The Author's Blood (11 page)

Owen followed Thaddeus through the ghastly cave village, and more people came out and pushed close to him.

Thaddeus motioned them back. “He is a pure one,” he kept saying. “Don't touch him.”

The people stared at Owen as if he were an alien. Older ones, barely able to walk, squinted from their resting places. Others gazed passively while munching miserably on what looked like bark.

In the midst of a group of people wrapped in shawls and ragged blankets was a girl not more than ten years old, her head shaved.

Owen fixed his eyes on her and stopped. When he knelt and smiled at her, many fell back. He spoke softly. “Why are you here?”

Her eyes sparkled, but she turned and called for her mother.

The woman gathered her in and glared at Owen. “What do you want with us? We don't need your kind.”

“What
kind
is he?” a woman said, her voice floating down the rocks and reaching into Owen's heart.

With a start he shaded his eyes and looked up to a lone dwelling high above the floor of the gulch, where the Queen stood on a ledge.

People seemed to appear from everywhere, whispering, calling to others, pointing.

Thaddeus bowed and took off his hat, exposing his splotchy, grotesque head, but the Queen did not turn away. “Your Highness, I was hunting the east quarter in the fog and heard wings. But instead of meat falling, I found this young man who claims he has met you before.”

“What is your name?” the Queen said, her head high.

“Your Highness,” Owen said, “I met you at the mine when you were in the separation room. I am the Wormling.”

The people gasped and murmured.

The Queen edged forward. “You are either an impostor or your appearance has greatly changed.”

Owen pulled out his sword and raised it. “I have been through much since last I saw you, Your Highness. My appearance may have changed, but this should tell you all you need to know. It is the Sword of the Wormling. And in my pack is
The Book of the King
.”

“Stay where you are,” the Queen said as Owen moved closer. “You were going to search for my Son. Did you find him?”

Owen stared at his mother, knowing that the mirror of her in the Highlands was Mrs. Rothem. He could see the same kindness in her eyes. “I did find him,” he said haltingly. “And I also spoke with your husband. He met me in the Highlands.”

She put a hand to her face. “The King is alive?”

“I'm coming up,” Owen said.

The Queen shook her head. “Stay where you are. Anything you have to tell me you can say in front of these people.”

Owen scanned the growing crowd gazing up at the Queen as if she were some beacon of hope—their only reason to keep going.
Enough for a decent army,
Owen thought.
Wounded warriors but an army nonetheless.

He broke for the stone stairway, and several men hobbled to block him. Owen skirted them, jumped to the fifth step, and continued.

The people shouted and threw stones, but they were too weak to even come close. A few men tried to follow, but halfway up they were overcome with fatigue.

“Stay away from me!” the Queen shouted when Owen reached the top.

“Don't worry. I don't have their disease.”

Owen wanted to run to her and embrace her and tell her the truth, but she ran into the cave.

When he unsheathed his sword, the crowd yelled for him to stop and hurled threats.

Owen held it high. “This is the Sword of the Wormling given to me by the King of the Lowlands, who is also King of the Highlands and the creator! Do not be afraid! This sword will lead you to victory over the evil one!”

Owen crept into the woman's dwelling to find nothing but a straw mat and a blanket. No table. No chair. No vanity with a mirror. And no food but a half-eaten piece of rancid meat. The Queen kept her back turned to him, and it was all Owen could do not to run to her. She was much thinner than when he had last seen her, and no wonder.

Owen had grown much through his travels and adventures, but the truth was he still longed for her embrace, for the warmth and security that only a mother can give.

“Your Highness,” he said, “you need not fear me. I am not diseased. There is something I must tell you. Something you'll want to hear.”

“Stay where you are,” she said, wringing her hands and pacing.

“The King gave me a message for you,” Owen said, his voice cracking.

She turned and glanced at him, then turned back again. “How am I to believe you?”

“I saw him in the Highlands. He has found Gwenolyn.”

The Queen reached for the wall to steady herself. “My daughter is alive?”

“And beautiful, like you.”

She waved as if the news was too much. Finally, she said, “Swear to me my husband and my daughter are all right.”

“Gwenolyn is fine. She's taking Onora to a safe place. Onora was stung by the minions of time.”

The Queen faced him. “You're saying the bride still lives too?”

He nodded. “I assume they're still safe, of course. The King took every precaution.”

“Always. Except for me.”

“Oh, don't say that. He
did
think of you. He told me as much.” Owen recounted the King's words. “He said he knew you had been treated badly and that things would get even worse for you. But he also said your life would not be taken.”

“It might as well have been,” she said.

“Not true. A flyer who can take us out of here awaits above.”

The Queen turned away again, and her shoulders shook.

“I don't blame you for losing hope,” Owen said softly. “And neither did the King. He said you would despair and that the Dragon would test you in every way, but you're a woman of uncommon courage and strength.”

“The King thinks more highly of me than he ought. I have betrayed him in a thousand ways, believing he abandoned me.”

Owen moved closer and reached to touch her but held back. Like a mighty river pushing at swollen banks, his emotions fought to overwhelm him. Through tear-filled eyes he saw her glance at him.

“I know who you are,” she whispered. “I knew as soon as you left the mountain that day. Your face, the resemblance to your father, the way you spoke—everything confirmed what I knew in my heart.”

Owen staggered to embrace her, but the Queen blocked him.

“Mother, I told you—I don't have the disease. You don't have to worry.”

She shrank back, finally uncovering her face to reveal a white spot on her cheek. “I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about you.”

Since I arrived, I've wanted to help these people,” the Queen sobbed. “I gave them hope that someone could live in their midst and not be tainted by the disease, but now I have become one of them.”

Owen could stand it no longer and embraced his mother. She pleaded with him to let her go, but Owen hugged her all the more and cried with her.

“I have dreamed of this day,” she managed, looking Owen full in the face.

“I have as well,” he said, wiping his tears. “And seeing you like this makes me wonder what I could have done to keep you from this.”

The Queen cupped his face. “Surely you have read what your father wrote. ‘Pain is part of the recipe of life.' I was chosen for this and will accept it.”

“But if only I had—”

She shushed him. “Our lives are not about getting everything right. We stumble and fall. Difficult paths lead to what is good. Your father asks you to choose what is good and true. And when you do that, you can't help but change the lives of those around you and fulfill his purpose for you.”

Owen sat, elbows on his knees, smiling sadly. “When I was younger, I would come across a passage in a book about a mother and her child, and I would dream about what my own mother would say to me.”

Owen told her all about the bookstore, Mr. Reeder, books that thrilled him, his school, his few friends—in short, everything he could remember about the Highlands. Then he quoted passages from
The Book of the King
.

The Queen's eyes filled. “It's like listening to
him
. His words bring fire to my heart.”

“It will bring more than that,” Owen said.

A noise outside interrupted him, and his mother quickly covered herself and led him to the entrance.

Thaddeus, hat in hand, called up to them in his hoarse voice. “Your Highness, we thought we heard crying and wanted to make sure you were all right. Has he hurt you?”

Owen whispered in his mother's ear, and she nodded. She lifted both hands. “My friends, I have news for all afflicted with the disease that has brought you here. The Wormling has come!”

Faint cheers and applause came from people too weak to make much noise. Word had spread, for the amphitheater was packed and more people streamed through the pathways.

“He has met with the true King,” the Queen continued. “He is a young man of the book—
The
Book
of
the
King
. His message is one of life and hope for the future.”

“What future?” Thaddeus said. “I mean you no disrespect, Highness, but we have no future. We will die here.”

“I implore you,” the Queen said, “to listen to him.” She rolled up her sleeves to expose her whitened skin. “Listen to what he has to say to
us.
”

The crowd wailed, “It's our fault! You're sick because of us!”

“Please,” she said, “this is the not the end.” But the people's laments drowned her out. She held up her hands and waited. Finally, when they had quieted, she said, “Thaddeus, what do you desire more than anything?”

Owen could hardly contain himself as the man struggled to find the words. It was as if he hadn't even dared desire anything for so long that he hardly knew where to begin. Finally, lips quivering, he said, “To be clean!”

“Yes!” someone shouted.

“To be spotless!”

“To be pure!”

Thaddeus seemed to feed off the crowd, standing taller now. “And I long to return to my home and the land where we grew crops and fed our children. Yes! To live without fear!”

“To have our lives back!”

“To see my family again and to embrace them!”

“To take off my hood!”

“To not be ashamed!”

A flood of voices filled the amphitheater, the people so busy shouting they didn't notice Owen walking down the steps and joining them. When the thunder of noise subsided, the people swarmed him. He took out his sword and drew a large circle in the sand.

“What are you doing?” the little bald girl said.

Owen put a hand on her head and leaned close. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and the people looked terrified.

“Do you want to be healthy again?” Owen said.

“I can't remember what it feels like,” the girl said.

“Look at me,” Owen said, showing his arms to the crowd. “The King offers freedom from your condition if you will only receive it.”

A woman scowled. “How can you offer the impossible?”

“Only the King has the power to cleanse you,” Owen said. “The truth is, even those who appear healthy have stains within.”

“What do you mean?” Thaddeus said.

Owen opened
The Book of the King
. “‘Everyone is contaminated by the enemy's stain. On some it is easily seen, but in others the stain is hidden. So then, if all have this stain, how will they be cleansed? How can they be pure again?'”

The people seemed mesmerized.

An echo of a voice came to Owen's mind.
“Your wound is your strength.”
He slipped off a shoe and sock.

The people pressed close, clearly amazed at the hue of his skin compared to theirs.

“The enemy comes to kill you from the inside out,” Owen said. “He wants to steal the pleasure of living. His desire is to destroy.” He raised the sword and looked up at his mother. “But the book says the King has promised life to anyone who wants it. He wants you to live your lives to the full.”

Many shook their fists at him, but others looked on earnestly.

Owen asked for a bowl and was handed a stone basin used to catch rainwater. He brushed off his foot and showed the scar from where Mr. Page (also the King) had cut him to remove the locator the Dragon had implanted.

The people fell back when Owen used his sword to slice his foot open, and blood spurted from it into the bowl. He motioned for his mother to come down.