The Jack of Ruin

by Stephen Merlino

No gate.

  “Hy-tu. Hy-to. Hu-ty. I wasn’t listening, Fink. I don’t remember!”

  Fink reached for the rod and Harric released it. The instant Fink touched it, he froze, then his face went slack with surprise. Closing his eyes, he lifted the rod from the rug, and the tarred gate rose below it, but his skinny arms buckled when it reached the height of his knees.

  “Help me!” he gasped.

  Harric laid his hands over Fink’s and lifted. The already heavy rod had tripled or quadrupled its weight, as if the gate itself were indeed a curtain of heavy tar.

  As soon as Harric had pushed it to the height of his chest, he stared into the void beyond and panicked. “There’s no forest gate! Where is it?”

  Fink shoved Harric from behind with his small hands. “Go! Go!”

  Somewhere high above them, the complaining shriek of metallic hinges erupted, and a breath of air stirred in the room. A beautiful baritone voice filled Harric’s mind in a language he did not understand. Harric stood in fascination. He wanted to hear the musical tones again, but something slammed into his back and he stumbled through the doorway.

  And the world disappeared.

  Falling, he flailed, trying to catch himself, but there was no ground. Everything but the doorway beside him had vanished, and that remained beside him—despite his sensation of falling—falling with him. A soundless window upon Fink in Brolli’s map room. Fink dove at Harric, collided with him.

  Then the imp’s snakelike tail hooked the rod at the top of the door and slammed it down behind them.

  Harric clutched Fink’s tail as if it were his only hold on sanity. In the immensity of the void around him, there were no Web lines, no moons, no stars, no winds, no clouds—not even a mote of dust to lend a glimmer of dimension or external existence. In that limitless darkness, only three things existed: himself, Fink, and his soul strands, which appeared severed and drifting in messy tangles, like broken anchor lines in slack water.

  Where are we? he said, but there were no words, only thought.

  Fink shook his head, peering about. He looked everywhere but at Harric, and it sent a lance of panic through Harric’s middle. Why wouldn’t he look at him? Were they in trouble? What was wrong?

  We’re nowhere, kid. The imp’s voice rasped in Harric’s head, terrifyingly intimate. Stop jerking around. You’re tangling your strands.

  Harric stared in horror at the little pool of soul strands. He wanted to gather them about himself like a blanket of comfort in that limitless sea of nothing. Or was it infinite? Maybe it was merely a lightless casket, its walls just beyond reach. The thought filled him with claustrophobic terror.

  How long had he been there?

  Fink had instructed him not to move. But he could not tell how long ago. Moments. Days. There was no way to measure time except in the sequence of the memories of thoughts and conversations that created a history. But in the void, every thought or conversation swung free, out of sequence with other memories. The moment he thought a thing, it became unrelated to the thoughts before and after. Memories floated loose like bubbles in the sea, in no particular order. He struggled to huddle them together into some kind of sense, but his mind was now a net with a weave too wide to hold anything.

  Fink, get us out of here! The thought escaped like a gasp. You can gate. That’s what you do when I Summon you, right?

  Fink nodded. His eyes still swept up and around the welter of Harric’s strands, looking anywhere but at Harric. Gating isn’t our problem, kid. A gate’s just a weave, like Spirit Walking. Problem is, you can’t just gate anywhere you want, only someplace you know like it’s part of you, like your home.

  So?

  Fink’s eyes finally rested on Harric. So, my home’s the Unseen Moon.

  Harric stared. He felt his throat contracting.

  Yeah. Full of black fumes you can’t breathe and spirits like my sisters. Fink’s needled jaws stretched downward. So our choice is this: I could try to gate you to one of the places I’ve seen in Arkendia, and risk sending you to the bottom of some lake or a mile above a mountain, or we stay here and hope we see another Kwendi gate open near us. Not great choices.

  Harric sucked in a convulsive breath, and somehow he could not exhale, like his lungs kept trying to draw air, even after they could draw no more.

  He felt as though he were submerged in still sea beneath a starless night sky. Somewhere near him, the surface lurked—beyond his reach, invisible—and beyond that surface lay time and space and order. But he had no idea where to find it. And as Fink stopped talking, the sea around Harric filled with disordered bubbles of thought and memory.

  Talk to me, Fink—! he finally gasped. I’m—a—a—!

  Afraid. Yeah. Fink stared at him, unblinking, and Harric felt a cold wave of fear wash over him. It was as if the imp weren’t looking at Harric, but at some fat, unclaimed soul he’d found in the void—like a moon cat might look at a rat still alive in a trap: idly curious, waiting for appetite to develop.

  Gods leave me if he wants my soul—the way he’s looking at me—

  Opening that gate took a lot out of me, kid. Fink’s black tongue flicked over his teeth. I’m starving again. But…no worry. He turned his gaze on Harric’s strands, and the tongue flicked out again.

  Fink—

  Fink raised his hands in a calming gesture. It’s that whole mortality thing, kid. It scares you. Infinity scares you. But you want to know something funny? The opposite is true, too. I was terrified in that Kwendi hive. Before today, I never understood why you mortals fear death. To me, it’s a natural part of the cycle. And I’m one of the ministers of that cycle. He snorted and tugged at his enormous nose. But there’s no end to the names you mortals pin on us. Slavers. Devourers. Deceivers. Monsters. All because you don’t know what death is and what we’re for.

  But today it was me they could have destroyed. I’m not used to that. What happens to a spirit when you destroy it? Is there rebirth? Oblivion? And what are the Aerie? Just like you poor suckers, I fear the unknown.

  Harric felt the pressure of a sob building in his chest, and tried to swallow it back.

  Yeah, I can smell it on you. You’re terrified of me. Think I’m going to go back on our agreement. The needle jaws spread in a grin. No need to fear.

  Harric fixated on Fink’s every word, grasping for solid reference and distraction.

  Fink nodded. That’s it. Better.

  Don’t stop talking, Harric blurted. Tell me—what you saw in the fortress.

  Fink gave a sly look from narrowed eyes. The magic. Now, that was a wonder. And I owe it all to you. But souls, was I scared. If I had the right anatomy, I’d have laid an egg.

  Don’t stop talking! I don’t think I can wait a day for a gate. I—I’ll go mad.

  Fink frowned. You have to keep it together, kid. Next time Brolli and his friends open their gates, we go for Brolli’s. If we get to it before his friends enter, we can pop out at his feet and run while he’s surprised. But if the others enter first, they’ll see us here, and they’ll have time to get over their surprise. He shook his head, looking past Harric.

  What is it? What aren’t you telling me?

  Fink frowned. Truth is, we may never see their gates again. They may not open up where we can see them, kid. There’s no consistency in this place.

  Fink!

  I know. I’m sorry. Fink’s brow pinched as he continued to look past Harric. That’s odd. Look at your strands. The imp pointed.

  Harric tore his eyes from Fink to see that his strands had oriented all in the same direction, as if some invisible current had caught them and straightened them in its flow like strands of river grass in a stream.

  What is it?

  Fink’s eyes lit up. Don’t move. I can crawl your strands. Mother of moons, kid. I think this is our way out. Just don’t move!

  Fink crawled up Harric’s body, talons gripping his clothing, and then released him and slid away on Harric’s strands. Against the black
of nothing, Fink’s dark skin vanished, and only where he obscured Harric’s strands could Harric glimpse parts of the imp.

  It’s here! Fink said, his voice just as loud in Harric’s mind as if he were beside him. The imp’s laughter rang with relief. Follow your strands to me. Think it—will it. Like the first time we were here.

  Harric’s heartbeat drummed like a rabbit’s, but willing himself down the strands came easily, and he found himself rapidly gliding down the glowing stream toward the imp’s fly-on-a-window silhouette. For a moment, he worried he did not know how to stop, but the instant he thought it, he stopped gliding, still short of Fink. He willed himself across the remaining distance and Fink grabbed his hand as he stopped. Fink had hooked his hand on something in space—a line in the dark, like the crack under a door. All Harric’s strands had gathered at the crack as if someone had shut a door on them.

  Fink’s grin radiated triumph. When you came through the gate the first time, it cut off your strands. Now they want to connect with their other halves, see? They led us right to Brolli’s gate stick. That little line is it. It’s back in time somewhere.

  Harric felt his mind scattering. He pressed his hands to his temples. Get me out of here, Fink. Please.

  Fink nodded. Since I can see this rod, I think I can gate you to wherever it is, just like I know the place. But remember, Brolli has this rod. I’ll try to drop you near him but not on him. Still, you need to be ready to hide or run or lie you head off.

  You’re not coming with me?

  Fink shook his head. How would you lie me away? I’ll gate to my moon and meet you later. He extended a hand and stuffed the nexus in Harric’s pants pocket. Summon me.

  Good. Fine. Just do it.

  Fink’s grin glittered in the light of Harric’s strands. Your wish is my command.

  Arkendians believe the north of their island is inhabited by beasts and mythological monsters, including their creator god Arkus, who uses the site for his bath. A curious god indeed, who values such privacy and requires such minimal creature comforts. We would call such a fellow a hermit and crackpot. There, he’s a god.

  —From A Merry Stay in a Backward Land, Iberg, circa before the Kwendi Emergence

  61

  Lies

  Brolli stepped from the world gate and looked around the slopes of the mossy grotto in which it stood. Night cloaked the forest. The moons had set, and smoke hugged the land. Somewhere in the distance, a yoab croaked. He could see Rurgich through the world gate, small and worried. He waved, then closed the gate.

  Alone again in the silence of the southern forest, he paused. Something had happened to rouse the Aerie, and it couldn’t have been a Spear Dragon attack, because dawn was still far away. He let out a breath laden with vague anxieties and looked down at the buck Gredol had taken. It stared back with dull eyes already crawling with flies.

  “Better get you to Molly before you spoil,” he muttered.

  He’d just finished the ritual of thanks to the beast when he heard a voice and froze, listening. Again it sounded, like a bellowing ox. The Stilty priest. He was shouting Brolli’s name, along with something else that sounded insulting.

  Should lob a flasher near him. He’d soil his pants. Not that he’d smell any worse.

  Cupping his hands to his mouth, he called back. Then he hoisted the deer over his shoulders and set off toward the sound.

  A thump in the ferns behind him gave him a start. He dropped the deer and tumbled to one side, expecting a young yoab or bear coming for the buck, but saw instead Harric. The young man knelt at the rim of the grotto, no more than ten paces away.

  Brolli’s gut tightened. Moments before, the world gate had been there in plain view where Harric would have seen it. Hand tight on the haft of his cudgel, he stared at Harric.

  The young Stilty wore no shirt, just a floppy back-sack, and he remained on hands and knees as if he’d tripped and fallen. Now he stared about, unseeing, his eyes wide and white as turtle eggs. A wave of relief washed through Brolli as he realized Harric couldn’t see his hand in front of his face at night, much less a black gate at the bottom of a grotto. He must have gotten lost when his light went out.

  Or he’s been trying to spy and knew light would give him away…

  Brolli shifted his cudgel between hands, eyes narrowing. But as he studied Harric, he realized the lad was weeping. The young man had hung his head. Hair concealed his face, but his shoulders convulsed, and Brolli heard faint sobbing. Harric’s fists clutched at the moss as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

  Taken aback, Brolli watched in silence, and then he felt embarrassment for Harric. This was not the reaction Brolli would expect if Harric had just seen the world gate. Something else must trouble him. Brolli’s instinct was to give privacy—to creep away before Harric knew he was there—but he couldn’t leave without knowing for certain that Harric hadn’t seen anything.

  “Harric,” Brolli said with as neutral a tone as he could manage. “Are you well?”

  Harric looked up as if surprised. Strings of hair stuck to tears on his face, concealing much of his expression. He rose on his knees and wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands. He nodded. On one forearm, Brolli spotted a raised, angry weal, like a nasty spider bite.

  “Your arm. You are injured. No, the other arm.”

  Harric found the wound with a groping hand and winced. “I—It’s a burn. I meant to wrap it.” His voice came out hoarse and jittery.

  “Do you have light?” Brolli said. “We must return to camp. Bannus is near.”

  Harric’s mouth dropped open. He closed it and stood. “I—I’m—” He swallowed. “Yes. I’ll be along. Go ahead.”

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  Harric coughed. “Caris. It’s nothing.”

  Brolli winced inwardly, but his worry finally dissolved. The moon-cursed wedding ring. Will there ever be an end to the misery it causes? Damn Willard’s hex for landing it in the boy’s hand to begin with. “I am sorry.”

  Father Kogan bellowed like a dying yoab. “Brolli and be hanged!”

  Brolli smiled. “Wash your face and come. I think we must ride.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. Soon.”

  Harric nodded. “Thank you.” The young Stilty slung his pack from his shoulders and sat to recover his shirt and his boots from it. The fool had been running about shirtless in dirty stockings. Brolli paused as a nagging doubt tugged at the edges of his mind, but he could not put his finger on it.

  He shook his head and slung the buck over his shoulders again.

  Love makes idiots of us all. Stilty and Kwendi alike.

  Sir Willard’s helm had shattered,

  But the giant’s heart was rent.

  Said Willard, “Moll’, I’ve got a job

  For you beneath this dent.”

  —From “Sir Willard and the Giant of Winty Crack”

  62

  Unholy Fire

  Harric led Snapper up the yoab run toward the canyon, determined to get as far ahead of the others as possible, but any excitement of striking out on his own had been strangled in its crib. Memory of the Nothing and its terrifying eternity still reverberated in him like the peal of a giant iron bell. On top of that, he now bore the serious duty of passing on to Willard what he’d learned of Brolli, and that meant his departure would not be the clean break he’d planned, for sooner or later he’d have to go back to meet the old knight or wait for him somewhere ahead.

  He mulled over the matter as he plodded along without light, using his spirit vision to navigate. He could announce Brolli’s betrayal to the entire group. That would take Brolli by surprise and maybe force a confession. But such a confrontation could also get messy. Brolli could interrupt him, muddy the issue, feign outrage, or say Harric must be ill and hallucinating. He’d demand evidence, and Harric would be forced to either back down or reveal his own magic.

  Snapper snorted, and Harric looked up at the gelding,
who had stopped because Harric had stopped. “Sorry,” he muttered, and resumed walking. “Afraid I might be slightly mad, now.”

  Through small gaps in the trees, Harric caught glimpses of the far side of the valley, now bathed in silver moonlight. On the wind, he caught the scent of green things and only the faintest touch of wood smoke. With luck, that meant that the wildfire had died and not spread into the valley. One less thing to worry about.

  Something stung his forearm, and he gave it an unconscious rub, only to yelp as the spot flared like a live burn. Cobs. He’d forgotten about the Witch’s Teat. He pulled up his sleeve to examine the ugly pucker, and found it looked exactly like a fat and angry teat. With the tip of a finger he explored it, gingerly, and pain flared like he’d poked an angry burn. Disgust and revulsion swelled in his stomach.

  Cursing, he fished a length of linen bandage from his bags and bound it as tightly as he could, to protect and hide it. If a wandering priest or a witch hunter saw it, they’d search him for his witch-stone, and that would be the end of his ballad.

  When the run northward grew difficult, he judged he must be approaching the canyon and turned down a smaller run that sloped toward the river.

  In the Unseen, the spiritual essence of the river shone like blinding sunlight through the gaps in the trees, and when he crossed a particularly large gap, it stung his oculus like the water of the cistern had done. If he squinted his oculus and peered closely, he could discern in it thousands and thousands of thrashing ribbons—like soul strands, only thinner and hotter and whipping madly with the motion of the torrent below.

  He closed his oculus and opened his eyes, which were now well adjusted to the dark and capable of navigating in more frequent spots of moonlight near the edge of the forest. The roar of the river grew louder with every step, until he came to a stop in a depression that may have been another yoab bed. From its edge, he could see the white foam of the river some twenty fathoms below.