The Author's Blood (2 page)

Concerning the scruffy woman who stands before the Dragon, we must pause. We have glimpsed her before in this castle, sleeping as her husband kissed her. He then crept into the shadows to leave the Lowlands, but she remained. We have seen her inside the mines with other workers. We have even seen the interchange between her and her Son, though she did not know at the time that Owen was her Son.
The
Son.

She had spoken harshly to the Wormling and had regretted it. In her misery she had told him she didn't care about the uniting of the worlds, that she only wanted her Son back. A thousand times she wished she could have explained her reaction to someone in the mines. But when you are a queen, when you have been used to speaking with only a few trusted people, fearful that the enemy will send spies to ferret out information, you must keep quiet. But, oh, how her heart ached for her Son, her husband, her daughter, the entire Lowlands, and those in the Highlands as well—they had no idea what evil was coming. And now, here she stood, in a room that had once comforted her, among the enemies of her soul.

The brutes clapped and cheered in fake admiration as the Dragon smirked. Though her clothes weren't more than rags and she would have preferred being thrown into a pond of hungry alligators, she lifted her gaze to stare at the beings. One by one, as her eyes passed over the crowd, they seemed to lose their gusto.

The Dragon quickly backed to his throne and sat, waving for quiet. “Please, let us bestow a modicum of respect to this poor, beleaguered woman. After all, her husband is dead and we will soon hear of the demise of her Son as well.”

The Queen narrowed her eyes at the Dragon.

“Her kingdom is in shambles, her friends and companions dead, and the one ray of hope, the Wormling, is but burnt toast on the ash heap of history. She is utterly alone.”

If this was meant to evoke pity from this motley crew, it failed. They gloated all the more.

Finally the Dragon waved again. “My lady, you may think us uncaring and rude, but I remind you that we have every right as victors to drag your body through the streets in front of your subjects. But we did not do that, did we?”

The Queen continued to stare mutely at him.

“No, we did not,” the Dragon said. “And I have good news for you. I am going to give you a chance to live.”

The council members gasped.

“No, you must incinerate her now,” General Prufro said.

“Show her your power,” another chimed in.

The Dragon simply raised a lip, revealing a long incisor, and it silenced them. “No, a ruler can show power in many ways, and one is to present an alternative to annihilation. If you do as I say, I will not only let you live but will also allow you to take up residence here again.”

Another gasp from the council.

“But, sire—,” RHM said.

This time a snarl silenced him.

“What do you require?” the Queen said.

The Dragon stepped from his throne and settled on his belly on the floor, arms crossed under his chin, his face inches from the Queen's. His breath, a putrid mixture of charcoal and bad cheese, turned her empty stomach.

“Once the repairs have been made, I want you to accompany me to the coliseum and declare your allegiance, recognize your sovereign, bow your knee to me, and be allowed to live.” The Dragon batted his eyelashes at the Queen in anticipation of her response.

With a fierceness that caused even those at the table to recoil, she spat, “My husband is the true King, and I shall never betray him, even at the cost of my life. He is the one with true greatness and glory and dignity and grandeur. You will never compare to him, and I could never bow my knee to you anywhere.”

Except for a rattle deep in the Dragon's throat, there was no sound.

The Queen locked eyes with him. “And I still believe that the King's words will come true. The four portals shall be breached. The Son will return, and you will be defeated. And he will marry his bride.”

“I could dispatch you with flames this very instant, woman,” the Dragon said with an awful laugh. “Your Son is either already dead or so aged he wouldn't even be able to stand and say his vows. And your husband was dispatched long ago.”

The Queen noticed RHM flinch and assumed he desired to correct his master. “Nothing you can say or do will make me worship you,” she said. “Do with me as you wish, but do not waste your time or mine by threatening me.”

The Dragon looked mad enough to incinerate the entire castle, but instead he moved past the Queen to a painting on the wall that depicted the whole of the Lowlands. “This was one of your husband's favorites while he lived here. Notice particularly this part near the forbidden forests. Do you know what is there?”

The Queen peered at the painting, then looked away as council members chuckled and whispered.

“Yes,” the Dragon purred. “A fate worse than death. Either you bow before me or I will send you to a place from which you will never return. Every day of your miserable life will be spent in agony at refusing my offer.”

Sweat beaded on the Queen's brow, but with her hands tied she could not wipe it away. With quavering voice, she said, “I will never worship you.”

The Dragon drew to within inches of her face again, and it seemed the very walls could crumble from the force of his voice. “I swear to make you regret those words! In front of these witnesses, you have committed high treason against your sovereign. You shall be banished from our midst and sentenced to live the remainder of your pathetic life among the outcasts of Perolys Gulch!”

The Queen lowered her head and shuddered. He was right. A fate worse than death.

Of all the choices Owen had made since learning he was the Son, the most difficult was whether to slip out the basement window and escape this spooky place or stand and fight the beasts above. He had read time and again in
The Book of the King
that fear would render him small.

Instead of running or brandishing his weapon against three beings who could slice and dice and make french fries of him, Owen unsheathed his sword and held it in front of his mouth.
“Zzzzzz,”
he said, tongue close to the blade. The sound split, making a metallic buzz much like that of the minions of time.

Whiner said, “The minions are back. Let's get out of here before we get bitten ourselves.”

Wings flapped and a gust of wind spurted through the keyhole.

Owen held his breath and waited, then buzzed louder, waving the sword. Water dripped through the charred building, and the floorboards creaked above. He leaned down to the keyhole and saw the hulking form of a huge revellor peering back at him. Owen jumped back, his heart beating wildly.

The doorknob turned and caught. The revellor spurted liquid through the keyhole, and as it hit the floor, it sizzled and bubbled and smoked like grease in a skillet. The metal doorknob was melting before his eyes.

Owen sheathed his sword and secured his pack, then wedged a rickety chair against the door. He rushed to the window, boards groaning under his feet, and crawled outside through the sharp glass. One of the shards cut him, but he kept going.

Once he had crawled out, he felt a lot better than being in the room with the creature, now banging and pushing on the door. Owen made it to the street, and rain soaked his hair and clothes. A flash of lightning illuminated the remnants of the building and a figure in the empty doorway. The being howled an unearthly cry that cut through Owen like a knife.

Owen raced into an alley much like the one he had run through before he had discovered
The Book of the King
. “Nicodemus,” he said, gasping, “if you're near, I need your help!”

Downspouts poured from surrounding roofs.

Should he have stayed to fight? Would the revellors fly back to the Dragon and hasten the destruction of the Highlanders?

Owen shook the water from his hair like a dog and tried to think.
The Book of the King
instructed him to be courageous, to fight his battles one by one, and to not despair, no matter what the outcome.
The footsteps of the righteous are ordered by the King. Though you may slip and fall, he will help you get back on your feet.

A wing flapped overhead, and a pang of fear shot through Owen. He ducked into a stairwell and shivered, backing up as far as he could into a brick wall, where he was sheltered from the rain. He was trying to gather his wits when he felt a presence and heard a familiar voice.

“They will sense I am here,” Nicodemus whispered, “and they will know you are here as well.”

“I need to find a place to hide and collect myself,” Owen said.

Though Owen could not see him, he imagined Nicodemus's face, scrunched in thought, working out the problem.

“A woman you know lives nearby,” Nicodemus said. “She was your teacher—the one who was sent away.” He gave Owen the address and directions. “Now I must go.”

“Wait,” Owen said. “Did I do the right thing? Should I have stayed to fight the beasts?”

Owen felt a hand on his shoulder. “Your heart is good, young prince. There will come a time to fight, but for now it is best to elude the enemy. Now go with haste. The darkness may provide you with covering.”

Owen stood at the end of a darkened hallway, his sword behind him, water dripping from his clothes and hair. The narrow hall left little room for him to hide, but he had found apartment 4D after jimmying the front door. It was still dark outside, which was eerie because the sunlight should have begun to invade.

He listened to a radio through the thin walls of 4C as well as the sounds of rattling pots and pans. His stomach clenched when he smelled bacon sizzling and imagined a skillet full of eggs, toast popping up, pancakes and syrup. . . .

Owen heard a news report about local authorities being baffled over reported attacks by bees “that people are saying don't look much like bees. The attacks began two days ago, and residents are warned to keep windows and doors shut and taped. Some believe this is simply a bad locust invasion, but many injured in the attacks are in serious condition at local hospitals.”

Owen tapped lightly on 4D. A dull light shone under the door, but he saw no movement.

When he tapped again, the radio went silent and a door opened behind him. A chain tightened and an old, gray-headed woman peeked out of 4C and said, “What are you doing here? I'll call the police if you don't get out.”

That was the last thing Owen needed. “I'm one of Mrs. Rothem's students,” he said quickly. “Does she still live here?”

“Students don't come around here,” the woman said. “How'd you get in? And how did you escape all those flying things?”

Owen kicked 4D with his heel.

“I'm calling the police,” the woman said.

Just then, the door behind Owen opened and a shocked Mrs. Rothem stood there, her face contorted. “Owen? What are you doing here?”

“You know him?” the woman across the hall said.

“He's one of my best students. Come in. Come in.”

It was a small apartment, with just a couch in the living room surrounded by makeshift bookshelves of milk cartons, wood, and cinder blocks. The kitchen table was small and had only two chairs. A single door led to a bedroom, where a nightstand was filled with books.

Owen moved to the window. “I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rothem, but I needed a place to hide for a moment. Do you mind if I close these blinds?”

“Go ahead. What's wrong?”

“Surely you've heard of the creatures out there.”

“Of course, but you've been gone so long. Where have you been?”

“It's hard to explain,” he said, taking off his backpack.

“I read Clara's story in the school newspaper after I was transferred. We've all been quite concerned.”

How much could Owen tell this woman?

“Let me get you some breakfast,” she said. “Would you like that?”

“Very much.”

“And hang your jacket in the bathroom. You can dry your hair in there.”

Owen carefully placed his sword and jacket on the bathroom floor so as not to frighten Mrs. Rothem.

He returned to a cup of steaming tea, followed by a bowl of oatmeal, toast, and scrambled eggs. He ate hungrily as Mrs. Rothem sat sipping her own tea. She put a pot of water on the stove, saying she would make lunch for him as well.

Mrs. Rothem crossed her arms. “You can trust me, you know.”

Owen nodded and pulled
The Book of the King
out of his backpack. “A man gave me this. It changed my life.”

She smiled as she took the book and ran her hands across the creases and rough spots. “Many lives have been changed through books.”

“But it took me to a place that has no books,” Owen said. “The people there are wonderful, but they aren't free. They are terrified of their enemy.”

“And how did you get to this other world?” Mrs. Rothem said, leaning forward, eyes fixed on Owen.

He told her of Watcher and Mordecai and Nicodemus and the Scribe. He explained that the man who had given him the book was his real father, the flying minions who had come to the Highlands were from the Dragon, and his future and the future of the two worlds were intertwined.

Mrs. Rothem listened intently and gently leafed through the book, asking about his trip and what Owen had learned. He told her tame stories of the battles, but she didn't seem squeamish.

“Why do you suppose the Dragon lured you to the castle with this fake son?” she said.

“He knew the real Son wasn't there, but he wanted to trap me. Perhaps kill me. I'm the real Son.”

“Does the Dragon know that?” Mrs. Rothem said. “Doesn't he think the Wormling and the Son are two people, just as you did?”

Owen paused. “He's the one who kidnapped me and brought me to the Highlands. Surely he knows.”

She shook her head. “This may be why he sent these stinging animals—what did you call them?”

“Minions of time.”

“If what you say is correct,” Mrs. Rothem said, “Mr. Reeder may have covered for you. He may have told these beings that you slipped away and went into hiding—or that you were searching for the Wormling.”

“It seems a stretch—”

“But it fits,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

Owen let the news sink in. If the Dragon still believed, as Owen had, that the Wormling and the Son were two people, he would have a better chance at defeating the old beast.

She looked deep in thought. “I spoke with the principal after I was transferred. She said your father—Mr. Reeder—was quite agitated about your being gone. But she did not doubt that he loved you.”

He saw a twinkle in Mrs. Rothem's eyes, and she reminded him of the Queen back in the Lowlands.

She placed a wrinkled hand over his. “I always knew there was something special about you, Owen. I could see it in your eyes. I sensed it with every paper you wrote. To know you are royalty is a surprise, but I cannot think of a more deserving person—”

Suddenly shattering glass blew into the room as a hideous flying beast crashed to the floor.