Jane Doe and the Key of All Souls

by Jeremy Lachlan

  PRAISE FOR JANE DOE AND THE CRADLE OF ALL WORLDS

  2019 Australian Book Industry Award winner for Book of the Year for Older Children

  Speeding trains? He’s got them. Forests with something unnerving about them? Those too, and so much more: a girl seeking missing kin; booby-trapped ruins; and whip tricks worthy of Indiana Jones.

  – The Guardian

  A fantastic fast-paced exciting adventure set in a magical labyrinth of a manor with rooms that shift, booby traps and a classic bad guy who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.

  – Readings Kids

  Move over, Indiana Jones. Your escapades seem trivial in comparison to Jane’s. Each page brings more questions than answers in this first book of the Jane Doe duology. I didn’t want to put it down. Neither will you.

  – Kids’ Book Review

  Incredibly atmospheric and intricately engineered. Jane Doe and the Cradle of All Worlds is breathtaking and delightfully captivating until the final page.

  – Diva Booknerd

  An epic adventure that is filled to the brim with exotic characters and eye-popping adventures.

  – Better Reading

  The Jane Doe Chronicles (are) a masterpiece … a compelling adventure and a creation story to blow your mind. Prepare to read into the night.

  – Book Murmuration

  BOOKS IN THE JANE DOE CHRONICLES

  Jane Doe and the Cradle of All Worlds

  Jane Doe and the Key of All Souls

  For Mum and Dad, once more, because the adventure ain’t over yet

  ‘Take heed crossing that Otherworldly threshold. What evil lurks in the shadows? What darkness lies within?’

  –Winifred Robin and the Pilgrimage of Thieves

  CONTENTS

  THIS IS NOT THE BEGINNING

  THE LAST IMMORTAL

  PART FOUR

  THE VOICES IN HER HEAD

  THE BOY WHO NEVER WAS

  THE WOUND

  THE NEW NIGHTMARE

  SOME OTHER REASON

  ELSA

  THE OUTPOST OF ORIN-KIN

  HICKORY’S PENANCE

  INTO THE PIT

  AKI

  THE SEA UNLEASHED

  THE WATCHTOWER

  AN INTERRUPTION

  THE DAHAARI CULL

  THE WEAPONS OF BONE

  THE ATTACK

  SLIDE AND RIDE

  THE ROAD TO ASMADIN

  THE CANYON OF THE DEAD

  CHOSEN FAMILY

  THE SECOND STORM

  THIRD INTERLUDE

  THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

  PART FIVE

  THE PILLARS OF ASMADIN

  THE SECOND KEY

  BETRAYAL

  THE DUNGEON

  PRECIOUS CARGO

  HICKORY’S CHOICE

  YAKU’S TALE

  FARROW

  THE CRADLE PATH

  CRASH LANDING

  HOMECOMING

  TAKEN

  THE GODS OF CHAOS

  THE KEEP

  EENY, MEENY, MINY, MOE

  VIOLET’S FIRST TEST-DRIVE

  FOURTH INTERLUDE

  LIKE FIRE

  PART SIX

  THE DOOR TO NOWHERE

  THE BATTLE OF BLUEHAVEN

  RETURN

  THE FINAL TRIAL

  THE CRADLE OF ALL WORLDS

  THE KEY OF ALL SOULS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  THE LAST IMMORTAL

  He stands on a balcony before a lake of liquid fire, entranced by the roiling lava, the lashes of flame. The stone pillars of this once grand Manor hall glow red. The ceiling is ash-stained, crumbling. A lavafall flows from an upstairs gallery. There is a weakened gateway to an Otherworld up there. A world of fire. The lava has surrounded his lair, creeping down corridors, burning through doors, but he doesn’t mind. There are volcanos in his home world, too. The dying, desert world he left behind. The lava reminds him of the sacrifices he has made. The flames remind him of her. Besides, the lava cannot harm him. Nothing can.

  He made sure of that long ago.

  The balcony is covered in a rough patchwork of rusted metal. So are the walls and floor behind him. Protection for the stone: not from the lava, but from his bitter, tainted breath. It ripples from the porcelain lips of his half-mask. A slow, rolling growl. His eyes burn with reflected fire.

  Where is the third key going?

  The question has plagued him since the incident on the train. He was so close – the child was almost his – but thanks to the traitor Hickory and the girl with the knife, she got away.

  Not for long. Soon, he will have all the answers he needs.

  Two Leatherheads march onto the balcony behind him, dragging a beaten man between them. His brown eyes are bloodshot, weeping tears. Some call him John Doe – others, Charlie Grayson – but Roth knows the man’s favourite name is Dad. The Leatherheads release him, stand to attention and salute.

  ‘Another chat so soon?’ John coughs and wheezes. ‘You’re getting desperate, old man.’

  The Leatherheads click-clack their throats and snarl into their gas masks, level their rifles at John’s head.

  Roth takes another deep, death-rattle breath.

  ‘You know, you might want to consider a nice mint tea now and then,’ John says. ‘Get that breath under control.’ He coughs again. Spits at Roth’s feet. ‘Go on, then. Do your worst.’

  Roth would smile if he could. I always do.

  He grabs John by the neck, lifts him to his feet and peers into his pitiful eyes, just like he did on the train. And just like on the train, John’s feet start to jitter. He can’t breathe. He is choking.

  Roth is reading him, invading his mind.

  He wants to know everything. The location of the Cradle. Where John’s beloved Elsa might have taken the second key. The third key’s strengths, fears and weaknesses: every little thing that makes the girl tick. He can feel John fighting back, scattering his thoughts, but Roth will uncover the truth soon enough.

  Everybody breaks eventually.

  A fresh trail of blood seeps from John’s nose. A red tear rolls down his cheek. Roth cannot push too far if he wants to keep the man alive, so he severs the connection and steps back. John collapses, but no matter. Roth has discovered something new.

  The child doesn’t know.

  ‘You’re right,’ John wheezes. ‘I didn’t tell her she’s the third key. I couldn’t. But she’ll find out sooner or later, and when she does she’ll become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.’ He grins. ‘You can’t win, Roth. You won’t. Jane’s brave. Smart. She has friends and one hell of a head start. With any luck, she’s stepping into the Cradle right now.’

  This time, there’s no warning. Roth pins John to the steel-plated floor and forces his way into his mind again, growling into his mask.

  I will find the girl. She cannot run forever.

  THE VOICES IN HER HEAD

  Here’s another thing: I guess I’m old. Really old. Technically, I’m older than anyone I’ve ever met. I’m older than Winifred, with her scars and wrinkles. I’m older than Hickory, who was trapped inside the Manor for two thousand years. I’m older than Roth, who could be nearing his millionty-first birthday for all I know. Hell, I guess I’m as old as the Manor itself – I just spent the first gazillion-odd years of my life as a baby, locked away in the Cradle of All Worlds, drooling on the foundation stone at the centre of the nefarious Sea.

  But surely this isn’t what the Makers had in mind.

  Surely I wasn’t supposed to be stuck on Bluehaven for fourteen years without a clue as to who or what I am. Surely Dad wasn’t supposed to disappear
. Surely my adventure through the Manor – that endangered place-between-places – wasn’t supposed to be so goddamn difficult. The snow, the booby traps, the carnivorous forest and the runaway train. Hickory’s lies. Violet’s pretty eyes. The raging river and the vicious, overgrown bloody tadpoles. The Tin-skins and the Leatherheads and Roth. One calamity after the next.

  Surely I’m not supposed to be here, now, stuck in a dying Otherworld. Arakaan, of all places.

  Roth’s home world.

  Deserts are the worst. The heat. The glare. I’ve been sweating and staggering under the twin suns all morning with no food, no water, no idea where I am, and I haven’t seen a thing. No camp, no well, no horses, no tribe. Just the scorched sky and this never-ending plain of salt. Even my shadow’s trying to escape the heat, cowering beneath me as the suns hit high noon.

  At this rate, I’ll be dead by nightfall.

  There’s a mirage on the horizon. A fool’s lake splashed across the desert, winking at me, teasing me. To think, just yesterday I was inside the Manor, surrounded by rapids and whirlpools, literally drowning in water. I lick my cracked, salty lips. The desert seems to tilt and sway, but I’ve gotta stay sharp, keep walking. Gotta get back to Violet, and find Hickory, too.

  The upside to all this walking is I’ve had plenty of time to untangle the mess in my head. All in all, I reckon I handled the situation pretty well last night. Sure, I threw up, caused a brief, minor quake, ran into the desert and screamed till my voice cracked, but I didn’t pass out or cry, so that’s something. Not bad for a girl who just found out her entire life’s been a lie.

  Then the sandstorm came, devouring the desert, eating up the stars. Damn thing swallowed me in seconds, spun me around. I tried to run back to camp – could’ve sworn I heard Violet shout my name – and that was my biggest mistake. Once I started running I couldn’t stop. I ran and ran through the howling dark, shivering, choking, crying. Wasn’t till my legs gave out that I realised it wasn’t the storm I was running from. By the time the twin suns rose, the gale had moved on, and I was stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the voices in my head.

  My god. You really don’t know.

  They had a baby boy. He died, Jane.

  They found you. They took you from the Cradle.

  I’m the third key. I’m the third key. I’m the third key.

  I’m the third Cradle key. How the Makers made me is a mystery. I don’t even wanna know. It’s the why that’s important. I’m the Makers’ Plan B, the secret weapon they left behind in case an immortal maniac ever invaded the Manor, their oh-so-hallowed – now dying – creation.

  Two regular keys to open the Cradle.

  One key of flesh and bone to control it.

  Me.

  But what does that mean? What am I supposed to do in there? Heal every gateway? Protect every Otherworld? How can I save the Manor when all I’ve done so far is tear it apart?

  I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.

  Dad. John Doe. Charlie Grayson. The Man With Too Many Names. Part of me wants to shout at him, shove him, tell him I hate him just to see what he’d do, because this is the thing I keep coming back to, the thing that cuts deepest: he isn’t really my dad, after all. He’s just a man. A stranger who plucked an amber-eyed baby from the Cradle and paid the ultimate price. A man who was stuck in a realm of nightmares for fourteen years – Gripped by a Spectre, a guardian of the Cradle – unable to talk, barely able to walk, while that baby grew into a girl. A girl who cared for him day in and day out because she didn’t know any better.

  Because she never learned the truth.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  I looked after him because I love him, simple as that. He’s the only family I’ve ever known. I can’t blame him for not telling me the truth right away. I think he was about to tell me on the train.

  Yes, Jane, you were born in the Manor, but …

  Dad sacrificed his freedom on the spiral road so we could get away. He told me he loved me, but what happens when this is over? Where do we go? What do we do? He doesn’t need me anymore. He can make his own meals, put himself to bed, read his own stories. What if he wants to return to his home world, Tallis, without me? And what about Elsa? Would she go with him?

  She couldn’t stand the sight of me last night. I still don’t know anything about her life here in Arakaan, or what happened to her inside the Manor after she was separated from Dad. You’d think she wouldn’t be able to shut up about it – about him – after all these years, but no.

  I can’t do this, she said. I thought I was strong enough. I’m sorry.

  I’ll have to talk to her as soon as I find my way back to camp. Or as soon as they find me – because they’re out there, surely, combing the desert right now.

  I wanna get my key back, too – the real key.

  ‘Thieving jerks,’ I grunt.

  Gotta be nice about it, though. Elsa’s the only one who can take us to the Cradle, after all. The only one who knows the location of the true second key.

  Where did she say it was hidden?

  An ancient city to the west. A canyon hideout the people of this region fled to long ago.

  I’ve already lost the dummy key she gave me last night, meaning I threw the useless piece of trash as far as I could during the storm. Elsa’ll be angry, but that’s the least of my worries right now.

  The air in this world tastes off. Bitter. Smells like burning coal, even though the sky is clear. I feel like I’m trekking through invisible fire. My bare feet are redraw, crunching over the hard crust of salt.

  Note to self: next time you run off into the desert – take appropriate footwear.

  I stop walking. Scan the barren wasteland with binocular hands. No birds. No flies. Not a breath of wind. The silence of the desert closes in. Strange. In the Manor I was surrounded by walls and out here I’m surrounded by nothing, yet somehow they feel the same. Thick with heavy, suffocating quiet.

  How is it possible to feel so confined in such an open space?

  ‘Keep going,’ I tell myself. ‘Forward is the only way.’

  I can’t die here. There’s too much at stake.

  I’m the third key. I’m the third key. I’m the third key.

  It explains everything, Violet said. The quakes. Your dreams. Your connection to the Manor.

  The reason Roth wants to capture me.

  It all makes sense now. Roth wants to rule the Manor. Reckons he can do it by getting inside my head, controlling me, possessing me. Sure, I stopped him from doing it on the train, but how long could I keep that up? What if he tortures me? What if he tortures the people I love? Roth could break me in seconds. Invade my thoughts. Dangle me over the foundation stone like his personal plaything. Through me, he could open any gateway and unleash the Cradle Sea.

  Through me, he could conquer any world.

  I swear I can feel his hands around my neck. His rotten breath on my skin. I can hear him laughing at me through his porcelain half-mask, just like he did on the train.

  I bet Roth knew I was the third key all along.

  He must’ve caught up to Dad and Elsa soon after they took me from the Cradle. Must’ve seen me in their arms. He would’ve been furious they’d snatched his prize – even angrier that they slipped out of his clutches again moments later – but at least he knew: the Cradle had been found. The third key was out there, and he’d stop at nothing to track me down. Hell, he’d spend the next hundred years scouring the Manor for us, but he had no idea Dad and Elsa were separated, no idea me and Dad had made it outside. And while a hundred years passed for Roth inside the Manor, only fourteen passed for us on Bluehaven.

  All those years of anguish and pain.

  Roth’s to blame for them all.

  I clench my fists and grit my teeth as a jolt of pain shoots up my left arm. The gash in my palm’s gone crusty and gross. Understandable, really. It’s been slashed three times in – what – less than a week? By Mayor Atlas back on Bluehaven, a
t the base of the Sacred Stairs. By Violet on the runaway train. By me in the jelly-egged corridor near the river, when I nearly killed us all. I really shouldn’t have ripped off the bandage last night.

  ‘A hundred more steps,’ I say. ‘Two hundred. Then you can rest.’

  My skin’s already turning browner from the suns. Not quite as brown as Violet’s, but a deeper, darker olive than the pale, basement-blanched olive I had, living with the Hollows. The glare of the salt’s so bright it hurts. I walk with my eyes half-closed, lashes splintering the light.

  But wait. ‘What the …’

  There’s something out there. A shadow on the plain, rippling in the heat-shimmer.

  Is it the camp? A house? Another mirage?

  I walk a little faster and the shadow on the plain gets bigger, far too large for a house. It’s a hill, I reckon. Maybe a mountain. I jog, stagger and stumble for a while. Stop and stare.

  It isn’t a house or a hill or a mountain.

  It’s a shipwreck.

  THE BOY WHO NEVER WAS

  The wreck looks like the rotted-out carcass of some ancient beast. It’s about ten storeys high. Rusty metal marred by long, jagged cracks. A red sand dune’s heaped against its side. I’ve never seen a ship this big. Did it run aground before the ocean dried up? Sink in a battle or storm? The empty portholes stare back at me like hungry spider eyes. Watching. Waiting.

  ‘Creepy,’ I say.

  I swing around the stern, into the shade. There’s a tear in the base of the hull. A makeshift door. Could be supplies inside. Barrels of water. If I can get to the top, I reckon I’ll be able to see for miles.

  ‘Hello?’ I shout. ‘Anyone in there?’ The silence of the desert closes in again. ‘I’m coming in,’ I say, and in an almost-whisper, ‘don’t shoot me.’

  It’s dim inside. Cavernous. Some kind of cargo hold, probably. The air’s only slightly cooler – more like an oven than a raging furnace – but the change is welcome. Tiny shafts of light beam through the rusted-out holes in the hull. A carpet of sand has trickled through. It’s littered with half-buried crates and barrels, all of them broken. There’s a towering wall to my left, dotted with landings, hatches and a zigzagging metal staircase.