The Dark Passenger (Book 1) (20 page)

Inside, light poured in through the open window. He heard a
sound by the blinds, emitted the slightest of squeals, and hid the book behind
his back.

Under the bluish tint of moon and starlight, Sam was standing
by his bed, arms crossed distrustfully. In a hushed whisper, Sam said, “You
don’t belong here. Trust my warning. Leave now.” Glancing in the direction of
the hall and Walt’s door, Sam moved away from Edwin and into the darkness. A
moment later there was a soft click as Sam opened and closed the door down the
hall.

Shutting his own door, Edwin made his way to the window and
locked it, all the while wondering how long it would be before Sam told the
villagers where he was.

With their heads hung low, the sisters walked through the
village square, paying no heed to those who stopped to stare. Ambling along in
a single file, they encountered fewer villagers as they approached the pass.

“Should we worry?” Meryl called from the back of the line.
“We arrived only days before the boy escaped. They can’t think it’s a
coincidence.”

Pyre snorted. “The people here think little, sister.”

“We should be cautious,” said Mistral, a cool breeze blowing
through her blonde hair. “We may not be as safe here as we think.”

Mina’s voice hummed behind Gretchen at the front of the
line, and the sisters struggled to hear: “Let’s not fear the villagers. They
fear the child, and it is him they suspect of foul play. Perhaps we too should
fear the child.”

Pyre smirked. “That is a good point, sister. We should kill
the boy and be done with it. We can devour his innards and take his
mahr
for ourselves. Its spirit alone would sustain us many lifetimes more.”

These words stopped Gretchen in her tracks. “Don’t be a
fool. Remember what we have to gain, how long we’ve waited and how much we’ve
already sacrificed. The pure heart of a Host will open the Gate; an opportunity
like this may never come again.”

Staring through her sisters, Mina added, “And I sense the
mahr’s
essence is still weak, its potential unrealized—there would barely be
enough to yield half the candle of a strong
mahr
.”

“Come, let’s not dawdle,” Gretchen said, continuing to the
pass.

They didn’t stop again until they reached the ledge outside
the Black Keep. Hearing them approach, an old man pushed his spectacles up to
his nose, squinted in the sisters’ direction, and asked, “Who’s there?”

“It is we, the five whose blood shares the sacred covenant,”
Gretchen replied.

The man, if he heard, ignored her words. “No one is allowed
down the Black Keep road. Everyone knows that.” Stopping to cough, it took the
old man several moments to regain his breath. “Turn and leave this place.”

“Their guard knows nothing of our covenant with the Lucents
of times passed. Time has changed much,” Mistral said.

Gretchen scoffed. “Of course he is ignorant of our rights,
sisters. Remember, a few days ago even their current Lucent had lost such
knowledge”—she touched her pouch and smiled—“until we reminded him.
Still, the greeting must be made. Our vows make it so.” It had taken copious
vials of their potions mixed at just the right concentrations to bend the Lucent
to their will—they still mourned their loss, but it had been a necessary
sacrifice. With the Lucent under their control, they hoped to have the time to
find the Host’s Tomb, but the Lucent wouldn’t be able to assuage the villagers’
fears forever.

Advancing on the old man, Gretchen reached into her purse
and pulled out a single vial of liquid. “What are you doing?” the old man
asked, coughing again. With the tips of her fingers, she pulled off the cork,
and the liquid became sand in her hands. With a single blow the sand was
airborne, and Gretchen moved aside and let Mina take her place.

Mina’s hollow eyes stared through the man as she said, “You
will fall asleep now. You will forget you ever saw us, and you will not wake
until we command you to do so.”

The old man nodded and fell to the ground. Were it not for
the rising and falling of his chest he would have appeared dead.

“Good work, sister,” Gretchen said. Pursing her lips, she
patted her purse and said, “Few vials remain. Let’s hurry, we need to make sure
the boy can find the Gate.”

“If so few remain, why did we waste so many last night?” Pyre
asked.

Gretchen’s icy stare would be enough to turn the heart of a
lesser mortal to stone. “Think beyond the loss of the vials. Edwin is the key,
but he can’t be turned and we can’t force him. He has to
want
to open
the Gate. We can’t lie and promise him riches, or he could sneak off and take
the Tomb for himself. And we can’t be too hasty. He must be taught to trust us,
and that means making him feel safe and giving him enough knowledge of his
legacy to compel him to act.”

Pyre was unconvinced. “I found a gray hair this morning, and
I worry that little of the candle’s magic remains. We drain our youth with
these spells.”

Gretchen shrugged. “And so it must be. Sacrifices must be
made for Edwin to find the Gate.”

The next night, after Walt, Sam, and their aunts had gone to
sleep, Edwin crawled out of bed and tiptoed over to his door, dragging his
black cloak behind him. Carefully, he tucked the cloak in the crack below his
door and lit his lantern once he was sure the cloak would stop any light from
leaking out to the hall.

Back in bed, the spirit floated beside him as he gently
brushed his fingertips over the book’s leather binding. The surface was littered
with raised bumps, like knots or boils, and it was old and unlike any hide he
had ever seen. No words were on the cover, only a large oval shape, split down
the middle by a long ridge. Four metal hooks kept the book shut, two on the
front folding over the back, and two on the back folding over the front. After
carefully prying them from the cover and opening the book, Edwin noticed that
the pages inside were heavy, but at the same time, they seemed almost
impossibly thin. There were hundreds, maybe even thousands, of them.

“Hello,” said a voice.

Edwin jumped and quickly extinguished the lantern, closed
the book, and sat silently in the dark. He didn’t dare breathe, nor did he dare
ask the spirit if it had also heard the voice. The spirit also remained silent,
with not even a crackle of light escaped its essence. After lying still in bed
a few minutes, he laughed awkwardly to himself, said to the spirit, “We must be
getting paranoid,” and relit his lantern. The spirit lingered beside him, its
essence taking the outline of an angry dwarf floating with its legs crossed,
while Edwin reopened the book and again began scanning its pages.

“Well, that was rude,” said the voice. It was the most
depressed voice Edwin had ever heard.

“Who’s there?” he asked, fearing he knew the answer.

“Great, another bright one,” said the voice despondently.
“Here I am with more knowledge than all the archives in all the world, and after
spending a couple of hundred years with no one to talk to, you’re what I get.
It’s almost enough to make you appreciate what you had.”

Edwin heart was pounding against his chest as he inspected
the book. It looked normal enough—that is, for an old leather-bound book
written in an ancient language that he had never learned but could somehow
read. “But you’re a book!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” the book moaned, “and you’re a man… of sorts.”

“What do you mean
of sorts
?”

“Oh dear, I may have overestimated your intelligence. Just
close me now, put me away, and forget you ever opened me. Let me spend my years
in peace.”

“You’re not a very likeable book, are you?” Edwin said,
chagrined.

The book seemed to sag sadly in his hands, as though the
leather had gone slightly limp; if the book weren’t talking, Edwin would have
sworn he was imagining it. “No, most people tend not to like me. I don’t much
like me myself. Intelligence is a curse, trust me on that. Oh, how I long for
the bliss of the uninspired mind.”

To the spirit, Edwin said incredulously, “This is the legacy
my mother left me?”

A foggy outline—they looked to Edwin like eyes—swam
to the forefront of the spirit’s blank face-like essence. “Don’t let it toy
with you.”

“Yes, listen to your
mahr
,” the book said, and Edwin
gritted his teeth and considered throwing the book across the room. “You’re
getting angry at me now, aren’t you? What are you planning to do, threaten me?
It wouldn’t work. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m nearly
indestructible. I counted fifteen seasons from the inside of that furnace, and
I have endured much worse in my time.”

“Maybe we’re getting off on the wrong foot—or wrong,
erm, page,” Edwin said stupidly. “My mother left you for me, and you’re my only
link to my past. Well, you and my spirit. We have been searching for you for a
long time. I would appreciate anything you can tell me.”

A long raspberry snuck out from between its pages. “Pleading
with me is even worse. It’s so undignified, so
boring
.” The book sighed.
“Tell me what you want to know. Hurry up, no more whining. It’s been a long
day, and I’m tired.”

“What did you mean when you said ‘sort of a man?” Edwin
asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” the book said, bored. “I meant two
things. First, you’re still a boy. And second, you have a
mahr
and Host
blood in you, but you and your
mahr
haven’t properly bonded… though I
doubt you know what these words mean.”

“Erm, I know a
mahr
is my spirit,” Edwin said. As
though to intimidate the book, the spirit puffed itself out and crackled
importantly.

Down the hall, Edwin heard the sound of someone tossing in
bed, and he whispered, “We shouldn’t talk now. Give me a minute. I’m going to
take you to the roof.”

“That’s fine, it’s not like I’m not used to being ignored.
Why shouldn’t a person think he can open and shut me on a whim?” And with that,
the book grumpily closed itself.

Though taken aback by this moody book, Edwin grabbed his
cloak, hurried to his window, and after making sure his cloak was secure,
jumped for the pipe and began climbing.

It wasn’t until he was on the roof that he decided to join
with the spirit. His spirit was glad to be involved and content to be joined,
and its presence was reassuring. For light, Edwin concentrated and commanded a
small spark of lightning to appear in his hand, which he controlled and molded
with his fingers. The expended energy was slight, and the pain he felt was
faint and distant.

“Are you here?” Edwin asked.

The book opened itself. “Of course I’m here. Where do you
think I’d go?”

“And you’re a book?”

“A
talking
book,” the book corrected.

Though Edwin knew the book was mocking him, he refused to be
frustrated. The book’s voice was too pitiful, and Edwin was too excited. “Who
made you?”

The book was good at sounding bored. “The Hosts, obviously.
Here I am, the last of my kind and a depository for all mahring knowledge, and
I’m stuck playing Feysnap with you. How depressing.”

“Feysnap?” Edwin asked.

“It’s a child’s game—a Host child, that is. Of course
ignore the part about me and all mahring knowledge. I’m only a book, and it’s
only your legacy, after all.”

“A
talking
book,” Edwin teased.

“Yes.” The book sighed. “A talking book.”

“So you’re the source of all—mahring?—knowledge?”
Edwin asked.

“No, a depository of all mahring knowledge. I’m a book. I
don’t create knowledge.”

“Right. So does that mean you can tell me how to control my
spirit? And what really happened to the Hosts? Who were they? I want to know
everything.”

The book’s pages flapped, making a sound like a yawn. “Must
we do this now? I’m already so tired. I’m not used to being up, you see, and
this is most uninteresting.”

“Come on Herald… Please?”

“Hmm… No, I think not. This evening has been a tad too
pedestrian for my tastes, and it really is rather late. Goodnight now.”

With that the book closed, and no matter how hard Edwin
tried, he couldn’t pry open its metal prongs.

*   *   *

Waking up to a pounding headache, Edwin demanded, “Why do
you continue to haunt me with that memory? I get it; the villagers killed my
mother. You don’t have to keep showing me it.” His mother’s scream was still
echoing in his mind when he went downstairs and found Walt and Sam sitting
around the table.

“Where are your aunts?” he asked.

Walt shrugged. “The said they had important business with
the Lucent today. Anyway, you came down just in time to see us off. We’d better
get going before we’re late.”

“We can’t have anyone thinking we missed work to stay here
with you,” Sam said snidely.

“See you tonight, Edwin,” Walt said, closing the door behind
him.

Appearing next to him, the spirit said, “Jusst you and me
again. And the book.”

Back upstairs, Edwin pulled the book out from under his bed,
and said, “Book. Hey book, open up. Everyone’s gone.”

Opening slightly, it flatly replied, “Not everyone,
apparently. And I have a name. It’s Herald.”

“Herald? I like that. Do you think you can teach me a little
today, Herald?”

“Teach you what, exactly?”

Watching his spirit to see how it would react, he said,
“Teach me how to control my spirit—erm,
mahr
.” Surprisingly, his
spirit didn’t react, like it knew why he had wanted to find the book all along.
And considering their connection, Edwin supposed that was possible.

The book let out a laugh that sounded like a bark. “Control
your
mahr
? Impossible. You and your
mahr
are of the same spirit,
no matter how much you act as though you’re not. I know your type, little
mahrling. Your distrust seeps from you like a poison.”

Edwin blanched, and said, “But my
mahr
kills people.
How could I ever trust it?”

The book sighed and said, “You don’t understand. You
are
your
mahr
. Neither can live without the other. You’re two halves of one
being. You. Are. The. Same.” The prongs curled up over Herald’s cover, and the
book closed itself lazily.

“That’s impossible. I’d never kill anyone.”

“But you would,” the book sneered, “and you have. You won’t
be able to control yourself until you’ve properly bonded.”

“Is that something you can teach me?”

“I could… but I’d really rather not. I’m not quite rested.”
With that, the book shut.

Unable to pry open the book and left alone with the spirit,
Edwin tried passing the time by practicing his few spells with his spirit. He
was getting pretty good at wielding electricity between his hands, and he had
no trouble absorbing life from some fruit he found in the Morrisey’s pantry,
which he was surprised to find in the winter. But absorbing life reminded him
of Ashton, and that put him in a foul enough mood to release his spirit and
sulk around the den. Walt’s aunts had removed the vials, but the masks still
hung on the wall. Walt had said the masks could make his aunts invisible, and
he wished they would work for him.

In Edwin’s ear, the spirit purred, “You may not want to hear
it, but your powers are growing. Did you see how much life you absorbed from
each piece of fruit? Little energy went to waste.” Edwin ignored it.

After wasting most of the morning, he went back up to his
room and tapped on Herald’s cover. “Herald? Are you ready yet?”

It opened only enough to reply, “No, I still can’t be
bothered.”

Edwin left and returned again after making himself lunch.
“How about now?” he asked.

Not even bothering to open, Herald let out a muffled, “No.”

There was only a little time remaining before Walt and Sam
returned, and Edwin sat in his room frustrated and angry. “What should I do?”
he asked the spirit. “How do you make someone be reasonable?”

“I wish I knew,” it said meaningfully, and Edwin gave the
spirit a hard look. “You mussn’t give up.”

Back to the book, Edwin said, “Listen book, my mother left
you for me. I don’t see why we can’t be friends, but it’s up to you. In the
meantime, I have nothing better to do but pester you, and I’m not going to stop
until you help me.”

“Look who decided to grow a spine,” the book said, opening
itself cautiously. “Are you asking me to reveal to you the Hosts’ secrets?”

“Yes, Herald, I’m asking you to share the Hosts’ secrets. I
want to know everything.”

“Sorry, it can’t be done.” Again, the book closed.

“Herald? No, I’m not asking, I’m telling. Come on, open up.
I said open!” Frustrated, he threw the book to the ground.

Opening itself, the book said, “Ah, there you go. We need to
work on your anger. Emotion has no place in what I have to teach you. But a Host
who asks is a Host who will not go far in this world. Would you ask fire to
rain from the heavens, or ice to cover the seas?” Edwin shrugged, and the book
continued, “No, you
will
it to happen. With the secrets I hold, a Host
can manipulate the elements with little more than a thought. I heard you call
on light last night by word. Only Hosts and the weak need rely on
incantations.”

“Aigh, I learned my incantations from my mother in my spirit’s
memory,” Edwin shot back.

“Your mother was pregnant, was she not? She was a great Host
in her time, born of a powerful family, but the centuries had dulled her
senses, and your birth drained her body.”

Leaning forward anxiously, Edwin asked, “What can you tell
me about her?”

“Are you asking?” the book replied sardonically.

Sighing, Edwin said, “No, I’m not,” though he still didn’t appreciate
the distinction. “Tell me about my mother, Herald.”

“Not very convincing. Yet another thing we’ll work
on—lying. It’s a good skill for every Host to have.”

“This book goess too far,” the spirit hissed, crackling
unhappily. “You’re letting it make fools of us.”

“Well put,
mahr
,” the book replied lazily. “The only
problem is, what are you going to do about it? You need me. What need have I of
you?”

The spirit crackled indignantly. “You are a book. Your purposse
is to teach. Without us you have no reasson to exist.”

“And how depressing that is. What a sad state I find myself
reduced to.”

Picking the book up off the ground, Edwin found himself
coddling it. “Herald, I’m telling you politely, please help me. I know nothing
about who I am. My mother left you to me for a reason. There’s no reason we
have to fight.”

“Weren’t you listening, mahrling?” Herald replied. “The
world will give you nothing because you cry or beg. A Host your age should have
learned to bond with your
mahr
and control your emotions. You would do
well to listen to your
mahr
. It’s wise even without its many lifetimes
of memories.”