The Keepers (19 page)

Mrs. Hapsteade broke into Horace's thoughts, holding the quill forward again. “And now, who will try?”

“I will.” Horace took the quill and stepped up to the podium. He dipped it into the ink and brought the tip over the paper, hovering. “What should I write?”

“Anything. It doesn't matter.”

Horace thought for a moment and then touched the pen to paper. Deep blue ink flowed from the tip as he wrote.

Chloe and the dragonfly

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hapsteade, reading over his shoulder. “Yes, just like I remembered it. Maybe more so.” She glanced at the box at Horace's side.

“But what does that mean? What does it do?”

“So much impatience. Let Chloe have her turn, and we'll see.”

When Chloe saw what Horace had written she shot him a look of annoyed disbelief, much to his embarrassment.

Chloe dipped the pen into the ink and began to write without hesitation. As soon as the pen started to move, though, she stopped and let out a little cry: “Oh!” Horace leaned in as Chloe continued to write.

You are not reading this
.

Horace's brain was wrapping itself around what Chloe had written, but then he realized—Chloe's words were red. Deep bloodred. Above them, his own words still gleamed in bright, shining blue.

“Wait a minute, there must be—” he began.

“It's the same ink,” Mrs. Hapsteade interjected. “This is what the Vora does.”

“I don't understand,” he said.

“I do,” said Chloe. “The color of the ink . . . it changes depending on the writer. And the color means something to you, doesn't it?”

“The color just for starters, yes. I see much more.”

“This is how you find out about us. How you know what we can do.”

“Yes.”

“Horace's box doesn't work for me. Probably the dragonfly doesn't work for him. And you can tell that just by looking at what we wrote.”

“Exactly. The Vora reveals what aptitude, if any, the writer has for wielding an instrument. For becoming Tan'ji. The color and intensity of the ink reveal your strengths, your tendencies toward certain kinds of instruments. And there are other, more subtle signs to read there, too.”

Chloe laid the quill across the open book. “This is how you recruit us.”

Horace was startled by the word. Mrs. Hapsteade's expression didn't change, but she said, “We don't recruit.”

“And who exactly is
we
?”

“We provide. We assist.”

“Out of the goodness of your own—”

“Out of necessity.” Mrs. Hapsteade reached across and restoppered the ink, twisting the plug down tight. Then with a swift clean jerk she tore loose the page they had written on, folding it neatly into her front pocket.

“What necessity?” Chloe demanded. “And why are you taking that?”

“You misunderstand. We want you to be safe. We want your Tan'ji to be safe.”

“From what?”

“Is that a question you really need to ask? You stink of brimstone, just like Horace did when we first met. You've had your encounters with Dr. Jericho too, haven't you?”

Chloe shifted uneasily. “So? That's my business, not yours.”

“You're angry because all you can do is run and hide. Wouldn't you like to do more?”

Chloe's jaw dropped, her face lit with fury. Horace stepped in. “What do you mean more?” he asked. “What do you want us to do?”

Mrs. Hapsteade shrugged. “We want you to fight.”

“Y
OU WANT US TO BE SAFE
,
BUT YOU WANT US TO FIGHT
,” Horace said.

“We want you to join us. We are the resistance. We fight to defend our Tan'ji—and the other instruments in our possession—from our enemies.”

“Dr. Jericho.”

“The Riven. It's time you knew the name. The Riven are everywhere; Dr. Jericho is only one of many. The Riven want to possess and control all the Tanu, including our Tan'ji.”

Horace swallowed. “But if we defeat Dr. Jericho, we'll be safe once and for all, right? Our Tan'ji would be safe from the Riven?”

“No,” Chloe said abruptly.

“Chloe is right. If you defeat one soldier—even a captain—have you won the battle? And what of the war?”

Battle. War. Horace laid his hand on the box, unsure what part he could possibly have to play in such things. “And how are we supposed to fight?”

“With your Tan'ji, of course. And with the other Tanu in our possession. Don't misunderstand me. Not everyone who fights actually does battle. There are many, many Tanu in the world. Some are more . . . martial than others, but whatever their purpose, all Tanu can help us in our fight against the Riven.”

“But who are the Riven, exactly?” Horace insisted. “
What
are they?”

“Mr. Meister will tell you more. For now, know that your Tan'ji are in constant danger. But you mustn't simply hide them away. The Tanu are our best def—”

Mrs. Hapsteade cut herself off, her head whipping around toward the entrance. Back through the tunnel of birds, sunlight and shadows flickered complexly on the floor. The front door was open—someone was there. The birdsong swelled suddenly, becoming shrill and urgent, escalating until it was painfully, piercingly loud. Horace clapped his hands over his ears. The shadows in the tunnel began to dance more wildly, not just shadows but shapes, or one great shape, coming closer, pounding loud and blotting out the sun, and Mrs. Hapsteade turned to the two of them. Horace could read but not hear the word that formed on her lips.

Run!

They ran, Mrs. Hapsteade out in front, streaking ahead.
She led them deeper into the room, deeper into the darkness. Horace's footsteps hammered in his bones. He glanced back, knowing what he would see—Dr. Jericho, catching them here together at last.

But it was not Dr. Jericho.

The shape that poured from the mouth of the tunnel now was not a man. It was a shadow chiseled from stone, from many stones, a shifting mass like a living black wave. Slowly it rose into a looming tower, countless thousands of sliding black rocks moving as one. It gathered itself until it nearly touched the high ceiling. Though it had no eyes, it crashed forward after them. It was as if the earth itself had come to life, come to bury them all. And it was gaining on them.

The massive door at the far end of the room appeared out of the gloom ahead, the door that Horace had wondered at when he first saw it—ten feet high and built to hold off an army. If they could get to it in time.

Except they weren't going to make it. The grinding mass was too close behind them. Mrs. Hapsteade stopped and turned. She reached into her collar and pulled out a round white pendant on a chain, tearing it free just as Horace and Chloe caught up to her.

“Get behind me,” she said, her usually strong voice thin beneath the approaching thunder. She held the small round object in her hand—a raven's eye? No, clearly some other kind of Tanu, somewhat larger and milky white.

Mrs. Hapsteade raised the white sphere high into the
air and crushed it in her fist, shattering it. A vast, deep note thrummed, like a harp string as thick as a tree being plucked. The sound, pure force, knocked Chloe from her feet, threw Horace against the door. Horace caught the scent of flowers. All around them a clear, shining dome appeared, its curving face coming between them and the black avalanche roaring down.

The stone beast crashed against the dome. It shook and groaned, but the shield held. The beast rose up and boiled and churned over every inch of the curved surface, but it could not get in.

Mrs. Hapsteade whirled to the door and hefted the wooden crossbar from its braces. The door creaked open, pulling in a stream of cold air. “Hurry,” she said. “The dumin—the shield—won't last for long. We must get away.”

Chloe ignored her, instead climbing to her feet and stepping close to Mrs. Hapsteade's shield. Through the dumin, the boiling black mass still struggled to get at them. It was a swarm of almond-sized black chunks, as smooth and shiny as beetles, but they weren't creatures at all. Horace saw they were some kind of chiseled shape, all identical, yet they worked together with a kind of intelligence he couldn't begin to understand.

Chloe spoke for them both. “What is this thing? Why is it after us?”

“It is a golem. It is not to be trifled with.”

“A golem?” Horace said. “I thought that was just a legend, a story.”

“Sometimes legend and fact cross paths. Come. We must go.” Mrs. Hapsteade looked back through the dome, almost seeming to peer through the black mass of the golem. Her face was creased and pained.

And then Horace realized. “The Vora,” he said.

Chloe looked puzzled, but then her expression slid from shocked to angry as she understood.

They'd left the Vora behind.

Mrs. Hapsteade dragged the massive door open, revealing a wide, dark passageway. “Come,” she said. “It's time.”

“You're just going to leave it?” said Chloe.

Mrs. Hapsteade turned away. “I have no choice.”

“But it's your Tan'ji. You can't abandon it.”

A stab of unmistakable anguish flickered across Mrs. Hapsteade's face. “It's already lost.”

Chloe shook her head. “No, it isn't. I can get it back.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You do not know the golem. You cannot get it back.”

“Of course I can.” Chloe laid her hand on the shimmering surface of the dumin, testing it. “I can do more than just run and hide.”

“There's no way—” Mrs. Hapsteade began, but the dragonfly's wings were already thrumming. A grimace of effort and delight washed over Chloe's face as she pushed her hand through the dumin. As it emerged slowly into the seething black mass outside, Chloe winced.

She turned to Mrs. Hapsteade. “Tell me I'll be able to get
back in through this shield. It's so . . .
there
.”

Mrs. Hapsteade shook her head, staring at Chloe's hand, her eyes wide with shock. “You should not be able to do what you already are.”

Chloe pulled her hand back inside, squeezing it. Horace flinched as something sharp and bloodred—jagged and fish sized, shaped like a blade—darted hungrily through the black swarm where Chloe's hand had been. “I'll have to be fast,” Chloe said, “but I can do it.”

“Wait,” Horace said, reaching for the box. “Let me check.”

“I don't need you to check.”

“I'm doing it anyway.” Horace opened the box. He pointed it toward the dumin:
darkness out in tomorrow's room, stillness; no dumin; no golem; the place in shambles; shelves torn down; tables crushed and tossed; farther on into the room, one of the stone columns ripped apart, turned to rubble and dust
. He snapped the box closed. “That thing is strong, Chloe.”

Mrs. Hapsteade watched them with burning eyes. “Strong is not the word. Please, we must—”

“Let it be strong,” Chloe told them. “Let it waste all its strength on me.”

Horace felt almost sick with worry. And then an idea occurred to him. “Chloe, do you have any mints?”

Chloe considered him, still squeezing her hand. “I do.”

“You'll get the Vora. You'll give me a mint when you come back, and I'll leave it here as a sign that you made it. Do you understand?”

She nodded slowly. “I do.”

“This is a fool's proof,” Mrs. Hapsteade said. “It means nothing. We have to go.”

“If I don't see the mint,” said Horace, “you don't do this.”

Chloe shrugged. It was the best he would get. Horace fell to one knee, scanning the floor. He quickly found what he was looking for—a half-inch crack between two of the floor stones. He focused on it, telling himself that if Chloe made it back safe again, he would take a mint from her and drop it into this crack. Then he opened the box.

The stone floor, gouged and scratched; loose rubble and crushed stone all around, nothing to see, but then—a glint of white between the debris, just there
. “I see it,” he said, then realized he wished he hadn't. Nothing would stop Chloe from trying this now. He gazed at the mint, waiting for it to fade, to shift, but it didn't. If anything, it sparkled.

“It's here. You'll make it.” He tried to make himself believe the words.

“This is madness,” Mrs. Hapsteade said. “The box doesn't make guarantees.”

“You said we should do more,” Chloe said. “So let us do it.”

Mrs. Hapsteade shook her head. “You trust the box with your life?”

“I trust Horace.” Chloe smiled at Horace, dazzling. The dragonfly began to hum again. “Besides, I was going to do it anyway.” And with that she was gone.

The golem whipped into a fury as Chloe emerged into the room, swirling around her like a tornado. But Chloe, clever Chloe, led the beast into one of the massive stone columns in the center of the room, where it had to break apart momentarily while Chloe passed clean through. He caught a glimpse of her on the far side, running full out, just before the column shattered.