Rise of the Shadow

by Brian Anderson

  Sergeant Miller prodded both of them with his baton. “Keep quiet and walk faster.”

  Alex wanted to say something rude, but he feared his voice would tremble if he thought too much about what had happened to his sister. He might even start to cry.

  Emma drove him crazy sometimes, no doubt about that. Her stubborn belief that their parents were coming back any day now made Alex want to grab her and shake her and force her to face facts.

  But she was all the family he had. His parents were gone, even if Emma wouldn’t admit it. Now his uncle was too. Alex had never been fond of Uncle Mordo—how could anybody be fond of Uncle Mordo?—but he’d been there. He’d been stern, dictatorial, impatient, and as reliable as the earth beneath Alex’s feet. However Alex might have felt about his uncle’s rules and lectures, Mordo had always been around.

  Until now.

  Emma was all Alex had left. But that boy had grabbed her, and they’d both vanished. Like magic, Emma would have said.

  A day ago, Alex would have scoffed at her, would have pointed out all the ways the trick might have been managed with props and clever camera angles and sleight of hand. But now he had to admit it—in this crazy place, magic might actually be real. And it might have taken his sister away from him.

  That didn’t mean he had to like it.

  Alex treaded along in silence behind Pimawa as they crossed a rusted iron bridge over the murky sea. Abandoned warehouses lined one bank of the water, Alex noticed. They went on into the heart of the city. The air grew salty and smelled a bit like oil. Most of the storefronts they passed were boarded up. The wind whistled through their broken windows.

  Alex could see what he figured must be their destination, the Tower of Dedi, rising over rooftops and chimneys. Its upper tiers were hidden by a mix of clouds and smog. The closer they got, the fewer people they encountered. And those who were milling about were quick to retreat into the shadows at the sight of the Tower guards.

  Alex, Pimawa, and their captors passed the last of the buildings and reached a grassy field. Things that looked like petrified sea serpents arched from the ground. As they got closer, Alex saw that they were in fact the roots of a colossal tree. The trunk, wider around than a city block, formed the base of the Tower.

  Once Alex’s guards had escorted him among the roots, up a flight of stone stairs, and through a pair of giant doors, he found himself inside the heart of the giant tree. It was hollow. He stood in a cylindrical chamber with wooden walls and a floor worn smooth over the centuries. A slender box, taller than Alex, stood in the center with men in gray uniforms on either side.

  As Alex and Pimawa were herded toward a winding staircase on the far side of the chamber, the box fizzled with blue light. The light faded, and a guard opened the door, yanking out an old man in a moth-chewed tuxedo.

  “A new arrival,” whispered Pimawa, stopping. “Let’s see how he does.”

  “Does what?” asked Alex.

  Their guards seemed curious too. They allowed their prisoners to stop to watch the proceedings.

  “Perform,” answered Pimawa. “Anyone trying to enter the Conjurian must prove they have true magical abilities, not just some sleight of hand they learned in a book.”

  Alex eyed Pimawa skeptically. “You mean he’s going to levitate or something?”

  “Gracious, no,” said Pimawa. “No one’s had power like that in ages. The simplest effect will do. So long as he uses real magic.” He sighed. “I doubt many people get in these days.”

  Intrigued, Alex watched as the old man whisked a yellowed handkerchief from his breast pocket. He flourished the handkerchief as best he could. His fingers seemed stiff, the knuckles swollen.

  “Get on with it,” snapped one of the guards.

  The old man’s lips quivered as he tucked the handkerchief into his fist. One finger at a time, his hand opened. The handkerchief was gone. He managed a proud smile.

  “Seriously?” The guard reached over and pulled the man’s jacket open, revealing the handkerchief tucked into a small pouch dangling from an elastic strap around his arm. “Right, bring him below.”

  “Wait!” the old man gasped. “I swear, I used to have magic, but it’s gone. It went away. My name is Harold the Great. Please, someone here must have heard of me!”

  The guard seized hold of the man by the collar of his black jacket, ignoring his pleas, and walked him away from the box and through a door in the wooden wall. On the door, Alex could make out the words CONJURIAN DETENTION CENTER. Something smaller that Alex couldn’t read was printed underneath.

  The door shut behind Harold the Great, cutting off his anxious voice.

  Alex nearly shivered. Okay, the old man had been a fraud, obviously—but it was just a stupid magic trick. Or non-magic trick. Not a huge crime or anything. But the guards had seemed so grim….

  “What’s going to happen to him?” he asked nervously.

  “Never you mind,” Sergeant Miller snapped. He shoved Alex toward the winding staircase. “Keep moving.”

  Alex marched behind Pimawa up the curving staircase, which began to seem endless. After each full turn, they’d pass a landing with a doorway that led into a hall branching out from the center of the Tower. Alex kept hoping they’d reached the right door and would be getting off the staircase, but each time, the guards herded him and Pimawa farther up.

  The walls changed from wood to stone to stucco and, eventually, modern drywall. Alex glanced out every window they passed at the sprawling city. After a time, all he could see were drizzly clouds.

  His legs ached, then trembled, then started to feel as if they had been filled with syrup. Yet anytime he tried to pause for a breath, the guards jerked him up more stairs.

  “Why don’t you have elevators?” he groaned.

  “Why don’t you have your Jimjarian carry you?” A guard behind him snickered.

  Just when Alex felt as if his knees would buckle, Sergeant Miller finally allowed them all to rest. Alex flopped down to sit on the stairs, and his captors let him do it, although he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long enough to really catch his breath.

  They were on a landing with an open doorway that led into a hall jammed with boxes and dusty cabinets. Along the corridor, Alex saw a metal door secured with a rusted padlock. The letters on the door made him forget all about his burning lungs.

  Alex had heard about those letters before. Pimawa had mentioned them. MAGE stood for Magic Antiquities Guardianship and Enforcement. The rabbit had claimed that Alex and Emma’s parents had not been archaeologists after all—that they’d been some kind of magical secret agents. And behind that door was the place where they had worked!

  “Get moving,” Sergeant Miller grunted, tugging on the chains around Alex’s hands and pulling him upright. “Master Agglar’s waiting for you.”

  Alex did not want to move away from that door. There might be clues of all kinds behind it—clues to what his parents had really been doing and what had happened to them. Nobody asked him what he wanted, however, and all he could do was count the landings they passed, making sure to remember how many floors separated him from the MAGE office and all that it contained.

  “Almost there,” said Pimawa, trying to sound reassuring, as if they were taking a relaxing stroll through Uncle Mordo’s gardens.

  Seven floors, and one hundred and sixty-eight steps later, they came to a stop. The stairs did not go any farther, Alex could see. They had to be at the very top of the Tower.

  This landing did not have an open doorway leading to a hall, like all the others. Instead he saw a pair of white doors with golden doorknobs, firmly closed.

  Sergeant Miller opened them and pulled on the chains, leading Alex and Pimawa into the room beyond.

  Alex took in everything he could see. The room was circular. The walls were filled with framed posters of ma
gicians. A round table with a shining marble surface took up most of the space. Thirteen empty chairs were drawn up to it.

  Eight windows stretched from the floor to the domed ceiling. Near one of them, Christopher Agglar leaned on his cane. A few feet away stood a tall, burly Jimjarian.

  Sergeant Miller gave Agglar a brief military bow. He dropped the end of the chain connected to Alex’s shackles and turned to go.

  The last guard in line chuckled as he filed out behind the others. “Last stop. Feel free to pass out now,” he muttered to Alex.

  Then he closed the door behind him, leaving Alex and Pimawa alone in the room with Agglar and the unknown Jimjarian.

  “Please, come closer,” said Agglar. He nodded to his Jimjarian. “Rowlfin, if you would.”

  Rowlfin approached, his furry chin held high as he withdrew a key from his waistcoat. He unlocked Alex’s shackles first. Then, with a stern glare, he freed Pimawa.

  “Greetings, Father,” said Pimawa, rubbing his furry wrists.

  Rowlfin let out a disapproving sound, sort of like “Chuff!” He slung the chains over his shoulder and returned to Agglar’s side.

  Alex turned his head to look at Pimawa in surprise. This other giant rabbit was Pimawa’s father? What kind of a greeting was that between father and son?

  Pimawa looked at the floor. He seemed to be trying to avoid Alex’s gaze.

  “Please,” said Agglar, turning from the window, “have a look around.”

  There were two things Alex did not want to do at that moment. The first one was to take another step. And the second was to do anything that Christopher Agglar told him to.

  But he needed a moment, and not just to catch his breath. He needed to sort his thoughts out. Seeing his uncle’s old antiques-dealer crony standing here, in this crazy tower made out of a tree, acting like he owned the place—maybe he did own the place?—made Alex’s brain spin a little.

  He needed to understand what was happening here. He needed answers. And old Agglar was going to give them to him.

  He’d just take a moment to figure out the right questions.

  Alex stuffed both hands into his pockets. In the right one, he felt his father’s old watch, and he rubbed his fingers over its smooth surface as he limped forward on his aching legs. He looked at the portraits on the walls without really seeing them as he tried to figure out what to ask first.

  But one portrait riveted his attention, and his questions fell out of his mind. In it, a woman with chestnut-brown hair to her shoulders was sitting on an armchair, leaning a little to one side. A tall man stood behind her, one arm on the chair’s back. She had her head tilted up a little, so that she could meet his eyes. His face was turned slightly down to hers.

  Alex gripped the watch tightly. He was looking at his parents.

  “An ever-growing gallery of those who made the ultimate sacrifice for magic,” said Agglar, watching Alex closely. “Sadly, we will be adding a portrait of your uncle next to the one of your parents. Sit.” He gestured toward the chairs with his cane.

  Pimawa sat obediently. Alex didn’t move.

  Agglar crossed the room, leaning on his cane with each step, until he stood uncomfortably close to Alex. “Open your hand,” he said shortly.

  Alex didn’t budge.

  With a hiss of impatience, Agglar seized the boy’s wrist and turned his hand over so that his open palm was on top. Then he placed a silver coin on Alex’s palm. Opening his own hand, he displayed a copper coin. “Transpose them,” he said shortly.

  “You want me to switch the coins?” Alex reached for the copper coin with his free hand.

  Agglar slapped his hand away. “Using magic.”

  Alex was speechless. This old man was crazier than he had ever imagined. Okay, Alex might have to admit that there was something in this world, some kind of force, that he didn’t understand—something that powered Gertie, that made seeds explode and fish swim through mist and trees grow as big as the Empire State Building. Fine. He’d call that force magic if he had to.

  But what on earth made Christopher Agglar think Alex could do a thing with that force? With…magic?

  He shrugged and he handed the silver coin back. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  Agglar’s eyes narrowed. “I had hoped that, despite your sheltered upbringing, you would show some natural ability for conjuring,” he said. “Regardless, if you do hold any clues to the Eye of Dedi’s location, I will extract them.”

  Alex narrowed his own eyes. “That Eye thing? I don’t have any idea where it is. Or what it is. Listen, I want to know—”

  He wanted to know so many things.

  Like, where was Emma? What was Agglar doing to get her back?

  And who was that Shadow Conjurer guy? Why did he think that Alex and Emma might know anything about the Eye?

  And why did Agglar think the same thing? That Alex might have some kind of clue about the Eye?

  And if Agglar was really a friend of Uncle Mordo’s—if Agglar was supposed to keep both Alex and Emma safe—then why had Alex been brought here in chains?

  But before Alex could ask anything, Pimawa stepped forward. “Master Agglar, might I suggest a bit of rest for the young Maskelyne? It has been a trying morning.”

  Both Rowlfin and Agglar glared at Pimawa.

  “You dare tell me what needs to be done! This is how you respect the memory of your master?” Agglar demanded.

  “Sir, no,” said Pimawa. “I only—”

  “Hold your tongue!” Rowlfin snapped.

  Pimawa’s ears drooped flat behind his head.

  “Hey,” Alex said angrily. “What are you—”

  Agglar stepped toward Alex and bent over, his long nose inches from Alex’s face. Alex stopped talking.

  Agglar studied Alex and then nodded. “So he’s tired? Very well. Rowlfin, lock him up in suitable quarters for napping. We shall have his sister shortly.”

  Emma dragged herself out of a manhole onto a crowded cobblestone street. People hardly seemed to notice her, or to care that she’d arrived in such an unusual way. They just streamed around her, nudging and pushing, grumbling for her to get out of the way.

  She knew she ought to run. She had to escape. But every time she took a step, someone bumped or jostled her back toward the hole she’d climbed out of.

  Once the boy had grabbed Emma, a white haze had exploded all around them. When it had cleared, they’d been together in an old stone tunnel. She’d wrenched free and started running, then spotted the ladder. It had only taken her a few moments to climb up and shove the manhole cover aside.

  She knew the boy was close behind her. At any minute he would grab her. She had to run…but which way?

  All around her, buildings leaned like rotted stumps, blocking any view of the only landmark she knew, the Tower of Dedi. But she could see a side street nearby. She darted toward it, only to slam into a hunchbacked man wearing a top hat held together by safety pins. He shoved her back the way she’d come.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he snarled.

  “Good to see you’re making new friends. You’ll need them in this part of the city,” said a cheerful voice behind her.

  The boy! Emma swung around, heart hammering, as her captor popped up from the manhole. He slid the cover back and smiled jauntily at her. “Well, it’s been fun. Take care!”

  “What?” Emma stared, astonished, as the boy turned his back on her and sauntered away into the crowd. Within minutes he was lost to her sight.

  She stood, shocked into stillness, as people shoved past her. The boy wasn’t trying to kidnap her? He didn’t care about her anymore? He was just going to…leave her here?

  “Hey!” she shouted, and plunged forward, shoving her way behind two women, one carrying a shopping bag and one trying to keep a live chicken tu
cked under her arm. “Wait a minute!”

  A block later, she caught up to the boy just as he was handing a pile of coins to an old woman in a patchwork jacket. The old woman nodded and stuffed the coins into her pocket before limping away.

  “You again?” The boy grinned at Emma. He had dark stringy hair that he brushed from his forehead, and his clothes were like those she could see on all the people here—patched, worn, and faded. “From the minute I met you, you kept shouting about getting away from me!” the boy told her. “And now you’re following me?” He sighed. “Look, I get it. I’m not trying to be charming. It just happens. Still, do your best to resist.” He shrugged and spun off, slipping between the pedestrians with ease.

  Infuriated, Emma ignored complaints from all sides as she pushed after him. “You can’t kidnap someone and then leave them in a strange place!” she told him.

  “I can and I did,” the boy pointed out. In one hand he held out a gleaming diamond necklace. A little girl darted past, a blur of black braids flowing from under a tweed cap. She took the necklace and was gone.

  That gave Emma an idea.

  Quickly, before he could slip away again, Emma reached into the pocket of the boy’s jacket and seized hold of whatever she could grab. Her hand came out full of thin gold coins, with a slender silver chain trailing between two fingers.

  “Hey, no fair!” The boy snatched at Emma’s hand. Emma pulled away. “Give it back!”

  “After you bring me to the Tower,” Emma said firmly.

  “Hand it over,” the boy insisted. “This is not the place you want to draw attention to yourself.”

  He made another attempt to grab Emma’s hand. She slipped to the side with ease. After all, she had years of practice holding things just out of reach of her little brother. “Then take me to the Tower,” she repeated.