The Jack of Ruin

by Stephen Merlino

  And now the game was up. Not just for this night, but for all nights. But he’d made it, and he got what he came for. Let them lay traps for him to return—he’d disappoint them.

  When Brolli finally turned down the corridor to the map room, Harric’s legs burned and wobbled with weakness, and drips of sweat ran down his sides. Rurgich waited in the open doorway as if he’d been waiting a long time.

  “Brolli,” he said, brow creased. “You go through?”

  “I must.” Brolli dropped from the trellis and knuckle-walked through the door. Harric slipped through while Rurgich stared after his friend.

  “What is the alarm?” said Rurgich.

  “I do not know.” Brolli grunted as he ascended the trellis to the platform. “Help me with this armor. I cannot let the Syne delay me.”

  Rurgich closed the door and followed into the trellis.

  Harric and Fink crossed to the fluffy white fur where the gate rod still lay, and Harric retrieved his shirt and boots and stuffed them in his pack atop the hoops. Fink cringed against the wall. When Harric donned his pack, Fink clambered back on top and leaned close to Harric’s ear.

  “I saw it, kid,” he said, voice tight with excitement. “I watched them do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “I saw the way they make their toys. It’s the big hoop at their neck. They use the hoops.”

  “How did you see it?”

  “When you were gone. I ran from my table. I ended up in one of those rooms. Like the one where the door exploded. I saw them do it. They use those big loops somehow.”

  Harric let out a long breath. If he took a hoop out of his pack right there, the imp would probably pop. But this was not something he would share with Fink. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The notion made him uneasy, and he needed time to think it through. Some of what he’d seen that night unsettled him. Plus, he’d learned that secrets were leverage in the Unseen, and that Harric himself possessed precious few of those. The fact that Fink had revealed what he’d seen to Harric was probably not an indication of trust, but of how panicked the imp was.

  Either way, the hoops would stay secret for now.

  Brolli thumped to the floor below the trellis with his new bandolier of hurling globes slung from one shoulder. With Rurgich on his tail, he crossed to the witch-silver rod and stooped to grasp each end. Brolli muttered something then lifted the rod in both hands, and again the weird, liquid tar opening stood before them with the rod above, like a lintel. In the vacuous space beyond, Harric thought he could see another door, and figures moving dimly in the quasi-distance.

  A Kwendi filled the other door, and then he emerged onto the white fur rug, where Brolli and Rurgich helped him to his feet. One after another followed until there were four newcomers, the scent of the forest strong upon them.

  “Gredol,” Brolli said to the first one. “The Syne have sounded the alarm. I do not know why.”

  Gredol’s eyes flicked to Rurgich and back to Brolli. A hiss of anxious breath escaped the other three.

  “Report quickly,” said Brolli.

  Gredol looked about in confusion. “This—bad—” He stumbled over the words, and made a sound like a curse before making his report in Kwendi.

  Brolli’s face slackened in surprise as he listened. Then he cursed in Kwendi and pointed Gredol and the others toward the door to the corridor. A distant boom shuddered the ground, and the newcomers all leapt into the trellis and swung for the door. Brolli settled the bandolier on his shoulder and, without so much as a “Gods leave you” to Rurgich, leapt into the gate.

  Rurgich stepped up to the gate before Harric could follow, and grasped both ends of the witch-silver rod of the lintel, as if he’d hang from it. Filling the gate in this way, he watched Brolli as if he would follow.

  What are you waiting for? Go!

  Harric bobbed to one side, then the other, looking for a gap to squeeze past, but the Kwendi’s broad back filled the gap. Fink began to tug frantically at Harric’s pack straps, but Harric could not see a way past. Beyond Rurgich’s shoulder, Harric saw the outline of the other gate, like a window into the bright spirit light of the southern forest. Then Brolli climbed from the void into the forest. He stood to wave back at Rurgich, and then collapsed his gate.

  There was nothing now but void beyond Rurgich’s gate.

  “Hy-ot,” Rurgich muttered, and, with a single motion, dragged the witch-silver rod down to the carpet. Once he’d set the rod in the nearest cabinet, he leapt into the trellises and hurried from the room.

  Gods help us, the Queen’s a woman!

  —A West Isle boy upon his first viewing of the Queen

  59

  Hooves In The Night

  Caris half ran and half skidded down the stone slope of the viewpoint and back into the shelter of the silent trees. Grabbing her lantern pole, she mounted Rag and spurred her back toward Willard.

  He was probably still in the midst of his rage, but she had to ride to him in hope that maybe—just maybe—he’d be back to himself and could ride. She’d spilled some of the Blood that night, after all, so he hadn’t drunk as much as usual. Surely, if he hadn’t drunk as much, then the rage wouldn’t last as long.

  As Rag cantered down the ill-lit run, Caris felt herself breathing quick, shallow breaths of fear, and forced herself to slow it down and draw a deep lungful, but her heart continued to pound as if she were entering combat.

  Before they saw Willard’s candle lantern, they heard Molly blowing and stamping, rattling her lead chain like a mad dog at a stake. Caris knew Molly was as unridable after bleeding as Willard was unreliable, but she’d never come back so early after the drinking, so she had no way of knowing if this was her usual reaction to bleeding, or if she sensed her brother, Gygon, on the other side of the river.

  Caris tied Rag a good two hundred paces from the Phyros, took the lantern from its pole, and hurried to Willard. As she approached, it seemed like Molly would pull the tree over if someone didn’t set her free. But that someone would not be Caris.

  Willard howled incoherently into his gag when he saw her, and her heart dropped. Krato still blazed in his glare, and he continued to gnaw through the kerchief. Gabbling and choking, he slung saliva and rolled his eyeballs.

  Caris set her jaw. She’d have to wait, but she would not wait there. She’d turned to go back to Rag when she sensed something had changed in Willard-Krato. His eyes were shining…with laughter? An unpleasant sensation prickled the back of her neck. Yes. The incoherent gabble was hateful laughter. Willard-Krato threw his head back against the tree trunk, then rolled his head to leer at Molly, and back to Caris, choking on laughter.

  Caris raised the light to look at Molly and saw the violet eyes burning like immortal fires. Her scars glowed with purple light as she jerked at her chain and pulled at the tree until her rump faced Caris, tail high.

  And all the blood drained from Caris’s heart.

  “No…” The word escaped as the merest breath, and it sent Willard-Krato into another fit of laughter.

  Molly was in season. Gygon had set her in heat.

  Caris could see the god’s plans in Willard-Krato’s eyes: Molly, mating with Gygon; Molly, siring a new breed of home-grown Phyros; Molly’s offspring, reviving the Old Ones.

  And now Bannus and Gygon had ridden ahead of them to cut them off.

  Caris ran back to Rag, climbed into the saddle, and rode back toward the camp as fast as the poor light of the lantern allowed. Willard wouldn’t be sane for an hour, but she couldn’t wait that long to warn the others of Bannus. She would wake them and set them in motion, and then she would return and release Willard.

  The torches she’d seen would be well ahead of them by now, and if Sir Bannus knew of the canyon, he would cut them off there. And then what? Would Willard order they turn back?

  She bit back a scream of frustration and urged Rag to greater and greater speeds.

  When she finally rode into camp, she found no sign of Harric, Mud
ruffle, or Brolli, only Kogan, fast asleep with Geraldine and Harric’s tiny cat. Dismounting, she shoved the priest’s shoulder with her boot. “Father Kogan, wake up.”

  The priest did not stir, but the musk auroch lifted her tremendous head, and the cat looked at Caris with sleepy green eyes. Caris shoved Kogan again, harder, and his small eyes fluttered and stared from under heavy lids.

  “Where is Brolli?” she said. “Where are Mudruffle and Harric? Are you the only one here?”

  Kogan gave a sleepy grunt. His eyes closed. “Let’s talk about weddings in the morning.”

  “Sir Bannus is here,” she said, “and we have to move now.”

  The priest’s eyes grew wide and he stared as if half in a dream, but he climbed to his feet. “Bannus. Does Will got Worsic?”

  “Willard is full of the Blood and still tied to his tree. I can’t let him loose until he’s himself. But you have to pack—”

  “Can’t ride without Will.”

  “I’ll ride back for Willard, but you all need to be ready when we return, and the others aren’t even here. You have to find them.”

  Kogan squinted around the camp. “Harric with Will? His horse ain’t here.”

  Snapper was gone, and so was Harric’s gear, and it took Caris a moment to think that through. So he’d ridden off—left for good, she guessed. And since she hadn’t crossed paths with him on the yoab run, he must have ridden ahead toward the canyon.

  Gods leave the fool. He’s running right to Sir Bannus.

  He was a jack and a knave, but he didn’t deserve that fate.

  “Reckon he don’t want to marry?” Kogan said, looking sympathetic. “I seen cold feet before, lady, and don’t you worry. He’ll warm up. And if he got you with child, we’ll warm him up for you.”

  Caris clenched her teeth. “If he got me with child, there’d be nothing left to warm.”

  Turning away, she stomped toward Brolli’s lookout, boots crunching sticks like brittle bones, lantern tossing shadows to the sides. “I’ll get Brolli,” she called over her shoulder. “You pack and saddle the animals.”

  Her jaw hurt from clenching. Had Harric run off because of the marriage? She snorted. “Well, good riddance,” she muttered. Then, after a moment, “And good luck.”

  At the lookout, she found Brolli’s bowl, but no Brolli. Below the overlook, the river rattled tirelessly, but she saw no winking fireflies beyond it. Bannus had moved ahead. Walking back into the shelter of the trees, she called for Brolli, but the mossy vastness seemed to swallow her voice as it left her lips and she gave up.

  “Father Kogan,” she said, when she found him cinching Idgit’s saddle. “if I don’t get back in time, you must lead Idgit and Holly.”

  Kogan did not acknowledge her. He was glaring across the camp to where Mudruffle approached from the yoab run. The golem waved a spidery hand and called out in his honking voice, “Lady Caris, the good father delivers ill tidings.”

  “Yes,” she said, relieved to see him. “I’m glad you returned, Mudruffle. Let me put you in your basket so you can fasten the belts.”

  “I may be of more service searching for Brolli.”

  Caris chewed her lip. She did not like giving orders, but someone had to do it. “Can you see in the dark?”

  “I require light to see.”

  “Then I think it would be best if we got you in your basket. I know it takes time to strap in, and you may not have time when I return.”

  Mudruffle looked at her, black eyes glittering. Then he bowed from his waist. “You speak wisely, Lady Caris. It shall be as you say.” The little golem stalked up to her in his jerking gait and raised his arms so she could pick him up.

  *

  By the time Caris returned to Willard, Molly had settled, which probably indicated that Gygon was no longer near. Molly glared at her. It seemed to Caris that the ancient mare was daring her to reach out and make contact again, and again the desire to feel the fire swelled in Caris, but this time she rejected it immediately and tore her gaze away. Since their return to camp, she sensed Rag opening to her ever so slightly again, and it spawned such frantic hope in her that she drew considerable resolution from it. She would not spoil it by touching Molly.

  Willard—or Willard-Krato—sagged against his chains, chest rising and falling in apparent exhausted slumber. He’d spat out the gag, though this time the kerchief was not entirely gnawed through. A foolish corner of her mind wondered how many kerchiefs the old knight had packed in his bags, how many more he had to spare.

  Reaching out with her horse-touched senses, she felt around the edges of his consciousness. She had not noticed what she thought of as the “hex-presence” since the first day she’d bled Molly and shackled Willard and sensed it swimming beneath the surface of his consciousness. Whatever it had been, the thing was too canny to be caught twice, for she sensed no trace of it now. And that relieved her, because the bizarre thing had unnerved her, and she could not afford to be distracted while she attempted to sense if Krato was lurking in ambush again.

  She flitted her senses around the edges of his consciousness like a feather duster around a crystal candleholder with a candle still burning inside it. She didn’t dare come too close to his mind or it would set her own mind alight and dismay Rag all over again; instead, she only drew close enough to sense its heat from a distance. If she sensed a burning fury crouching beneath the surface and waiting to pounce, then she’d know it was Krato-Willard, and that she had to wait longer.

  To her relief, she sensed no raging fire, only a subdued but steady glow of anger.

  She nudged the heel of Willard’s boot with the toe of hers. “Sir Willard. We are in haste.”

  His eyes opened, clear and alert. When they lit on her, they narrowed. “What haste?”

  She told him as she unfastened his chains. His eyes flashed and his nostrils flared as he stood to face her. He drew the chains through one hand. “You did well.”

  “She’s in heat,” Caris said, before he approached Molly.

  He continued to stare, eyes smoldering violet, and Caris was overcome with the sense that this was no longer the Willard she’d known. Some huge, young other filled the immortal armor. He’d shed the bombast of stuffing he’d used to fill the plates, and what lurked there now was hard, corded, masculine muscle.

  His chest rose and the muscles of his jaw pulsed as he stood and stared at her. “Her Blood is in me,” he said, winding the chains in his hands. He pronounced each word very clearly and slowly. “I feel her heat in me.”

  Caris’s tongue seemed to stick in her jaw. Her feet took her back a step, and she clasped her hands together to keep from resting one on her sword. She forced a quick bow, turned, and strode calmly back to Rag, but her heart felt like it was throwing itself against her breastplate.

  Gods leave me, is he touched with Molly’s heat?

  She listened closely to the rattle of the chains, which told her Willard was still where she left him—that he hadn’t pursued her. She reached out to Rag, and this time found the mare calm and open enough to help steady her nerves. But it wasn’t until she reached the mare’s side and heard Willard speaking to Molly that she allowed herself a long breath of relief.

  Hands trembling, Caris untied Rag’s lead from the tree, then mounted and followed Willard. Slowly the fear that spurred her heartbeat drained away. After some time, it seemed clear to her that while Molly remained in season, the bloodlettings would be more dangerous, and next time she released Willard from his chains, she would ride away the moment she unclasped the first manacle and let him unlock the others while she fled.

  It was not a thing she wished to discuss with him. She would simply do it that way.

  Chewing at her lip, she tracked the bob of his lantern as he topped a rise, and his silhouette appeared for a moment against the bole of a tree. Broad-shouldered, straight-backed, radiating power and strength. Enough to face Bannus yet? Maybe. But she wondered if the change in Molly’s Blood would affect w
hether he could control a heat-maddened Molly when Gygon was near.

  If you must trust, then trust your mother, or those who need you. Your mother has no choice but to want the best for you; the same for those who need you. Suspect all others.

  —From To Those Bound For Court, advice, by Lady Tickle Mehoney

  60

  Trapped

  Panic threatened to slip past Harric’s lips in a wail. As he hurried to the cabinet where Rurgich had stowed the gate rod, it threatened to escape like a breath held too long.

  Fink crouched alongside him, his trembling reaching a new peak.

  Flinging the cabinet open, Harric snatched up the rod and almost dropped it, for it was much heavier than he anticipated—surely solid witch-silver. In the Unseen, it appeared as a lightless black line, but bright pearl had been laid along its length in letters of an unfamiliar script. Instructions, maybe? Passwords?

  He set it on the fur carpet, his breath coming in rapid, shallow puffs.

  Another boom shuddered the complex, rattling a trellis above.

  “Hurry…” Fink breathed the word as if his lungs were paralyzed with fear.

  Harric grasped the rod at each end, like he’d seen Rurgich do, and lifted it vertically.

  No gate appeared beneath it.

  “Try it again!” Fink squeaked.

  A tremor of vibrations, like giant wings above, pulsed down from beyond the ceiling, followed by a thump on a roof high above. Harric imagined a giant, glowing snow-owl Kwendi lifting the roof like the lid of a basket and snatching them in cruel talons.

  Harric tried again with the same results.

  “Say the word!” Fink said. “He said a word. Say it!”

  The booming repeated, louder. Nearer. Harric heard outside the door the now-familiar sound of Kwendi hands slapping trellises. Lots of Kwendi hands.

  “Hy-ta!” Harric lifted the rod.