by Dave Rudden
Tables had been dragged up from the kitchen, their surfaces covered in notes and drawings, books laid at their edges to anchor them against one of Seraphim Row’s phantom breezes. There were no candles, no open flames to tempt the ancient paper.
I could live here, Denizen thought, moments before he realized that someone already did.
A cot had been made up in the corner—surrounded by books, of course—and as he and Abigail stepped into the middle of the room, a dark shape sat up and fumbled for her glasses.
“Sorry,” Denizen said. “Did we wake you?”
Darcie slid her glasses onto her nose, scrubbing at her eyes with a palm.
“Yes,” she said. There was a thickness to her voice, as if she’d been crying. “Do you need something?”
It suddenly occurred to Denizen how irregularly he’d seen Darcie since Rathláth. There was a stack of dirty plates by the bed—she must have been taking her meals here. Her hair hung loose down her back in a thicket of curls.
“Yes, actually,” Denizen said, flushing a little. “Abigail said that we—well, the Order—”
“We?” Darcie said sourly. “That was quick.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are other options, you know,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him. “I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry to sign up for this, not when there are so many other things you could do. Yes, fine, you’d have to wear gloves, but there’s certainly less chance of—” She took a deep breath. “Less chance of—”
“Darcie, what are you talking about?”
“You could leave,” Darcie snapped. “Your aunt wouldn’t force you to stay. She’d want you to have your own life. You could leave and not have to do this, and I wouldn’t have to worry about you as well. But here you come, and look how excited you are. A new recruit. Great. Just one more person I have to worry about accidentally killing if my information is wrong.”
“I can’t imagine what it must be like,” Abigail said, and Darcie’s head snapped round.
Abigail spoke slowly, as if stepping once more through the precise dance of a sword fight. “I’ve wanted to say it before. Parents in the Order hope for a Lux. It’s an honor, obviously, but what they’re really thinking is that their kid will be safe at home while other Knights fight and…”
Darcie didn’t respond.
“And I’ve always thought it must be far worse,” Abigail continued. “Because you see it, but you can’t be there. You can’t be there for the people you send. And they make you start so young.”
“We’re needed,” Darcie said softly. “Maybe you understand better than you think.” She closed her eyes. “These fatal family traditions.” Sitting back on the cot, Darcie picked up a book and began absently flicking through it. “What do you want?”
“The Book of Rust.”
Darcie might have been upset, but she was still a genius, and before Denizen had even finished speaking, she was shaking her head.
“Denizen, I understand that you want to find out what—”
“No,” Denizen said as calmly as he could, “you don’t, Darcie. I could sit here for years waiting for my aunt to come down and talk to me. She probably thinks I’m just going to give up, but I’m not. There’s a reason why she’s avoiding me, and I want to know what it is.”
Candlelight reflected off Darcie’s glasses. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“I don’t understand,” Denizen said. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“How do you think a Knight’s life ends?” Darcie asked. Her voice was bitter. “I can tell you. When Fuller Jack or Grey is killed in battle, I’ll be the one to write down what happened. The Tenebrous that did it. Where their body fell. Better than that, I’ll be the one who sent them there. Do you really want to know the name of the monster that might have killed your parents? And when you do find out, what then? Revenge?” Darcie slammed the book shut. “A fine reason to be a Knight.”
“I still have to know,” Denizen said quietly. “She might be your Malleus, but to me she’s just a woman who won’t tell me why I spent eleven years in an orphanage.”
Without taking her eyes from him, Darcie pulled a book from her coat pocket—a slim volume in black leather, embossed with the hand-and-hammers. A motto was engraved on the front in silver:
LINGUAE CENTUM
SUNT ORAQUE CENTUM
FERREA VOX
“A hundred tongues, a hundred mouths, one iron voice,” Darcie said. “The motto of the Order.”
She held the book out to him. “I’ve already looked. Sorry. I’ve sat enough times with this book in my hand, waiting for Grey or D’Aubigny to come back. It was June, right? Eleven years ago?”
Denizen nodded, afraid to look.
“Eleven years ago,” Darcie began, “every single Knight in Seraphim Row was killed. All of them. In three weeks. The Book doesn’t say why. And it should. That’s the point of having it in the first place.”
Her lips twisted grimly. “All I know is that they died. Adebayo Sall. Christopher Wilde. Lisa O’Reilly. And the last on June twentieth, Malleus John Carsing.”
“That’s the day before I was left in Crosscaper,” Denizen said in shock. “And Vivian?”
“No mention of her,” Darcie said, “obviously. And there’s something else.”
“My parents?” The book was suddenly very heavy in his hands.
Darcie shook her head. “They’re not there.”
Shock plunged Denizen’s spine into ice. “What do you mean they’re not there? I don’t understand.”
“Open it,” Darcie said. “Page one hundred and thirty-six.”
He thumbed open the Book of Rust. Pages and pages, neat black writing in a dozen different hands, dead Knight after dead Knight until…
Page 136 had been neatly ripped out.
THE NEXT FEW days were a blur.
Book after book passed under Denizen’s eyes, but they might as well have been in Latin. There was no room in his head for anything but what he had learned from Darcie and the Book of Rust.
Eleven years ago, the Knights of Seraphim Row had been wiped out one by one—all but his aunt, the famous and respected Vivian Hardwick. Eleven years ago, Denizen had been left in Crosscaper Orphanage with nothing more than a birth certificate and a silly name. Denizen had been asked to accept the existence of a lot of strange things in the last few weeks, but he drew the line at coincidences.
The two events had to be connected. But how?
If that weren’t bad enough, reports streamed in daily of more clashes with Pursuivants of the Court. Aberraxes, the Bloody Mice, Bittersweet…So far, no Knight had died, but it was clear the Endless King was running out of patience.
He wasn’t the only one. Denizen and Abigail were studying old texts in his room when there was a sharp rap at the door.
It was D’Aubigny. “Follow me,” she said, and strode off down the corridor.
The other Knights were waiting for them in the foyer. Grey stood at the bottom of the great marble staircase, his arms folded.
“Grey,” Denizen said, and flashed him a smile. “I thought we were going to meet earlier today. For some training?”
Grey just gave a distracted shrug before turning back to his argument with Jack.
“What’s going on?” Abigail said.
“I’m trying to tell Jack and D’Aubigny that they’re making a mistake,” Grey said. “They’re talking about going to Os Reges Point.”
“What’s that?” Denizen said, still a little stung by Grey’s dismissal.
“I’ve never heard of it either,” Abigail said with a frown.
“There are ways one can contact the King,” Jack said.
“Risky, terrible ways of grabbing the attention of a thing you don’t want paying attention to you,” Grey interrupted.
Jack shot him a look before continuing. “It’s not risky. The Emissary at Os Reges Point is a Tenebrous sworn to…to pass messages. To answer Knights truthfully. Somet
imes the answers aren’t much good, but if it does work, then it’d be a lot quicker than sifting through a thousand years of books.”
“That’s what the Order wants us to do,” Grey said.
“We do not know what the Order wants us to do,” D’Aubigny countered. “The Malleus has still not returned. We are searching through our histories because it is a way of avoiding doing anything at all. I am not going to sit in a library, waiting for the sky to go dark.”
“D’Aubigny’s right,” Jack said. “We need to do something.”
“And what if something goes wrong?” Grey snapped. “The Emissary is incredibly powerful. What if he decides the best way to recover what’s been lost is to rifle through your mind and see if there are any clues in there?”
Abigail had gone pale. “He could do that?”
Grey nodded. “There’s no telling what some of the ancient Tenebrous are capable of. That’s why it’s risky. The Emissary might decide that the Order is responsible for the theft and keep you as a hostage. Or as a snack. Either would be bad.”
“Os Reges Point is sworn ground,” D’Aubigny said. “A place where Tenebrous and Knight can speak without fear or danger. The only place. The Emissary is bound by that, as are we. It might be the safest place on the planet when the Endless King comes.” She turned to Abigail and Denizen. “So get your coats.”
“Oh, great,” Grey said, throwing up his hands. “Let’s make this a school trip, then, shall we? The last one went so well.”
“We are supposed to be teaching them,” D’Aubigny said coolly, but Grey had already stalked away.
“What’s wrong with him?” Denizen asked. It wasn’t like Grey to be so cautious. He’d been the only one supporting Denizen when he had wanted to join the Knights against the Breach. And if Os Reges Point was neutral ground like D’Aubigny said…
“We’re all on edge,” Jack said. “The lad hasn’t been the same since Rathláth. He needs time in bed to recover, not”—he waved his hand—“all this. And I have my own reservations. Os Reges Point can be…intense.”
“I want to go,” Abigail said hurriedly. Denizen nodded in agreement.
“Then dress as warmly as you can,” D’Aubigny said. “We have a long journey ahead.”
—
DENIZEN’S ENTHUSIASM AT traveling to the mysterious Os Reges Point lasted about twenty minutes.
Had he known that the trip would involve taking a cross-country bus with a stone-faced Frenchwoman, he might have reconsidered, or at least packed more than one book. And he definitely would have thought twice had it occurred to him that it would mean spending a great deal of time with Abigail as well.
I need to learn to stop volunteering for things.
“Have you heard anything from the orphanage?”
Denizen looked up from his book. He had read the same page eight times, but if he moved on to the next one, then eventually the book would be over and he wouldn’t have anything to look at anymore.
Abigail had draped herself over a seat with feline grace, absently batting at the strap of her bag in the overhead shelf. She had been doing that for the last two hours, and he assumed she was going to continue doing it until the heat-death of the universe.
No one on the bus seemed to find it half as annoying, though the only person sitting near them was D’Aubigny, and she was wearing headphones so large that they deserved their own bus ticket.
“No,” he said finally, rearranging himself on the uncomfortable bus seat and starting the page for the ninth time. “Not a word.”
There might have been some kind of burgeoning friendship between Denizen and Abigail—especially after she had offered the information about the Book of Rust—but with the revelations about the dead cadre, and the swiftly approaching death sentence from the King, Denizen’s nerves were so wound up he thought he might snap.
Besides, Denizen didn’t just go around making friends; there was…a process. Like Jack making a sword. Like his friendship with Simon. A long process, but one that eventually produced something stronger than steel. And like forging a sword, there were any number of places along the way where someone could screw it up.
So far, Abigail had committed the mortal sins of:
• sitting beside him (though that had ended after a rest stop, when Denizen had pointedly moved to a different seat, arranging his coat and bag into a makeshift Fortress of Solitude);
• talking (while Denizen was trying to pretend he was the only person on the bus);
• and (worst of all) asking about Simon.
It was the last one that was the kicker.
It’s his birthday today—October 26. In all the talk of Os Reges Point, Denizen had completely forgotten. It would be the first of Simon’s birthdays that Denizen had ever missed, though obviously that would be more of an achievement if they hadn’t always slept a meter apart.
He even had a good reason—it was very nearly the end of the world, after all—but that didn’t make him feel better either. It was one short step from prioritizing things like the apocalypse over his friend to forgetting him entirely, and it didn’t help being reminded of him by a complete stranger.
Denizen wasn’t stupid; he knew he was being petty. Abigail was just making an effort, that was all.
Of course she is, a cruel part of Denizen whispered. It isn’t like she’s feeling lonely, or wondering why there’s a great big mystery surrounding her parents and aunt. That must free up all sorts of energy.
Stop it, countered his more reasonable side. You’re acting like a kid, and you know it.
Hearing the words in Simon’s voice just made things harder.
—
THE BUS WAS only the start of their journey. Five hours and a whole country bisected, only to be dumped unceremoniously at the side of the road, a good ten kilometers from anything that resembled civilization.
Wind shrieked its loneliness after the departing bus. On three sides, barren hills shambled away to the horizon, and on the fourth there was only ocean—a great steel blade slicing the land away. From the gravel under their shoes to the stark emptiness of the sky, the landscape was as bleak and unforgiving as the surface of the moon.
Staring at it almost made Denizen homesick.
They made their way along a thin path that wound down the cliffs. There was a beach there, just a strip of rocks and sand, an old wooden pier jutting halfheartedly out into the cove. The cliffs rose on either side like the jaws of a great beast, draping tongues of shadow across them as they descended.
A boat bobbed by the pier. Denizen hadn’t noticed it at first, too concerned with metaphors for being swallowed, but D’Aubigny hooshed her duffel bag up on her shoulder and nimbly jumped on deck.
“Is this…” He frowned. “Is this your boat?”
D’Aubigny shook her head. “A local man hires it to us when we need it. We pay him enough never to ask why.”
It was the first time she’d spoken since leaving Dublin. Abigail and Denizen exchanged glances and followed.
The boat was a blunt little…something. Cruiser, maybe? Denizen knew that there were boats and there were ships, but Crosscaper’s library had been light on nautical adventures about anything more modern than a longship. It looked sturdy enough, though, and well maintained. There was even a little cabin toward the…front bit.
The prow. I think.
Someone had painted the words The Cormorant on the side in flowing black script.
D’Aubigny evidently didn’t share his unfamiliarity with boats. She was checking dials and controls as if she’d been born on the high seas, reaching across to tap the three fuel drums that had been laid out neatly on the deck to make sure they were full.
“Is Os Reges Point far?” Abigail asked, watching D’Aubigny’s preparations with interest.
“It will be night when we get there, making good speed,” the Frenchwoman replied. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
As he watched Abigail join D’Aubigny at the wheel, alre
ady asking questions, Denizen could feel his heart begin to sink through black waters of dread. Five hours with Abigail on a bus was one thing. A whole day crossing the ocean on a cramped island of wood and metal was something else entirely.
The engine purred to life under D’Aubigny’s hands, and slowly The Cormorant began to move.
IN THE END, the trip turned out to be a lot less awkward than Denizen was expecting.
“Water?” Abigail said an hour after they’d left the shore.
“Sure.”
“Water?” This came six hours after they’d left the shore, annoyingly right as Denizen began to feel rather thirsty.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Four hours more and the horizon ignited in sunset.
“Wat—”
“Yes. Sorry. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
The land had fallen away, replaced by a rolling carpet of leaden waves that rose and fell and rose again, eternal and endless. Only the white scar of The Cormorant’s passage broke the monotonous heave of the sea, and even that faded in time. Night fell, and the stars came out. Not a shy unveiling, but in sweeping grandeur, unbowed by city lights or cloud.
They blazed, fierce as furnaces, an army of soldiers aflame.
Denizen found himself glancing over at Abigail more and more as the day dragged on. There had been many times over the last few weeks when he had looked up from a meal or a book and seen her staring at him with those bright blue eyes. He’d always looked away, embarrassed, unable to work out the emotions in that stare. Abigail Falx looked at everything with interest; maybe he was just one more puzzle, one more fact to be learned.
Now she wasn’t looking at him at all.
Had she picked up on how uncomfortable she made him? I should say something. She was perched on the rail of The Cormorant, graceful as a dancer, eyes fixed on the ocean ahead. She’d been that way for an hour or more, nightshade hair dancing in the breeze as the day died around them.
