The Gate of Bones (19 page)

Jon let out a small sigh. He did not want Bailey in his thoughts. She was the enemy, a waster of Talent, a . . . a . . . he let his thoughts go for lack of focus on what she was, exactly. She was a problem if he kept her in his mind.

He picked up the reins after a few moments, moving his horse away from the patch of grass and guiding him over the knolls and down toward the fortress ruins where they had a Mirroring spell set to make it look as though this were their place of operation.

It triggered, faintly, for him, but then it was not meant to impress him, just the locals and any Magickers who might run across it. It had done its work admirably. Jon smiled widely as he rode the perimeter of the grounds. He'd suggested it and Isabella had implemented it, and it only took the efforts of two or three of their Leucators to keep the spell empowered. Thus, it did not drain them unduly, and he calculated it would stay as set for at least several years. He checked the areas where they had discreetly buried prisms, to make sure nothing had been disturbed and nothing had. Evidently, Gavan had kept his group far from the actual grounds, and had not pierced the illusion.

Riding past the guard tower for a second time, sweeping the area with his senses, trying to touch the hot spots of magick here and there, he caught something. Something out of place and intensely different.

Jon reined to a halt. His horse bowed his neck, and shifted uneasily, as if feeling his rider's tension.

What did he feel? Where did it come from? And why?

He turned the horse slowly about, casting. Had he felt anything, even?

No . . . no, there it was! He and the horse now faced it dead center. He looked at a corner post of the guardhouse, one of the only really solid posts left in the fortress. Jon eyed it a moment. Then he swung down and approached it, whatever it was, cautiously.

The closer he got, the stronger it got, until it burned at his mind like a brand, and a tear stung the corner of his eye in spite of himself, for it was Antoine Brennard he felt, his father. His father whose ashes now sat in a gold-and-silver casket at the corner of Isabella's writing desk. His father who had fought to bring them this far, and then failed, whose final contribution was for Jon to drain the remaining bits of his Magick so that he and Isabella could survive.

He did not think anyone else would feel this Magick. It was as though it were pointed at him, and him alone. Perhaps even Isabella would not notice it, though he doubted that.

Jon reached out a gloved hand, at the base of the post and began to dig at the ground. It crumbled under his fingers, surprising him, for this piece of the structure was solid. But this one spot crumbled and gave way, and under it, about a foot into the soil, was a leather trunk. Small, as if a jewelry box or some such, and burned into the top of it . . . his father's initials and magickal sigil.

Jon's breath hissed through his teeth. He wrestled the item out of the ground and sat down abruptly, trunk in his lap. There he opened it and found two slim journals, musty smelling but intact.

He sat, his palm hovering over them. His father had been there before. Obviously. He couldn't have been, but he had. If he had been there, what Gatekeeper had sent him through, past the Dragon Guard?

Jon opened the top journal carefully, listening to pages crackle faintly, but they held, and words struck him.

Jon shut the book. Brennard had opened a Gate! Something he hadn't done often, or he wouldn't have sought Fizziwig and Jason so hard or intensely, but . . . the Talent had been in his blood.

Jon scrambled to his feet, closing the trunk tightly. This would require more examination, and authentication. He dared not let Isabella know any of it till he was sure.

If she'd hunted Jason for his Gatekeeping, she would have no compunction about draining Jonnard dry for his. If he had any such ability.

He was not ready to be so used, by Isabella or anyone else but himself.

Hugging the journals to his rib cage and hidden by his shadow-dark cloak, Jon mounted his horse and headed for home.

M
IDAFTERNOON, the sweat poured off Jason and Trent. Despite beginning in a chilly morning, the autumn sun seemed determined to show that it still could pack a punch. Hard work didn't hurt either, so when they finally took a break to share a bucket of cold water and some apples, Trent stared at Jason curiously over his apple core.

“Give it up. Something's bothering you.”

Jason shrugged. “A little bit of everything. I don't like the feeling of having my hands tied, and I don't like the idea of Jon stalking Bailey. I know we can't do anything, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it.”

“Why can't we do anything? I mean, from a certain standpoint, not much else can happen. I truly doubt they would harm Eleanora and FireAnn any more than they already have . . . so what have we got to lose?”

“It's more than that.”

Trent stood up and lobbed his apple core as far as he could throw it, muscles honed by American baseball rippling across his back and shoulders as he did so. The debris went sailing and disappeared into a fringe of woods where some birds or rodents would no doubt happily peck it to bits. He was surprised to see some of the wanderer children dart after it, diving into the forest as if he'd thrown a gold nugget out there. Jason watched over his shoulder.

“What're they doing?”

Jason thought a moment, then said, “Seeds. They're gathering the seeds.”

“They're not allowed to have land for growing, I thought.”

“They're already outlaws. Crops mean survival. I couldn't blame them for breaking one more law.” Jason looked a few more minutes, then crunched down on the last of his own apple. He waited till one or two of the children emerged, then tossed his apple core to them. With a flash of teeth and a smile, it was caught neatly and tucked away. “Can you imagine,” he said to Trent, “a place where seeds have to be stolen? It's this whole warlord thing.”

Trent sat down and looped his arms about his knees. Looking like nothing more than a pirate, he sounded more like a schoolteacher as he began to talk. “It seems unlikely to us, but look at it this way . . . we had a great warlord too, sounds pretty much like their old guy. Only ours was named Chi'in and he built the Great Wall of China and united all those provinces into a country named China, after him. We don't know why he had those terra-cotta statues made of all his armies and buried, but suppose it was to . . . I dunno . . . guard and protect his empire? Is that any different than what this guy did?”

“Leaving a good deal of yourself behind as a Spirit would be a little hard for the average person to do.” Jason wiped the apple juice off his fingers. He paused at the crescent-shaped scar at the back of his left hand. Thin, healed, barely more than a line now, it still ached sometimes when it had no reason to. His life was not like others, he remembered. It hadn't been since he discovered he was a Magicker. He rubbed the mark made by a wolfjackal as if testing it for sensitivity now. Nothing.

“Don't make me compare this warlord to a dragon,” said Trent, his eyebrow going up in a mock threat.

“Don't even go there.” Jason threw his handkerchief at the other. “Seriously, what we know almost makes me wonder if these are alternate worlds. As if there was a big split. What if the warlords are the same guy?”

“Not likely. No one here really has an Asian cast to their looks. More Eastern European, but not even that, really. I've thought about it, though. Some of the reference material I asked Henry to find for me goes over that. If there was a split between our worlds, there are three or four different times I think it might have occurred.”

“You're serious?”

Trent's head bobbed. “I want to know. Don't you?”

“I don't think it's a mystery we can solve in a few weeks or even a few years. Creation mythology is like . . . like a lifetime of work.”

“Mythology is more than just words, though, Jason. There's a kernel of truth inside every one, even if the centuries of storytelling wrap around it. Like the Spirit here. It's not just words that his spirit stays and protects them. They believe it, and although we haven't seen it, there are strong signs now and then that indicate it
is
doing just that.”

“But a Spirit? How could that even be?”

“I don't know. It's more than tales, though, we know that. It could even be watching us, trying to decide what to do about us.”

“It'll take more than words, then. And it looks like you're going to be awfully busy. I've not run across a Havenite who didn't have days' worth of stories to spin.”

“Everyone has to have a hobby!” Trent bounded to his feet then, throwing Jason's handkerchief back at him. “I hear 'em yelling. Break time is over.”

Jason picked up their water bucket and ladles and trotted after Trent, more thoughts crowding his mind. The mysteries Trent brought up were interesting, but not as immediate as his own problem. He'd brought the Dark Hand to Haven. He needed to either find a way to send them back, harmless, or find a way to fight them here. Either sounded nearly impossible. If Gavan hesitated, what chance did Jason have?

But then, he had something Gavan didn't. He had nothing to lose. The Dark Hand did not, yet, hold anything dear to him that would stop him. If he went in, it would be up to the others behind him, Gavan, Trent, and the rest to get Eleanora back safely. His only targets would be Isabella and Jon and those despicable Leucators. Maybe dividing would be the only way they could conquer their enemies.

Heavy in thought, Jason hardly noticed the weight of the lumber he was being tossed and told to hammer in place as the afternoon wore on.

 

Despite the shimmering ribbon of water that was the Gulf of Arabia, Tomaz could feel the desert heat and dryness with every breath he took, even as the sun sank into a glowing red sunset. On the fringe of the great metropolis of Dubai, skyscrapers and city lights at his back, he could almost feel the likeness to his own Arizona sands as he walked down the street, hearing the soft call of foreign voices to one another. He found the tea shop he had been told to go to, and stepped inside.

No need to announce he was a stranger there. His looks, his clothes, spoke for him. Unlike Dubai itself, where every person seemed foreign and where the city teemed with those who came from all over the world to trade and make deals and even just visit, in this outskirts suburb, he stood out.

The owner came to greet him, with a nod and smile, and pointed Tomaz to a curtained alcove. Inside, as the drapes were lowered behind him, to shut him away from curious eyes in the small shop, he found nothing luxurious, just a basic wooden café table and a few nicely upholstered chairs. In moments, the owner returned, carrying a tray and cups and the alcove filled with the smell of hot tea, steaming milk, cinnamon, and honey. He set it down and left before Tomaz could ask him where Khalil was or when he would be expected.

The draperies stirred again when a young woman entered, her face modestly veiled and her body hidden in slender robes. She put a tray of sweets and cookies on the small tabletop and gave him a smile that even the veil could not quite hide before darting out. Reminded for a moment of Ting, Tomaz chuckled and poured himself a drink and tried to decide which of the pastries he might sample.

The curtains fluttered with a hint of evening breeze, and Khalil came in, wearing desert robes as he usually did, and with a broad smile upon his face. He clasped Tomaz's hand tightly before sitting down. “My friend, it is good to see you even though I trust you are not here just with good news.” Briskly, he fixed his own cup of tea, adding milk and cinnamon and honey in good measure before stirring it and sitting back, dark eyes watching Tomaz keenly.

“Good to see you as well. Not all the news is bad. We have the academy almost finished. I would say that when spring breaks in Haven, we can take students.”

“Truly? That is wonderful!” Khalil's eyes gleamed with his joy. He drank his tea cautiously, careful to keep his neatly trimmed beard from catching drips. He looked at the desserts. “All are excellent here, made by my friend's wife. From not too sweet, this one . . . to brimming with taste, these.” His hand swept over the food indicating as he recommended. “I have students, of course, who are eager to see Haven, and to have classes as we'd hoped.” He put his cup down. “And Eleanora?”

Tomaz quirked his head slightly. “What do your senses tell of Eleanora?” It had been Khalil's Talent that put her to sleep for a while, and perhaps still, kept the dramatic effects of aging from ravaging her. None of the Magickers knew what caused it, or what could remedy it, but they'd seen several of their own die from it. It might even be a side effect of Magick itself.

Khalil considered that. “I barely sense her at all. I think she has thrown off most of the effects of my warding her. But she lives still, if that is what you are asking.”

He breathed out in relief and realized he had been holding his breath, waiting for Khalil's answer. It was, indeed, based on Gavan's fear.

Khalil nodded. “Then that answers another of my questions. You have not recovered her and FireAnn yet. A hostage situation is a very nasty knot to unravel.”

“It colors most of what we try to do in Haven, every day. It is like walking a tightrope.” Tomaz broke off long enough to choose a small pastry and devour it. Its flavor filled his mouth with almonds, honey, and butter, and perhaps a tang of exotic spices for which he had no name. His tongue warmed happily with the tastes. Not a man for desserts, he still appreciated the goodness. Perhaps he would try to order a tray or two to take back with him, for the children. He thought of the dancing excitement in Bailey's and Ting's eyes if he could.