He chased us and…Arti!” She started to get up, but Lance gently restrained her.
“Your friend is well,” he assured her. “I saw her get away.”
“And I’m sure Merl is looking after her,” added Vivian. “Do you know where they might be?”
“Yeah,” said Gal, with a painful nod. “The Camel Lot, off Center Street and Cobden. He’s been there for a while. He told us it was safe.”
“He must be using the tome to hide from Fay,” said Vivian. “Good.”
Gal started to rise again. “I gotta go,” she said. “I wanna see Arti.” The sudden dizziness convinced her that it wasn’t a good idea.
“You’re not going anywhere,” said Vivian. “Lance will take you to her when I say you’re ready. Until then, you need to rest and get your strength back.” Gal frowned at the old woman but didn’t argue.
Between recurring headaches and dizziness, Gal managed to eat and drink a little. As the pain and nausea lessened and her condition improved, her inquisitiveness returned.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“I am at your disposal,” came Lance’s elegant reply. Gal thought he talked funny.
“At the Cauldron, Arti and me watched you beat The Mountain.” She looked at him suspiciously. “How’d you do it?”
Lance’s modesty made him reluctant to discuss the matter, but he knew Gal wouldn’t be put off; the girl was nothing, if not stubborn.
“The de Lac family has trained in The Verses since they were first written. You know of what I speak, having seen one of the great books yourself. My ancestors were the first Knights of Maren, named after our island home. From a small child, I learned how to use the poems to give me strength and direct my will.
“The big Parmelese man—the one I faced in the ring—was strong in body but not in mind. I had the power of words to draw upon, and he only hate and anger.” Lance couldn’t hide his shame. “It was not a fair fight, and there was no honor in my victory. I don’t know why, but Aunt Vivian thought that my appearance might draw the attention of the Challenger, the one who could wield Excalibri.” He smiled. “She was right.”
Gal found herself staring at Lance long after he finished speaking. She’d never met anyone like him. He was incredibly good looking, yes, but that was only part of his appeal; Lance’s gentle manner and kindness were what Gal was most drawn to. As she studied his handsome face, she remembered his car, the sleek white Ferencian Charger.
“Are you rich?” she asked.
Lance smiled, shyly. “My family is the wealthiest in all of Ference.”
Gal’s infatuation was complete.
The arrival of Gwen Degan at the Camel Lot had put Arti on edge, but the young woman seemed to be nothing like her sexy vidad persona. Even so, Gal’s words continued to echo in Arti’s head: Seems and is ain’t the same thing. Merl believed Gwen was an ally, magically escorted to them by a Finding Sword, but Arti wasn’t so sure. It all seemed too convenient, too coincidental.
Gwen parked her parents’ car in the end garage bay where it would be out of sight, then started constructing a model of the castle on the motorhome’s floor while Merl and Arti dug into the old librarian’s notebooks piled on the round table, searching through his reams of research, hoping to find more information on how to write with Merrill’s pen, Excalibri. But their efforts produced nothing that could add to the cryptic description from the ancient Astengan’s memoir: Forged together in truth, the pen and the will are one. Arti had no idea what it meant—if it meant anything.
“This is stupid,” she said, pushing one of the notebooks aside. “Why can’t I just dip it in the ink and write with it? How hard can it be?”
“There’s a lot more to it than that,” Merl grumbled, frustrated by Arti’s impatience. He sat back and crossed his arms. “But I can see you don’t believe me, so let’s try it your way.” He pushed a piece of paper in front of Arti, plunked the ink well down on the table above it, and nodded curtly at the pen, “Go ahead. Write something.”
Gwen stood up to watch, wondering if her so-called liege lord could accomplish the task. Regretting her protest, but not willing to lose face, Arti picked up Excalibri and adjusted it in her hand, making sure it was in the proper writing position. She carefully flipped back the lid of the ink well and very slowly dipped the pen into the container, withdrawing it with the same level of care. She held the pen over the well for a moment, just in case the precious black fluid on the point dripped. The ink stayed on the nib, and Arti took a deep breath readying herself to write.
She lifted Excalibri over the paper, lowering it slowly until its blackened point met the clean white surface. Moving the pen in a straight line, she expected to see a trail of ink in its wake, but there was nothing there; the sheet remained blank.
“What’s going on? The ink won’t come off.” Arti examined the nib, perplexed.
“I told you so,” barked Merl. “Your will is not one with the pen.”
“I don’t even know what that means!” cried Arti. She tossed the pen onto the paper (an action that made Merl cringe) and leaned back in the booth, shaking her head.
Gwen sat down beside Arti. “You can’t give up,” she said. “This is too important.” Arti just stared straight ahead, unwilling to accept her encouragement.
“I don’t know if this will help,” continued Gwen, “but when I read, I try to picture the characters—what they look and sound like. You probably think it’s strange, but I like to dream that I’m with them, that I’m in the story. That the story is…about me.” She smiled at Arti. “Do you ever do that?”
Arti glanced sideways at Gwen, “Yeah, sometimes.” The memory of sitting with her parents in their secret library under the soft warm light of the reading lamp came back to her. And they lived happily ever after.
“Then what if you tried working backwards?” said Gwen. “You know, start at being in the story, at seeing it in your mind like it’s real. Like it’s true. Maybe the pen will work. That might be what that scribe meant.”
“Yes,” said Merl. “Very good, Gwen. That’s just how Merrill described it: Forged together in truth.” He looked at Arti. “It’s worth a try.”
Arti leaned over the round table, taking Excalibri in her hand again, suspending it above the piece of paper. She closed her eyes, opening her mind, trying to bind her consciousness to the pen. But she couldn’t sustain the effort. Too many thoughts hid in the shadows, breaking her concentration, shattering her will: distrust, resentment, fear. She tried to repel them, to silence their voices, to focus on a single image. After a minute of mental struggle, Arti surrendered.
“I can’t
do it,” she said, bowing her head. “I just can’t.” She looked up at Merl and Gwen, defeated.
The old librarian slowly pulled the blank sheet of paper away and nodded at her. “We’ll figure it out,” he promised. “It’ll just take some more practice, that’s all.”
Gwen placed her hand on Arti’s shoulder. “Don’t give up.”
Arti couldn’t understand why they had such faith in her, why they believed she was the one who could defeat Morgan Fay. It was impossible to think that the future would be entrusted to her. After all, she couldn’t even save her own parents. She couldn’t save Gal.
As Arti held the image of her young friend in her mind, she experienced a strange sensation. It was much like her escape from the burning library, when she thought she heard the books speak to her. She felt herself drifting away from her seat at the round table; there was no Merl, no Gwen, no motorhome, no Camel Lot. The world around her evaporated, and she was transported to another place and time, like stepping through a misty veil.
What she saw was impossible.
From the window of the motorhome, Arti watched herself cross a grassy meadow and disappear into a forest, hood up, hands tucked in the bulging front pocket of her hoodie. It was near dark, and Merl stood in the clearing, watching her leave, glancing down at a glowing object in his gloved hands. A vidlink?
Next, she was staring down at a Grail Tome open on a desk. Unlike Merl’s book, this one was pristine, none of its pages missing or burned. The image lasted for only a moment before another vision, more ominous and terrifying, replaced it.
Looking out from behind a pitch-black door, she could see herself standing with Gwen in a hallway, next to the body of a fallen trooper. The two of them were talking, and it was obvious that something was wrong, very wrong. Arti could see utter desperation in her own eyes, a look of doom and failure that made her shiver. That fear only deepened when she heard herself speak the ominous words: “What hope do we have?”
The gut-wrenching question burned in Arti’s mind like a flaming hot ember, propelling her back to the present, returning her with a start to the confines of the motorhome, to Merl and Gwen.
The Book Knights Page 12
