The Black Reckoning

by John Stephens

  And perhaps it was the mention of the old sorcerer’s loved ones, the memory of whom was still so fresh in Emma’s mind, but the tide of feeling inside her could no longer be denied. She had been scared and alone and exhausted for too long. She finally had an ally, someone to bear part of the burden. Her body began to shake with sobs.

  She wiped at her tears, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll stop. It’s just…”

  “Have no fear, child. It is reasonable you might cry. The others will not perceive the true cause. But every moment now is crucial.”

  Emma took several deep, trembling breaths and gathered herself.

  “Right…so give me the book, and I’ll kill him!”

  The old man gave a small shake of his head.

  “The Dire Magnus is no mere man. If you attempt to kill him and fail, we are finished. You will have only one chance, and you must be able to command the full power of the Reckoning. That is why I have to complete the Bonding. The book will then acknowledge you as its Keeper.”

  “But the Countess killed a bunch of giants, and she wasn’t bound to the book! Why do I have to be?!”

  It surprised her that he actually intended to complete the Bonding, that it hadn’t been simply a ploy to gain time. And it surprised her as well how much the idea scared her. Though the truth was, for days now, whenever she’d thought about the Reckoning, she’d felt a shiver of fear. In her typical fashion, she’d done her best to ignore it. But then she’d touched the book, heard all the voices trapped inside, and her fear had grown a hundredfold. What would it mean to be bound to such a thing? What might the book demand of her? Take from her? Emma didn’t know, and she didn’t want to know.

  “The Bonding is necessary because there has never before been a creature like the Dire Magnus. He wears the spirits of his former selves like armor. The book’s full force must be brought to bear. You must trust me!”

  Emma knew that she had no choice. She gave him a short nod.

  Abruptly, the old man leaned on his staff, tears welling in his eyes.

  “Forgive me, child. It is the memories. You have given me back those I loved most in life, and I am undone.” He reached out and laid a hand on her arm. “I am thankful you judged me worthy.” He stopped, looking at her. “What is it?”

  For the old man’s words, seemingly innocent, had called back something the Countess had said after Emma had first explained her plan. The witch had asked if Emma knew there was a second meaning of the word reckoning.

  “Yeah. It means a judgment.”

  “Exactly,” the Countess had said, “and there is a legend, whispered through the centuries, that the Keeper of the Reckoning will judge the dead. But how? What if, as you seem to believe, some remnant of the dead is stored in the book—their voices, their memories—and it falls to you to separate the just from the unjust, the good from the evil? I do not say your plan will not succeed. But I suspect there is more to mastering the Reckoning than you imagine.”

  At the time, Emma had brushed aside the notion; she’d only been concerned with what could help her kill the Dire Magnus. What did she know, or care, about judging the dead? But the old man had thanked her for judging him worthy! Why? She hadn’t done anything. At least, she didn’t think so.

  The old sorcerer had already moved on, his voice a dry whisper.

  “Remember, child, all is lost if the others suspect I am with you. During the Bonding, I must be as brutal as the Dark One himself.”

  “But what did you mean about judging you worthy?”

  His gray eye stared at her, searching. “Pym didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what? He didn’t tell me anything!”

  “Child”—he gripped her arm fiercely—“you must judge them! That is the task of the Keeper! The Bonding will unite you with the book, but to truly wield its power, you must judge them all! Pym should have told you!”

  “But he didn’t! What’re you—”

  That was as far as she got, for just then the rat-faced necromatus arrived carrying a short-legged table, and the old sorcerer forced her roughly to the ground.

  The table was placed before her. The tall guard stepped behind her and gripped her shoulders. Things were moving fast now, too fast. What did he mean, she had to judge them? Judge who, the dead? How? And why hadn’t Dr. Pym told her? Had he not known? Or had he planned to tell her but died before he’d gotten the chance?

  The old sorcerer laid the Reckoning open on the table, and Emma stared down at the blank page and imagined she saw the words appearing, as they had back in the cave, Release them, and imagined too that she could hear the millions of clamoring voices.

  You must judge them.

  The old man held out his hand, and the tall guard passed him Michael’s knife.

  “Wait,” Emma said, alarmed now. “What’re you doing with that?”

  “The actual Bonding is simple,” the sorcerer said. “Though painful. We must ensure your hand stays on the page.”

  He gestured, and the tall guard grabbed Emma’s wrist and held her hand poised over the book. The old sorcerer gave the knife to the rat-faced necromatus, who took it, smiling, and stepped to the table.

  “Wait!” The fear was rising fast inside her. “Just—just wait!” She looked at the old sorcerer, but his face was empty, a mask.

  The rat-faced man raised the knife. “Yes,” he sneered, “scream.”

  And before Emma could cry out, before she could utter a word, the guard forced her palm onto the page, and the knife plunged down, through the back of her hand, and pinned it to the book.

  —

  Emma scarcely felt the knife going in. Partly, that was because of the sharpness of the blade. But more so, it was because the moment she touched the book, the magic surged through her, and millions of voices, millions of lives, threatened to tear her apart. Second by second, she could feel herself losing touch with who she was, as if she stood on a beach and the sand was disappearing beneath her feet, and there was nothing but emptiness below….

  Then, abruptly, she was back, on her knees in the dust of the arena. She had somehow managed to pull her hand off the page, though she’d done so only by sliding it farther up the blade of the knife. She could see the blood dripping down.

  Then the rat-faced man struck the pommel of the knife with his fist, driving it deeper into the wood of the table so that the knife’s metal guard pinned her hand to the page, and again she felt the magic rising up, and along with it the voices, overwhelming her, drowning her. She tried to push them back, to fight them, but it was too much. She could feel herself breaking apart—

  Then—again—she was back, on her knees beside the pit. Acting on simple animal instinct, she’d managed to loosen the knife by jerking her arm back and forth, though doing so had made the gash in her hand even wider.

  The rat-faced necromatus cursed and lunged forward.

  In the moment before he reached her, Emma looked up, searching for the face of the old sorcerer—she didn’t care who knew that he was helping her; she needed him to do something, say something to stop this—and she saw, stepping from one of the passageways with Dr. Pym at his side, Gabriel.

  She had to be dreaming; it couldn’t be Gabriel, the living couldn’t enter the world of the dead! But it was him! Which could mean only one thing—that he had somehow found a way in! Wasn’t this exactly what she’d hoped and prayed for since she’d arrived in this terrible place? He wasn’t dead, she knew that; he couldn’t be dead! Gabriel, her friend and protector, had found a way to enter the world of the dead so he could come to her when she needed him most, and seeing him—as the rat-faced man hammered the top of the knife, forcing her hand to the page—Emma’s heart filled with love.

  The magic rose up, the millions of voices and lives crashed over her, but she held on to her love for Gabriel the way a person falling from a ship might cling to driftwood; she held on to it knowing that she had to, that it was her only safety, and the wave passed and she was st
ill there, still herself; and she found herself thinking of Kate, as if her love for Gabriel had led her naturally to it, and from there, she thought of Michael, and how much she loved him, loved everything about him, and the voices still howled, but the ground below her was solid now and secure, she could stand on it, she knew who she was, and the love she had for those three was the very basis and bedrock of her life.

  She opened her eyes and saw the handle of the knife sticking out of the back of her hand, the dark red blood pooling over the page and running onto the table, and the pain didn’t matter, and the thronging, shouting voices didn’t touch her.

  Gabriel and Dr. Pym were still standing at the mouth of the tunnel, not moving any closer. The old white-eyed sorcerer was leaning forward, watching her intently. She sensed motion above her and saw huge black birds landing around the arena.

  She understood then why the book had shown her Nanny Marge; understood why it had shown her the old man’s father and wife and son, and why both Harold Barnes and the old sorcerer had been judged worthy. She understood how she was to judge all the lives contained in the book.

  It was a question she had to ask; she had only to shape it in her mind, and the fate of each life would ride on the answer.

  And she thought again of the message the book had given her: Release them.

  She looked at Gabriel, and he stood there, his eyes dull, not knowing her, and she knew the truth then, the truth she wanted so badly to push away; and she felt his love for her, for it was there in the book, among all those millions of other lives; and she felt how that love had been the cornerstone of his life, and more than anything, more even than killing the Dire Magnus, she wanted him to remember that.

  Go, she thought, and the memory flowed out of the book and through her.

  And she felt the storm of voices raging, stronger than ever, all clamoring, begging for release.

  She heard the rat-faced man shouting:

  “Something’s happening. We must throw her in the pit! Now!”

  The knife was yanked out, but she kept her hand pressed down flat and hard, the blood wet and thick between her hand and the page, and even as the tall guard reached down and seized her wrist, she formed the question in her mind, and somewhere deep inside the book, a key turned in a lock.

  The memories poured forth, out of the book, out of her, and though it felt like an eternity, she knew it only took an instant, and then her hand fell away and she collapsed on the ground. She could hear screaming and shouting, the sounds of cages being broken open. She sensed the rat-faced necromatus dragging her toward the pit; then something knocked the man down. It was the old white-eyed sorcerer; he was wrestling with the man. She saw the other necromati fleeing as the dead broke free from their cages, and many of the guards were now joining the prisoners as the crowd flooded the arena; and Emma realized she was cradling the book in her good hand while the other throbbed and bled, and then Gabriel was there, lifting her into his arms, just as he had so many times before, and Emma wanted to tell him that it was love, that was the standard on which the dead were judged, that was the reckoning, but she didn’t say it because she couldn’t speak, because the truth she’d realized moments before was that Gabriel hadn’t found some secret way into the world of the dead, there was only one way into the world of the dead, one way his memories could’ve gotten into the book, and she pressed her face against his chest and sobbed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Michael’s Army

  Kate opened her eyes and sat up. Both proved to be mistakes. Pain shot through her skull, and she groaned.

  “Easy now, girl. Easy.”

  She was back on her cot in the tent. It was dark outside, but a small lantern on the floor gave up a dim, yellow light. On Michael’s cot, leaning forward and offering her something in his hand, was the burly form of Hugo Algernon.

  “Drink this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “What—”

  “Kidding. It’s water. You’ve had fever. Drink.”

  She did; the water was cool and tasted marvelous.

  “Those children on the beach…”

  “Both fine.” He chuckled. “More than you can say for that Imp you skewered. That was a good one. Like something Clare would’ve done.”

  “Clare…”

  “Your mother. She always had a spark in her.”

  Kate nodded, but wondered if he was just saying that to make her feel better. As it was, it did make her feel better.

  “What about the others? In the attack?”

  “All taken care of. There was only a single raider. How’s your noodle?”

  Kate felt the back of her head. It was still tender from where it had struck the rock, though she knew that wasn’t why she’d passed out. “Fine.”

  “So,” Hugo Algernon said, “how much have you told your brother about what’s going on?”

  Kate looked at him sharply. The lamp on the floor cast shadows across his face, and she couldn’t see his eyes. How could he possibly know about Rafe appearing to her?

  But he went on, and she realized what he actually meant:

  “The boy knows you’re having trouble controlling the Atlas. You said as much yourself. Have you told him the rest? What it feels like?”

  Kate shrugged. “A little. He feels some of it too.”

  “But not like you do.”

  Kate shook her head.

  Hugo Algernon grunted. “It’ll get worse. For both of you.”

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  Kate hadn’t forgotten what Rafe had told her in the land of the giants, his warning about the damage the Books were causing, but she found she needed to hear it from someone else.

  Hugo Algernon pulled a small bottle from his pocket, uncorked it, and poured some into a cup. The biting, sour smell of spirits filled the tent. He took a sip and grimaced before speaking.

  “There’re things you need to know. You and your brother. I talked to von Klappen and she agrees.”

  Kate was surprised to hear him refer to the witch with such apparent lack of venom.

  “Yes, yes, I know. She’s an insufferable, humorless know-it-all, but she’s good at what she does.” Hugo Algernon leaned forward. “Did Pym ever caution you about not using the Books unless it was absolutely necessary?”

  Kate nodded.

  “Ever say why?”

  “Not really.”

  “What do you know about quantum mechanics?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good. Load of rubbish.”

  “What’s that got—”

  “Not a thing. Don’t interrupt. First off, you have to understand that when it’s working right, the universe is this perfectly balanced mechanism. All the pieces fitting together just so. Only, it’s fragile. And when Pym and his buddies pulled out the magic that went into the Books, they upset that balance. That’s for starters.” He leaned closer. “But this is where it becomes tricky. Because yes, the Dire Magnus is the enemy, no doubt about it. He gets hold of the Books, the Reckoning especially, he’ll wreak havoc and probably destroy the entire world. So that’s bad, and we should do something about it. But in the end, he’s not the real threat.”

  “Who is?” Kate asked quietly.

  Hugo Algernon looked at her. “You are, girl. Your family. See, the magic in the Books is still connected to the magic responsible for all this.” He made a gesture to indicate the world outside the tent. “So every time you and your brother, and soon your sister, use the Books, things get more and more out of whack. The reason you passed out is that you’re feeling how much harm you’re causing. And it’s getting worse. The universe is breaking apart at the seams.”

  “So we’ll just stop using the Books!”

  “Too late for that.”

  “But there has to be something we can do!”

  He nodded. “There is. The Books have to be destroyed.”

  “And that would fix it?”

 
“Yes. The problem is that the Books themselves are pretty much indestructible. I mean, the Chronicle was in a pool of lava for a thousand years and it doesn’t have a scratch on it.”

  “But there’s a way around that, isn’t there?” Kate’s voice was no more than a whisper.

  The man sat back, poured himself more whiskey, and took a sip. “Yeah. There’s a way.”

  And now it was Kate talking, her mind rushing forward, as it all suddenly made sense, the tearing she’d felt every time she used the Atlas, both in the world and inside herself, the true meaning of the prophecy.

  “If the magic were in something that could be destroyed—like in a person, like me, or Michael, or Emma—and we were to die, that would do it. That would fix things.”

  Hugo Algernon nodded. “The magic of the Atlas is already in you. If the Chronicle’s not inside your brother, it soon will be. And the same for the Reckoning once your sister gets it.”

  “And then we die, and the universe is fixed.” Kate felt nauseous from the closed tent, the smell of the man’s whiskey. She wanted to get away but she couldn’t, not yet. “Then…why’s the Dire Magnus even matter?”

  “I told you, he’ll try to control the power. Like turning a nuclear reactor into a nuclear bomb. And he’ll be able to, for a while. Even if it means destroying this world to create another. So we have to stop the Dire Magnus. But we also have to destroy the Books.”

  “You mean you have to kill me and my brother and sister,” Kate said coldly.

  “I didn’t say that. Von Klappen and Chu and I’ve been talking—”

  “I need to find Michael.”

  And she rushed out of the tent, into the night air, and stopped.

  She heard Hugo Algernon come out behind her.

  “Yeah, I was gonna tell you about that next.”

  The island was nearly empty. The campfires were out. The encampments, gone. The few soldiers who were still there were busy helping the refugee families load onto ships. And Kate realized that she’d been aware, the whole time she’d been talking to Hugo Algernon, of how quiet it had been outside the tent.