The Gate of Bones (20 page)

“How can I help?”

“By telling what you will of wolfjackals. Our friends seem to be using them in some way again, and although I do not think the wolfjackals an enemy, I do think they may be a most unfortunate pawn in the hands of Brennard's lot.”

Khalil let out a long sigh and sat back in his wooden chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “It's come to that, then.”

“Some secrets are not meant to be kept.”

Khalil tapped his hand on his cup. Unlike many Magickers who were scholars more than craftsmen, Khalil was weathered, his hands callused. He worked hard in his desert stronghold, in many ways. His face was much like that of the desert hawk, and his senses just as keen. Tomaz held his silence, knowing that if it was going to be broken, it would be by Khalil.

Moments stretched. Then Khalil nodded, as if reaching an agreement within himself. “I will tell you this, which you know already. Wolfjackals are not of any world you and I walk. They are bound to Chaos and they seek it when it's unleashed, hoping to go back to the lands from which they were torn. Magick worked by us and the Dark Hand unleashes Chaos. It draws them. They feed on it, and in the case of Brennard's people, they have formed an alliance. None of them have succeeded in returning, but still they hope. They feed and yet are not fed. They are more than spirits, less than actual flesh. They are intelligent, to a degree, like wolves, and they are merciless in that the only way they know to get home is to take what they can.”

“The Dark Hand offers them hope.”

“The Dark Hand offers them Chaos, and in that is hope. We seek a balance, so we have less to offer them, knowingly. But—” And with this Khalil stared darkly into Tomaz's eyes. “We have a Gatekeeper.”

“I won't dangle Jason as bait for wolfjackals or anyone else.”

Khalil shook his head vigorously. “Not as bait, as hope. It's their only option, I think, to return. When he's trained enough, he should be able to sense their home and find the Gate to it. It may take decades, however, and they are bestial enough that tomorrow is too far away. They cannot plan for decades.”

“So what have we to offer them?”

“Nothing, unless you think as they do, as wolves do. Fresh meat today, security tonight, a new hunt tomorrow. We can deal with them as Brennard's lot does. Offer them Chaos, Tomaz, and you'll bring them to you. Once brought to you, you can gradually show them that tomorrows do exist, and they can afford to wait.”

“Tame a wolfjackal?”

“You ran with their packs once. If anyone can do it, you can.”

Tomaz gave a short laugh. “They tolerated me. I think I amused them.”

“Make no mistake on this.” Khalil leaned forward, his expression intense. “They don't have to tolerate anyone. They smelled the power in you, like a predator smells the blood running just below the skin. They couldn't find a use for you, nor you for them, but the tie is still there. You can find a way to communicate with them, and help them. Or . . .” He paused.

“Or?”

“The Dark Hand will destroy them utterly, to their advantage.”

“How so?” Tomaz picked up his cup again and found it had cooled as they talked.

“Think of the wolfjackals as a reservoir of Chaos. They hold it within themselves. They are storing the extra they can glean from our Magick workings, and they are made of it, to some extent. They are like a walking bomb, Tomaz. If Isabella can but figure out how to ignite them, she will. Does she think of doing it?” Khalil stood, gathering his desert robes about him. “If I think of it, what would keep her from thinking of it?”

With that, the Magicker left, the draperies of the alcove shivering as if a great wind had passed through them, leaving Tomaz with cup in hand and an iciness in his heart as though a knife had been plunged into him. Only words had been spoken, but what words!

 

Jon did not find time till nearly the end of daylight to retire and look over the journals. He had them hidden in a corner of his room with a ward on them, subtle, because anything stronger would attract Isabella's attention instead of turning it away, the opposite of what he needed. This was a dislike-and-ignore warding, and anyone touching it off would veer away from the items, rather like a disagreeable pair of stinky socks. He lit a candle rather than open his room's shutters, and pulled out the books. Both had been filled from cover to cover with his father's writing. It would be difficult reading, for all that he knew his father's hand, because this had been written as it would have been hundreds of years ago, with different lettering, and flowery script, and even different spelling. He was not hundreds of years old, but he had had practice reading such documents. His father had tutored him on old, handwritten treatises on magic and the makeup of the world.

In those years, he hadn't known who his mother was. She didn't try to seek him out till he was nearly eleven years old and she had done so secretly then, telling him his father must not know. He hadn't particularly wanted a mother, but Isabella was no ordinary mother. Tall and strong and carrying herself like nobility, she was more powerful than most men. It was the power that attracted him. It came from her intellect and force of will as well as her mastery of her own Magick. That, to him, had been like nectar to a bee. To have two in his life carrying power that could only be imagined by most, and to have both offer to him the same power . . . ah, yes. Irresistible.

Still, in their relationships with him, and later in their renewed relationship with each other, much remained unsaid and a mystery.

A little afraid and much disturbed, Jonnard opened the journal that appeared to be the oldest. Antoine Brennard had to have been in Haven, but when . . . and why and how? And would the answer be unlocked with mere words? Pages crackled as he turned them carefully.

H
ENRY SAT AT THE MONITOR, staring so intently he forgot to blink for long minutes until finally his eyes began to sting. He rubbed his eyes then, and ordered a printout. Trent would whoop when he saw this article, he thought, and quickly tip-tapped a few keys to go to another reference source that the search engine had recommended. Most sources had little information, but he'd spent many of the last days dutifully printing out every scrap. What he thought unimportant might mean something very different to Trent.

The used bookstore had only yielded one prize, a tattered and very old book named
Little Known Myths.
He'd swooped down on that one and carefully wrapped it up and tied it with string, as it honestly looked like it might fall apart into two hundred ragged pages at any moment. It had cost less than a dollar so that wasn't the point; the point was he thought Trent would really really think the book was cool. He wanted to at least get it back to Haven in one piece, and what happened from there would definitely not be his fault. Not that anyone would blame him. Henry had a habit of blaming himself. His Talent so difficult to control and erratic, and after having had Jon suck a lot of it away and having gone without for nearly a year . . . he shuddered. He'd given up Magicking once; he had no intention of being forced to do it again. So, unlike the others, he stammered and stuttered his way through his lessons, a step forward cautiously was better than two steps forward and a disaster backward.

No way did he want to go through any of that again. Henry inhaled, leaned forward, and sifted through the various sentences coming up on the monitor. As if panning for gold nuggets, he tossed out the sites he'd already visited, and the ones that really didn't have anything to do with the subject although they'd come up anyway . . . how did that always happen? He didn't know, but it did . . . he smiled grimly and found two more web sites that would be worth hitting for Trent. Then home and chores. Strange. He didn't mind doing chores for the few days when he was home.

The library light flickered behind him. Henry glanced up, frowning. He pushed his glasses back into place, and then squirmed about in his chair. He had an eerie feeling for a moment that someone looked over his shoulder. The back of his neck itched, so he rubbed it briskly. Two more web sites and then home, for sure!

Both had little or nothing which seemed of interest to him, but he printed everything out anyway. He added a few quick commands to delete the history of his search engine then slid his card out of the charge slot to end his session. Gathering everything up and storing it away in his backpack, he had almost finished clearing the area when shadow fell across him again. Henry glanced up, and a tall man leaned over, smiling.

It was the vice principal from his old school. “Mr. Winchell!”

“Well, Henry Squibb. I thought that might be you. I am pleased you remember me.” The man smiled. He had a face that wrinkled easily, and his expression fell into the many lines and almost disappeared. “Still doing home schooling?”

“Yes, sir. My brother has the computer tied up for a project, so I have to use the library.” Also, he didn't want evidence on the family computer's hard drive as to what he'd been researching. Here, it would just sink into the overall picture of all the research everyone was doing and hopefully not be noticed.

“I see. Doing well, are you?”

Henry tried not to fidget under the man's long stare. “Grades seem to be okay.” Having Winchell watch him reminded him of a discussion he'd once had with Jason over Jason's dragon: you argue with the dragon, thinking that he is wrong, and the dragon thinks you are dinner. Did Winchell think he was dinner? There was a reason none of the Magickers were still in school, and strangely curious men like this one headed the list.

“We were all disappointed you did not go on to the high school. We thought you were science team material.”

Yes, that was it. The educator definitely looked at him as if he might be dinner. Or at least fodder for the very prestigious and hard-working science team. “M . . . maybe someday,” Henry managed.

“Good, good! Well, then, give my regards to your mother and father. I look forward to your siblings entering middle school. All hard working, I trust.”

“Yup.” And none of the others were Magickers, thank goodness. At least, none that he knew of. He reached out and pulled his backpack up. “I need to go.”

“Yes, of course.” Winchell watched as he stood and shouldered the bag. “I take it your friends are doing all right, as well?”

“F . . . friends?”

“So many of you dropped out at once and went to home schooling, yet you all seemed to know one another.” Winchell drew a little closer, his brows sharpening. His smile had completely disappeared into the wrinkled mask of his face.

“I don't know how their grades are, but I see 'em, sometimes.”

“Yes, yes. Well, you know, the educational system tracks them. We feel responsible, at home or at school. You might let them know that.” Winchell touched his shoulder lightly before moving away, and Henry gave off a little shudder as he did.

He scurried out of the library, got his bike, and headed for home, thoughts in a whirl. What had Winchell meant by that? He didn't know. It didn't sound good. Maybe his mom could decipher it. Adults sometimes spoke in riddles and sometimes they meant exactly what they said.

He didn't think it had been good.

 

After the dinner hour, when he was left to himself again, Jon put his journals away, still no closer to understanding why his father had been in Haven hundreds of years ago, nor why he had left the journals to be found only by one with Talent such as himself, although the how of Antoine Brennard's coming seemed to be emerging, page by page. It was that how which drew Jonnard in now. Was there a hidden Talent running through the veins of father and son? It was not as if he could ask Isabella; her knowledge of Antoine was even less than his own. No, if anyone had the key to the working of Antoine's mind, it was himself. Or perhaps Gregory the Gray, the lost mentor of most Magickers alive today. Teacher, guide, nemesis, who had been so wrong in his perception of magic and had lost his life for it.

Impatiently, Jon pushed away from his reading desk. His heels scarred the rough flooring as he did so, and the crystal hanging from the chain on his waist warmed to an angry glow so hot it burned through the cloth of his trousers.

Dropping a hand to it in defense to shield himself, he felt Isabella's irate and frantic call vibrating through the crystal. Jon surged to his feet. The chair tumbled over from his abrupt movement and fell clattering on its side to the floor, but he was already out the door, running, as it did so. The sense of Isabella amid the Leucators hung in his mind like the loud, ringing echo of an alarm bell, so it was that way he ran.

Thundering down the stairs in haste, he burst through the dungeon's innermost doors, skidding to a stop just short of running down Isabella who stood, her throat contorted in an angry, stifled wail, her hands knotted in the sapphire silk of her sweeping dress, her face contorted in fury.

“What is it?”

She pointed with a knotted fist. “There.” She turned her face away, her tall body rigid.

Two Leucators lay limp upon the floor, looking more like sun-dried raisins than the golem twins of people she'd known and re-created. Jon's heart thumped at adrenaline-driven speed that slowed as he looked upon the sight. Drained, drained beyond all usefulness and recovery. How could she? Not dead, but as good as, and with a sweep of his hand and a guttural word, bloody light shining out of his crystal, he brought their lives to an end. It was not so much a mercy killing as a necessity because the other Leucators would catch and amplify their pitiful state, and Jon enjoyed a quiet night's sleep, which would be nearly impossible if they started shrieking.