“She took a blow to her head in the battle. She’s unconscious. Put her in the bed.”
As the captain lifted Lazuli from the floor, Sapphira took out a small bottle from a cabinet. Lazuli would be upset when she woke. Upset to learn that her secret was now revealed. Sapphira set the potion on the table by the bed. It would help calm her niece during the difficult discussion they were going to have.
“Your Ladyship,” the captain said, giving Pinocchio a look of disgust. “And what of the automa?”
Sapphira walked over to where the wooden boy lay on the floor. It still resembled the prester in many ways, although what had once been smooth skin now showed the grain of wood. His hair was chiseled to look like curly locks. Seams showed at his neck, wrists, and knuckles where the mechanisms inside allowed him to move. Would have allowed him to move. This automa would not move again. Not without the Pearl or whatever the alchemists put inside these contraptions to animate them.
The automa that had once disguised itself as a human boy, that had fooled them all into believing it was their prester, was finished.
“That,” Sapphira said in a near whisper, “does not belong here. Get rid of it.”
“As you wish.”
The captain pulled the sword from Pinocchio’s belt and let it clatter to the floor. He slipped the satchel off Pinocchio’s shoulders. Grabbing the wooden boy by the ankles, he dragged its body across the room and drew back the curtain. After opening the window, the sylph grunted as he hoisted Pinocchio over his shoulder.
Sapphira watched as her young captain leaned over the ledge and dropped the lifeless automa into the swirling Mist below.
Lazuli woke to a ribbon of moonlight curling across her face. She felt so groggy she nearly fell back asleep. But then she was startled by a flood of memories: the monsters attacking the palace, Pinocchio fighting them and turning back into an automa, and then the blow to her head—the last thing she remembered.
She sat up, rubbing the knot behind her ear. It was tender to the touch, and her head throbbed. She was so sleepy as well, unnaturally so. She reached out in the dark, feeling around to discern where she was. She touched an empty glass vial on the table by her bed.
“A sleeping potion,” a voice said. “You were hurt and needed to rest.”
A candelabrum glowed to life, casting a faint violet color around the room. A shadow stood before the light, turning to face Lazuli.
“Aunt Sapphira,” Lazuli breathed. “Where am I?”
“Safe in my palace,” Sapphira said, still standing in front of the candelabrum so it silhouetted her. “Or what is left of my palace after the attack.”
“The monsters…?”
“Driven back by my Sky Hunters. For now.”
Lazuli felt the briefest wash of relief, but then another jolt of fear arrived. “And Prester Pinocchio?”
“Yes, Prester Pinocchio,” Sapphira said softly. “We need to discuss Prester Pinocchio.”
“Is he alive? What about Mezmer and Sop and my knights?”
“Slow down, my dearest niece.”
Lazuli hated when her aunt spoke to her like this, like she was a child.
“Let us first address Pinocchio.” Sapphira had her hands laced behind her back as she made her way to the foot of the bed, the violet light flickering across her face. Her expression was calm and lovely, as always, but Lazuli knew her aunt well enough to recognize anger masked behind those pleasant features.
“You have been keeping secrets from me, Lazuli.”
“What do you mean?” She didn’t feel awake enough to tackle whatever her aunt was accusing her of and struggled to rouse her brain.
“You did not tell me our prester was no mere human boy. You have allowed him to deceive us. All this time his new subjects thought him the son of Geppetto, thought him a human child of Venice. But he is not, now, is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re suggesting.”
“I suggest nothing!” Sapphira snapped. “I know. I saw him with my own eyes. He is some sinister wooden contraption built by the Venetian alchemist to pose as our ruler and protector!”
Lazuli’s heart was racing, pumping dread into her every pore. “What have you done with him?”
“Have I not always looked out for you, my niece and prester?” Sapphira said. “I could not have your subjects see what he was. I have spared you the awkwardness of having to clean up the mess you made.”
“Where is he?” Lazuli shouted. She leaped out of the bed but immediately found the world spinning. She toppled onto the mattress.
“Rest, my dearest,” Sapphira said, coming around to pull back the covers.
But Lazuli had no wish to be treated like a sick little girl. She needed to see Pinocchio. Poor Pinocchio, wherever her aunt had locked him up, he was probably back to being a thoughtless automa. But if she could only get to him, maybe she could help him remember. He would turn back to his true self, as he had after the Deep One.
“My father…he knew what Pinocchio was,” Lazuli said, drawing sharp breaths through her nose, wishing they would clear the dizziness. “He saw what made Pinocchio special. He gave his blessings for Pinocchio to keep the Ancientmost Pearl. He accepted him—and me—as the new presters.”
“But your subjects have not accepted you, child,” Sapphira said wearily. “As much as I tried to persuade them. Even when they thought Pinocchio just a Venetian boy, there were those who feared children could not handle the responsibility.”
“But my father—”
“His Great Lordship could not have predicted what difficulties Abaton would face. The return of these monsters. The threat of Diamancer. Had he known this, he would have placed a more experienced ruler on the throne.” Sapphira sighed. “I had hoped under my guidance that you would be capable, despite your inexperience.” A flash of anger illuminated the lady’s eyes. “But you…you kept secrets from me! You didn’t trust me.”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you,” Lazuli said. “Truly it wasn’t, Aunt. I feared you wouldn’t understand about Pinocchio.”
Sapphira scowled. “What was there to understand? It was an automa!”
“Pinocchio is my friend!”
Sapphira’s lips tightened. “Your father was too great to bother with trivialities like friendships. I have none as well. A great ruler has more important responsibilities. You let down your kingdom, Lazuli. More so, you have betrayed us. You must decide what you will do now.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Your people need the responsibility and safety of our homeland entrusted to a ruler who can lead them, someone who can handle Diamancer and his monsters, someone our people will rally behind.”
Lazuli knew who her aunt meant. And she had always believed Sapphira would make the best prester. But Lazuli’s concern for Pinocchio was coursing through her with white-hot ferocity. What had her aunt done with him?
“You can’t be the prester,” Lazuli said. “You don’t have the Ancientmost Pearl. Pinocchio does, and wherever you’ve got him, the Pearl will turn him back—”
Sapphira brought her hand from behind her back. The Ancientmost Pearl lay cupped in her palm.
Lazuli’s heart felt like it had stopped. The Pearl was not in Pinocchio! Her aunt had taken it from him. But that would mean…
“Where is Pinocchio? Tell me!”
“Without this,” Sapphira said, lifting the Ancientmost Pearl, “that deceiver could no longer function. There was no need to distress you with the sight of what it became. It’s gone. And the Pearl is back where it rightfully belongs. With a true Abatonian.”
Lazuli couldn’t breathe. It was as if she’d been punched in the chest. Grief and shock welled into anger. She tangled the sheets in her furious grip. Tears scalded her eyes, but she fought to keep from crying in front of her aunt. She would never give her the satisfaction of proving to be the weak, sobbing little girl.
But…Pinocchio! How could her aunt have done this to Pinocchio?<
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“Don’t pout over broken toys, child,” Sapphira chided. “You are Abatonian royalty. And there is still hope that you can be the one to help me rule. Maybe one day, when you are ready. But now our homeland is in danger from these monsters. I fear the Moonlit Court will be attacked next, and I am readying my archers to fly to our capital and defend our people.”
“The warden…” Lazuli said.
“What about the warden?” Sapphira asked.
“Why isn’t the warden able to keep the prisoners from escaping?” Lazuli asked. “Maybe the warden is freeing them on purpose! And the prison…Master Geppetto believes one of the primordials is guarding—”
“Dear, dear, child.” Her aunt shook her head. “You are focusing on the wrong things. Abaton is in danger! What is most essential is to protect our people from the imminent threat of these monsters. And this time, my Sky Hunters won’t simply drive them back. No! The monsters will not escape. We will destroy every one of Diamancer’s rebels and be done with this threat.”
“You mean to kill them?” Lazuli whispered.
“They are monsters. For the sake of Abaton, they do not deserve our mercy.” Her aunt reached out a hand. “Will you come with me, my niece? Will you renounce your claim on the throne and declare to your people that I should be the new prester?”
“You cannot be the prester,” Lazuli said.
“I do this not for my own glory, but for Abaton. I have the Pearl. I can stop these creatures.”
“But, Aunt,” Lazuli said. “Don’t you remember why my father refused to execute Diamancer and his monsters?”
Sapphira narrowed her eyes impatiently.
Lazuli said, “Diamancer and his monsters might have rebelled, but they were still his subjects, still children of Abaton. My father imprisoned them rather than killing his people. A real prester—a true prester—would never kill her own subjects. It would be a betrayal of all that Abaton is.”
Sapphira frowned. “You have a kind heart, Lazuli. A sentimental heart. It is why you will never be a true prester.”
The words stung as painfully as a poisoned thorn. But Lazuli knew her aunt was probably right. She had no wish to be the sort of prester Lady Sapphira wanted her to be. Nor the sort of prester her father had been—remote, friendless. But she had thought—hoped—she and Pinocchio could have been respected rulers.
“I ask again,” Sapphira said. “Declare me prester so that I might protect Abaton. Do this and your mistakes will be forgiven.”
Lazuli fought against the images of Pinocchio rising in her mind. Not as a blank-faced wooden automa, but as he’d been when he was alive. Laughing with that crooked smile when she joked with him. The sparkle in his eyes whenever his father entered the room. The determined furrow in his brow when he spoke of how he’d live up to his promise to save Wiq.
“I can’t,” Lazuli said.
Sapphira looked down at the heavy Pearl cupped in her hands. She said nothing for several long moments. At last, with a sigh, she said, “You disappoint me, niece.”
With a sweep of her cape, she marched to the door and opened it. A trio of hooded Sky Hunters stood waiting in the hallway.
“Guards,” Sapphira said. “You are aware of how my niece conspired to put that wooden boy on the throne. She is quite mad. The grief over her father’s death has been too hard on her. We must not have her undermining our mission. Carry her to the dungeon and lock her up. Then let us depart for the Moonlit Court.”
The sylphs nodded. One marched toward the bed.
“You’re imprisoning me?” Lazuli gasped at her aunt.
“You have admitted to being a traitor,” Sapphira said.
“I’m not a traitor. I—”
“Take her away,” her aunt said.
The guard lifted Lazuli in his arms. She wanted to beat her fists against him, to scream at them that they were mistaken about Pinocchio, but she knew they would never believe her.
They carried Lazuli down flight after flight of stairs, down to the lowest levels of the palace, down to where they must have been in the rock that supported the hovering city.
When they reached the end of a darkened hallway, a guard removed a set of keys, unlocked the door, and swung it open. Lazuli was carried inside and placed on the cold stone floor. The guard left, locking her inside.
Lazuli sank to the floor, shaking uncontrollably. Her aunt was right. She had failed her people. “Father,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”
At last, no longer able to help herself, she let the hot flood of tears come rushing out.
The automa fell into the Mist. His limp body flipped end over end, toppling through wisps of cloud so dense they soon slowed his fall. So when he landed, it wasn’t with a crash, but with a dull puff of vapor.
He lay motionless. The mists surrounding him painted everything a uniform murky gray. The cricket crawled out from his collar, making his way up onto the wooden forehead.
“No,” he peeped. “No, Pinocchio. You incorrigible scamp, you can’t be dead.”
Maestro had never sounded so distraught. He made pitiful shudders, his antennae falling across Pinocchio’s wooden head in misery.
“I couldn’t stop them,” Maestro whispered. “How could I, small as I am? They saw what you were and I couldn’t do anything to stop them. I…I’m sorry, Pinocchio, I couldn’t save you.”
The droning howl of wind swelled, but the surrounding Mist didn’t seem touched by the storm, as if the wind was somewhere farther, out there beyond the gray and murky landscape surrounding the two.
But something growled. Maestro spun on his six tiny legs.
Out of the Mist, a dark form emerged. No, dark forms. And they were gathering. Some crept. Some flapped on leathery wings. Others slithered forward. Shapes menacing and ominous.
Monsters—each and every one.
Maestro trembled with such terror against Pinocchio’s wooden head it was like a clock ticking overly fast, something wound tight and ready to burst. The cricket was little. The monsters were big. Maestro was doomed.
“Where am I?” Pinocchio murmured.
Maestro leaped straight up, his wings fluttering manically before he landed back on Pinocchio’s face.
“D-did you just sp-speak?” the cricket chirped.
Pinocchio rolled slowly over onto his side, wood and gears creaking. The fog was clearing from his mind. “Of course I did.”
“But…but…” Maestro stammered, crawling across his wooden ear now.
The growls grew louder.
“Stay quiet,” Pinocchio said.
“Im-impossible. I don’t know how you’re speaking, but…you shouldn’t be!”
Pinocchio started to sit up. “Neither should you, so hush before anything discovers us.”
Glowing eyes blinked to life all around them.
“I think they already h-h-have,” Maestro peeped.
Pinocchio leaped to his feet, turning in a circle. The Mist gathered so thick about his legs that he couldn’t tell what exactly he was standing on. “Where are we, Maestro?”
Maestro trembled from the top of his head. “I th-think we w-were thrown into the Mist below the sylph c-cities.”
“What lives in the Mist?”
“I thought n-nothing did,” Maestro managed.
A fiery demon rose from the murk, making a lunge for Pinocchio’s head. He ducked just in time.
“I guess you were wrong,” Pinocchio said.
More creatures appeared out of the ghostly landscape, their snarling faces fixed hungrily on him. Each had the diamond brand on its forehead. Pinocchio shook his head in confusion. These were Diamancer’s monsters. What were they doing here? Hadn’t Lazuli said nothing that enters the Mist could ever get out?
Pinocchio reached for his sword at his belt, but realized he didn’t have it. Typical.
“What do you want?” he called.
A horned creature with a matted, hairy face strode forward on scaly legs. “We are monsters,” it growl
ed. “We want what monsters want.”
“We want to devour things,” slobbered a gruesome toadlike monstrosity.
“We like to destroy!” a voice like crackling embers hissed.
“And butcher,” a skeletal ghoul said, tapping a sword against its bony palm.
Something oozing and larvalike rumbled, “We want to suck the guts out of living things until they won’t ever live again.”
Pinocchio blinked woodenly. “Oh,” he said. He searched the terrifying horde, trying to find Diamancer. Maestro flattened on his head, his trembling having accelerated to full velocity.
A green-skinned maiden skulked around him, eyeing Pinocchio up and down. One moment she appeared perfectly pleasant, but then the next her features morphed into something hideous with far too many teeth. “You look familiar, boy,” she hissed.
Pinocchio drew back in alarm. “I am the prester!” he said, mustering as much ferocity as he could.
But then he touched his chest and felt the partially open panel. Slipping his hand inside, he found it empty. The Pearl! He’d taken it out to give to Lazuli…But how was he moving and thinking without it? He didn’t even have a springwork fantom to animate him.
“We were told to kill the boy prester,” the ghoul said. “You look strange, boy. Are you sure you’re the prester?”
Pinocchio wondered how best to answer this. If he stuck to his claim that he was the prester, he would be inviting them to kill him. But if he said he was no longer the prester, would that mean giving up any sort of royal authority he might be able to use? He doubted he had any authority over these monsters in any case.
“Who told you to kill the prester?” he asked, playing for time to see if he could figure out a way to escape—although it looked utterly hopeless. There had to be a hundred menacing shadows surrounding them.
“The warden,” the ghoul with the sword rasped.
The warden? At Regolith, Pinocchio had seen that Prester John was preparing to pass the wardenship from Mezmercurian to someone else. That had been centuries ago. He wondered again about Dr. Nundrum. He had sent them to the Upended Forest. He had been a close adviser to Prester John, just as Mezmercurian had been.
Lord of Monsters Page 17
