Jane Doe and the Key of All Souls

by Jeremy Lachlan

  ‘Jane,’ Violet screams, ‘watch it!’

  We duck under a low-hanging arch of rock just in time.

  A gust of wind slams us. Dust-devils coil from the canyon floor. Before Elsa vanishes in the burnt-orange haze ahead, she points at a bend in the canyon. A path zigzagging up the northern cliffs. There’s a tunnel in the middle, bigger than the tombs.

  ‘Up there,’ I shout to Violet. ‘That must be the way to Asmadin!’

  But it’s too late.

  The storm swallows us, belching sand and scree. Rocks whistle through the air. Scorpions fly into our faces, cling to our clothes. We cough and choke. Even with my goggles, I can barely see a thing. Scab veers right, galloping blind. We slam into Hickory. He swears at us and we swear back, racing next to each other up the cliff-side path, which sure as hell ain’t wide enough for two. A chunk of the path breaks away. Scab leaps clear just in time. I pull on the reins and let Hickory draw ahead, and it’s only now I realise Violet’s got a new ride.

  ‘What the …’

  She’s clinging to Hickory’s back now – was thrown from horse to horse when we collided. They jack-knife to the right, a switchback in the path. Up we go, zigby-zag, blasted by the winds. I’m covered in so many bloody scorpions it’s like they’re sprouting from my skin. I can feel one crawling up my neck, taking shelter in my hair.

  Through the driving sheets of sand, I see Elsa, Hickory and Violet bolt inside the tunnel. Before I know it, me and Scab have made it, too. I rip off my goggles and dismount like the others, spitting sand and swiping the scorpions away. Hickory yanks one from his loincloth. Elsa flaps her cloak. Violet claws at her body, dancing up and down on the spot, near tears. I shake the scorpion from my hair and stomp every damn one I can find. We clear the horses, too. Try to calm them down. Scab blinks sand from his big dopey eyes, nostrils flaring.

  The tunnel’s long and dim, the entrance capped by an open wooden door. Me and Elsa grab it.

  ‘Not yet,’ I shout. ‘Aki’s still out there!’

  The storm rages on. Great swirls of sand blow through the door and down the tunnel, lashing the flames of the torches lining the walls, nearly blowing them out.

  ‘Come on,’ I whisper.

  Just when I think we’ve lost Aki for good, a tall, slender shadow appears in the haze, and he bursts inside. Me and Elsa slam the door shut and slide a beam of wood in place to lock it. The storm howls. The door rattles. The torches in the tunnel burn a little brighter. There are alcoves spaced evenly down each wall, I realise now. A tall statue standing in each one.

  Elsa leans against the door, head bowed, catching her breath. ‘We made it …’

  ‘Could I get some actual clothes now?’ Hickory says. ‘Please?’

  ‘Shut up, Hickory.’ I lean on the door, too, relief flushing through my veins. We did it. We’re safe. Beyond this tunnel lies Asmadin, the Elders, Betty, and the second key. Everything we need to get back to the Manor. Everything we need to stop Roth and save the Otherworlds. Everything we need to save my dad. ‘You okay?’ I ask Aki.

  He looks me up and down. Rattles his throat, plucks a stray scorpion from my hair and pops it into his mouth. The Gorani must be immune to their stings. He’s covered in them.

  ‘Well, you’re just full of surprises, huh?’

  He grins at me, a scorpion leg wriggling between his teeth.

  Elsa leans in close. She reeks of booze, but the sandstorm seems to have sobered her up. ‘It’s just a short walk to the city. Stay sharp. We’re not out of trouble yet.’

  Of course we’re not.

  ‘No guards,’ Elsa says, staring down the tunnel. ‘There’s usually three, at least.’

  ‘Um … Jane?’ Violet’s gaping at the statues in disbelief.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Hickory asks her. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘That’s Hali-gabera,’ Elsa says, striding back to Rex, yanking her crossbow from her saddle. ‘The founder of Asmadin. She’s worshipped like a god round here.’

  The statues stand like sentries between all the torches. I take a closer look at one, and freeze. It’s ancient, but remarkably well preserved. The craftsmanship’s incredible, the details unmistakable. The face. The scars. The flowing, stone-carved cloak.

  ‘Impossible,’ I gasp.

  We’re surrounded by statues of Winifred Robin.

  THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

  Have they reached the city yet? Have they claimed the second key? These are some of the questions Winifred asks herself as she sits in her study, staring at the painting of Asmadin hanging on the wall beside her cabinet. The canyon riddled with caves. How many years ago did she lead Jane down the stairwell behind this painting, to the catacombs and the secret second Manor gateway? Nine years? Ten? Yes, a whole decade, almost to the day, which means roughly four years have passed since she sent Violet into the Manor to help her. But only a few days will have passed for them. May the Makers protect them both.

  Winifred pours herself a whiskey, sits back and sighs. Outside, the sun will be setting, the farmers returning from their terraced fields with little food, the fisherfolk docking their boats, stacked with empty baskets yet again. Their world is dying, but they still have time.

  A knock on the door. Atlas steps into the study. He is still a big man, square-jawed and strong, but he doesn’t walk as tall as he once did. He has more wrinkles now, too: deep frown lines exaggerated by the lamplight.

  ‘A word, if I may.’

  ‘Just one?’ Winifred flashes him a crooked but kindly smile. Gestures to the seat across from her. ‘You may have as many words as you like, my friend.’

  Atlas prefers to stand. After all these years, he is still not comfortable around Winifred. She knows too much, has seen too much. He is certain there are secrets she has not shared.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he says. ‘There’s chatter among the townsfolk. Talk of abandoning the island, setting sail to the Dying Lands. The lands of our ancestors.’

  Winifred pours Atlas a whiskey. ‘They believe they’ll be safe there?’

  ‘They believe they’ll have a chance.’

  ‘We cannot outrun this, Eric. No corner of this world or any other will be safe if Roth claims the Cradle. We must fulfil our duty and fight. Face the calamity head on.’ She nods at the second glass of whiskey. ‘Come. You’ve nothing to fear from me.’

  ‘It’s not you I’m scared of,’ Atlas says. They both know this is not entirely true. Nevertheless, he takes a seat and downs the whiskey in one. ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘Eric –’

  ‘I want to hear it. What is it about this man?’

  ‘He is no man,’ Winifred says. ‘I have been tested many times on my adventures through the Manor, Eric, but never before have I faced someone so ruthless, so cruel. Most villains are driven by some twisted moral code, but Roth?’ She shakes her head. Can still feel his hands around her neck, his rancid breath on her skin, his eyes probing hers, invading her every thought. She was lucky to survive that day on the cliffs of Kalanthoon. ‘He is driven by something much darker.’

  ‘Like what?’ Atlas asks.

  ‘Hunger,’ Winifred says. ‘Pain. Pure, malicious rage.’

  ‘You’re afraid of him. Still.’

  ‘I’d be a fool not to fear Roth. Worse than that, though, I’m ashamed. Ashamed I survived when so many died. Ashamed I abandoned the very people I’d sworn to protect.’

  ‘Abandoned? If I remember the story correctly, you saved tens of thousands of lives. You left because you knew they would never be safe if you stayed.’

  ‘And that is my greatest shame of all. Roth learned that the legend of the Otherworlds was true through me, Eric. I fled to draw him away from Asmadin, yes, but in doing so, I led him to the Manor itself.’ Winifred stares into her glass. ‘This is all my fault.’

  Atlas scans the objects in Winifred’s cabinet. Weapons. Vases. Books. Old, Otherworldly globes. At last, he understands. ‘That’s what
drove you back to the Manor so many times. You wanted to return to Arakaan. To face him again. Finish what you’d started.’

  Winifred nods. ‘Unfortunately, the Manor always led me somewhere new.’

  ‘So you saved more lives. Millions, by my reckoning.’

  Winifred smiles. ‘Who would’ve thought it? Eric Atlas consoling Winifred Robin …’

  ‘Desperate times.’ Atlas smiles, too, but only for a moment. ‘I have to tell the people something or we’ll have a full-scale revolt on our hands. How long do we have?’

  ‘Not long,’ Winifred says. ‘The game is set. The die is cast.’

  ‘And your plan? Are you sure you want to go through with it?’

  ‘I told you. Nabu-kai set us on this path. We cannot stray from it now.’

  Atlas grunts. ‘Are you sure the girls are up to the task?’

  Winifred chuckles at this. ‘I assure you, Mr Atlas, Jane and Violet are more than capable.’ Her smile fades. ‘It’s the boy I’m concerned about – if one can call him a boy. Technically, he’s older than every ancient tome in the Great Library.’

  Here it is, then, Atlas thinks. This is what Winifred has been hiding. A flaw in the plan.

  ‘Hickory Dawes,’ Atlas grumbles. ‘He could be our undoing?’

  Winifred swirls her whiskey. ‘There was one moment when I touched Nabu-kai’s symbol – one flash, one image – that was a little … blurred. Unstable. Perhaps it is nothing, but I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that this image, that particular moment, could change.’

  ‘Why? How?’

  ‘Grief is a powerful force, Eric. You know that as well as I. Perhaps as powerful as love. After all, one cannot exist without the other.’

  Atlas frowns. ‘What are you saying, Robin?’

  ‘I’m saying, Eric, that Hickory will have to make a choice, and if he makes the wrong one – if he falters when the time comes – then … well … let us say all bets are off.’

  ‘So what now, then?’ Atlas asks. ‘The troops are ready and waiting.’

  Winifred downs the last of her whiskey. ‘Run the drill again. We march in three days.’

  THE PILLARS OF ASMADIN

  Winifred Robin is Hali-gabera. Hali-gabera is Winifred Robin. She was here, in Arakaan, centuries ago, before Dad and Elsa stumbled through the dune sea gateway, before Roth invaded the Manor, before I was taken from the Cradle. She swiped away Roth’s jaw. She led the mortals of Arakaan across the sands and founded Asmadin. She is the legend of old.

  This changes everything.

  ‘Why can’t we tell them?’ I whisper to Violet. ‘They have a right to know.’

  We’re marching down the tunnel, keeping our distance from Elsa. Thankfully, she’s too worried about the lack of guards to notice: eyes forward, crossbow at the ready. Aki’s leading the three horses down back. Hickory’s frowning at the statues. He knows something’s up.

  ‘They’ll never believe us, Jane,’ Violet says. ‘We have no proof. And the Arakaanians worship her. They believe she died protecting them. What do you think they’ll do if we tell them she’s been living in an Otherworld?’ She shakes her head. ‘We need to keep this to ourselves. For now. At least until we get the second key and figure out what all this means.’

  ‘It means she lied to us.’

  ‘She didn’t lie. She withheld certain truths.’

  ‘That’s called lying, Violet.’ The statues look so real. It’s like Winifred’s here, glaring at us, judging us. Younger than the Winifred we know, but still scarred and scowling. Brandishing swords and spears. Holding the arrowhead of Atol Na aloft, like a lightning rod. Offering it, like a gift. Swinging it, teeth bared. ‘How is this even possible?’ I ask. ‘Hali-gabera’s buried here in Asmadin. Elsa broke into the tomb. Cracked open her sarcophabus and everything.’

  ‘Sarcophagus.’

  ‘Yeah, that. She said she saw bones in there.’

  ‘They must’ve faked her death. Winifred and her sidekick. Inigo. Wouldn’t have been too difficult. Find some other dead body – maybe a corpse from the Canyon of the Dead – and wrap it up in secret. Inigo lugs it back to town, acts all sad and chucks it in the tomb. Done.’

  ‘Why, though?’

  ‘She had to leave. Maybe she didn’t want people to think she’d abandoned them. Maybe she was worried people would follow her and get themselves killed.’

  ‘And she had to leave because …’

  ‘Elsa said Roth got into Hali – I mean, Winifred’s – head, when she fought him down south.’ Violet clicks her fingers. ‘I bet he saw Bluehaven. That’s why he pursued her all the way up here. He’d just had a taste of a different world and he wanted more. Winifred must’ve known he’d never give up trying to find her, so she fled north, across the dune sea.’

  I feel like smacking the head off every statue. ‘Winifred led Roth to the dune sea gateway. But she got away just in time. So he waited there. This is all her fault.’

  ‘Jane –’

  ‘And she didn’t tell us.’

  ‘– I know you’re angry.’

  ‘Damn right, I’m angry. We’re cleaning up her mess.’ I’d cause a quake if I wasn’t so bloody shocked. ‘How is it nobody knows about this? You’ve read all her books, right? All her entries in the Bluehaven Chronicles? Surely she wrote about this.’

  ‘She didn’t.’ Violet shakes her head. ‘That’s what I don’t understand. She’s been to desert worlds, but she’s never mentioned Arakaan or Roth, I’m sure of it. She kept it a secret.’

  ‘Like I said. She lied.’

  ‘We’re close,’ Elsa calls out. ‘Quickly now.’

  There’s a spot of light up ahead, faint and hazy. The end of the tunnel.

  Violet scans the statues again, nodding to herself. ‘Everything happens for a reason. This is why the Manor brought us all to Arakaan.’ She leans closer, lowers her voice. ‘Roth didn’t kill Hali-gabera, which means he didn’t destroy the arrowhead, either.’

  ‘You think it’s here?’ I look at the statues, too. Even I have to admit, Violet’s theory makes sense. For the first time since who knows when, I feel a flicker of hope. ‘Where?’

  ‘The dead keep their secrets,’ Violet whispers suddenly.

  ‘You think … you think it’s in her tomb?’

  ‘I don’t think. I know. The arrowhead’s there, Jane. It has to be. Winifred worked so hard to save these people – she wouldn’t have wanted to leave them unprotected after she left.’

  ‘I just told you, Elsa already checked the sarcopha-whatsit.’

  ‘Maybe she missed it. Maybe it’s hidden in a secret compartment. We won’t know till we check it out. Until then, not a word. Not yet.’

  ‘Not a word about what?’ Hickory asks, falling in step beside us.

  ‘None of your business,’ Violet says.

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Hickory nods at the statues, then at me. ‘The woman who smacked you in the head with a shotgun back on Bluehaven. The woman who had a creepy vision and sent you both into the Manor. Winifred Bobbin – no, Robin.’

  ‘How did you –’

  ‘The scars. You told me she had a face full of ’em. Also, I heard most of what you said just now. Honestly, you two whisper so loud –’

  ‘Shh! Keep your voice down.’

  ‘What do you care, anyway?’ Violet asks him. ‘I thought you’d given up.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Hickory says. ‘And I have.’

  ‘Yeah, keep telling yourself that, pal,’ I say.

  ‘Hey,’ Elsa whisper-shouts, ‘I said hurry up.’

  We gather round the exit: an archway in the side of a sheer cliff. The storm has moved on, but the air’s still thick with dust. A wooden rope-bridge disappears into the haze. There isn’t a breath of wind. No scorpion tick-tick-tick. The city’s so quiet I can hear my heartbeat.

  ‘We’re going across that?’ I frown at the bridge. ‘What about the horses?’

  ‘They’re used to it. But we’ll
leave ’em for now. Someone’ll pick ’em up soon.’ She tucks the end of her crossbow into her shoulder. ‘I hope.’

  I take the reins from Aki’s hand, tell him the horses have to stay. Violet pats Rex goodbye. I thank Scab for not killing me. True to form, he headbutts me, but it’s softer this time, almost tender. ‘I hate you, too,’ I tell him, and smile.

  The bridge creaks and sways as we cross it. The tunnel disappears behind us. It’s like we’re walking through a cloud. A network of interconnected ropes emerges from the dust all around us, strung up high and low. Small, tattered crimson flags are knotted along every one of them. Some kind of weird Asmadinian decoration. Weirder and creepier still, some are decorated with bones – legs, arms and Gorani skulls – the rope tied around them, threaded through empty eye-sockets.

  ‘Um,’ Hickory says, ‘is this … normal?’

  Elsa ignores him, tightens her grip on her crossbow.

  A gentle breeze makes the crimson flags shiver, the bones rattle and sway. Gigantic pillars of rock emerge from the haze – dozens of them – each connected by the web of rope. An eerie forest of stone bound in string. Some of the pillars soar above our heads, others poke from the gloom below the bridge like pointed teeth. They’re adorned with carvings, too. Dark, empty holes, big and small. Columned alcoves. Decorative swirls. Weathered busts of Winifred Robin.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I whisper. ‘She’s everywhere.’

  ‘Stop,’ Elsa says, and we freeze. ‘Listen …’

  I can’t hear a thing except the swaying creak of the bridge. Our own heavy breathing.

  ‘Maybe everyone’s still hiding from the storm?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Elsa says, ‘but unlikely.’

  We can see the end of the rope bridge now. It’s fixed to another pillar – the biggest one yet. A thin path winds down the side of it, looping round and round, disappearing into the dust. Someone’s waiting for us, dead ahead. A hunched figure bent over a walking stick.