The Keepers (24 page)

THE MAZZOLENI ACADEMY

“A school?” Chloe asked.

“To begin with, yes,” said Mrs. Hapsteade. “This is the way to Mr. Meister.”

“Mr. Meister is a teacher?”

“He would say no, but he doesn't care for titles. He's not a teacher in the way you might be imagining. He is the chief
taxonomer, though he doesn't much care for that title either.”

Horace knew that a taxonomer identified things, put them into categories—like putting animals into a certain species or genus. But somehow he didn't think Mr. Meister classified animals.

Mrs. Hapsteade opened the great green doors. Inside, the Mazzoleni Academy looked like any ordinary school. They passed an office where a fat lady glanced out through a round window and exchanged a knowing nod with Mrs. Hapsteade. Beyond, lockers lined the front hall, and the walls above were decorated with student projects. Horace realized school was actually still in session—he could hear children's voices. They passed a classroom door and glimpsed a teacher through the glass, standing in front of a class of little kids.

The teacher held a sword.

“What do they teach here?”

“What do you mean?” replied Mrs. Hapsteade. “It's a school.”

“In that classroom, the teacher had a sword.”

“Don't excite yourself. The academy is a boarding school, so the students live here in the building, but otherwise it's no different than most other schools. Mr. Franklin teaches history, nothing more. It's an ordinary school, in most respects. Ordinary children attend classes here.”

“But
we're
here,” Horace pointed out. “You're here. Mr. Meister is here. That doesn't add up to ordinary.”

“No, I suppose it doesn't,” Mrs. Hapsteade agreed. “But
he is not exactly
here
.” They passed several more classrooms. A bulletin board displayed all the usual flyers: a notice for a band concert, a poster about recycling, the week's cafeteria menu. They walked by a small recess in the wall, covered in glass. Behind the glass was a black statue of a great raven, leaping from a gnarled branch, stretching its wings upward to catch the air. Yes, an ordinary school—in most respects.

They walked on. Mrs. Hapsteade led them through a door marked
STAFF ONLY
and down a narrow staircase beyond. At the bottom, they filed along a cramped, grimy hallway until Mrs. Hapsteade stopped in front an old-fashioned accordion gate. She unlocked the gate with a crude black key pulled from the collar of her dress and pushed it noisily back. “Going down,” she said. Horace's stomach crumpled as he realized that the space beyond wasn't another hallway, but a tiny elevator. Horace hated elevators. And this was the tiniest, sketchiest elevator he'd ever seen.

Mrs. Hapsteade stepped inside. “Well?” she said, her eyes on Horace.

“Are there stairs?” he asked, his voice cracking just a little.

“Where we're going is too secret for stairs.”

“It's a sanctuary, then,” Chloe said. “Down below the school. Will we have to pass through the Nevren again?”

The Nevren. Of course it would be here, probably worse than the one behind the House of Answers. The dread bubbling in Horace's gut rolled to a boil.

“Once we're below, yes,” said Mrs. Hapsteade. “But Horace won't have to do it alone. None of us will. Come. The elevator ride will be brief—twenty seconds.”

That didn't sound brief, but Horace eased into the elevator, one hand gripping the box. Eyes closed, he flinched as the gate slammed shut. Mrs. Hapsteade inserted her key into another hole and turned it once to the left, once to the right. The elevator lurched into motion, trembling and rattling. Horace wondered how old it was, and whether anyone would even know to come looking for them.
Eight, nine, ten
. . . The elevator trembled and rattled as it descended.
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen
. . . And suddenly the elevator shuddered to a stop. Horace squeezed his eyes closed until they hurt, sure the elevator was stuck, sure they were trapped here—but then the gate clattered back, and Mrs. Hapsteade spoke.

“Now we continue. Below us is the entryway to the Warren, our greatest refuge here in the city.”

More stairs leading down. How deep were they going? Horace counted seventy-nine steps before they stepped out into the mouth of a large, domed cavern. The far side was lost in darkness. The cool air smelled vaguely of animal and water. Immediately to their left and right, three other archways like the one they'd just come through opened into the great chamber. Directly ahead, a loose brick pathway led onward into the gloom, cutting across a gleaming black floor.

Horace stepped forward. He accidentally kicked a little grit, spraying it across the black floor. Several feet ahead,
clouds of tiny ripples broke out, a sprinkle of splashes. And then he understood—this was no floor. The cavern ahead was filled with water, as black as night, smooth as glass. The brick walkway was a bridge across an underground lake.

A silent shadow cut through the air out over the water, swooping low. Now another, and another, swift and flickering. A soft splash and a rustle from somewhere out in the blackness.

Chloe saw them too. “Bats?”

“Owls,” Mrs. Hapsteade replied.

Horace eased out onto the brick walkway. He was disappointed that there were no bats, but owls were pretty fascinating, too. His footsteps echoed loudly around the cavern. Before he'd gone more than a few yards, though, a sharp, biting cold caught him by the wrists and ankles, pressed hard against his chest.

“The Nevren,” Horace murmured. He stepped back and reached for the box. “It's here.”

“Powerfully so,” said Mrs. Hapsteade. “This is Vithra's Eye. We must pass through it.”

Horace looked at Chloe. “I can do this. I can do it if you follow me.” Mrs. Hapsteade said nothing, but Chloe nodded. Horace began to walk forward into the cold.

“Best to be brave while hope remains, Horace Andrews,” Mrs. Hapsteade said, “but there's no hope along that path.”

Horace stopped. “What do you mean? This is the only way.”

“For the uninvited, yes.” Mrs. Hapsteade reached back and undid one of the chains around her neck. She revealed the long black crystal from yesterday, shining still, lighting her face like a ghost's. She let the chain hang to its full length, the black stone dangling nearly to the floor. “This is a jithandra. This is the only way across. Observe,” she said, and walked to the edge of the quiet lake. She dipped the jithandra briefly into the water, then lifted it out again. There was an immense crackling, as though a sheet of paper the size of a city block was being crumpled. The black water gathered itself around the ripple where the crystal had touched, lifting and turning lighter and then beginning to grow outward in a jagged circle. It was solidifying. In an instant, a patch the size of a manhole cover had bloomed—gray and shining and slightly translucent—where before there was only black water.

“Our path starts here,” Mrs. Hapsteade said.

“Is it ice?” Horace asked.

“Not exactly, no. It isn't cold, or slick, but it is liquid made solid.”

“How long will it last?”

“Keep watching,” she said. Horace watched, his inner clock already ticking. After several moments, the patch suddenly dissolved with a soft hiss, turning back to water again. Eleven seconds. The patch had lasted only eleven seconds. “Slightly longer than long enough,” Mrs. Hapsteade said. “Come.” She reached out to Chloe. Chloe raised an eyebrow and frowned at the offered hand. Mrs. Hapsteade's expression
did not change, but she turned to Horace instead. Horace took her hand, too nervous to be very embarrassed. It was firm and dry, neither hot nor cold. He was still getting used to the feel of it when he sensed Chloe taking hold of the back of his shirt. He looked over at her. She looked right past him but gave his shirt a quick tug.

“Don't let go,” Mrs. Hapsteade told them.

“Are we going around the Nevren?”

“So many questions. No, we must pass through the Nevren here, but we'll skirt the edge, avoiding the worst of it.”

“What if I fall?” Chloe asked.

“You do not want to fall into this lake,” Mrs. Hapsteade said.

“Why?” Chloe asked. “What would happen?”

“First, you would get wet.” The way she said “first” discouraged asking what came second.

Mrs. Hapsteade dipped the crystal into the water again. The gray patch began to form again noisily, and she led them out onto it. The stuff felt like wood underfoot, firm and organic. Mrs. Hapsteade kept moving, letting the jithandra dangle into the open water ahead, and where it fell the water came together, extending the path. They headed left along the wall, moving slowly around the curving edge of the great chamber, staying as far away from the dark center as possible. “This will be a longer trip through the Nevren than before,” Mrs. Hapsteade said over the soft roar of the water rearranging
itself. “Keep moving. Stay to the path. You know what's coming. Do not let go.”

The cold was already over Horace, but as braced as he was for what would happen, still it felt like a punch to the gut when he lost touch with the box. He let out a whuff of air. A moment later, he felt Chloe's hand on his shirt bunch into a fist. Another step, though, and even that faded.
Keep moving
, Horace told himself.
Only walk. The box is here
. He made his mind tell his legs to keep moving, though he had no idea if they were listening. It was like treading water in a pool filled with air.

“Halfway,”
said a voice, but the word was meaningless. Halfway to nothing was nowhere. The only thing that was anything was the stupid, busy talk of his mind, nagging at some futile chore, but he kept that thread alive because it was all there was.
I am not
, Horace told himself, but he wasn't listening.
I am not. I am not
.

And then at last they were through. The presence of the box blossomed again, bringing a burn to Horace's eyes. He heard a soft gasp behind him, knew it was Chloe, knew she could feel the dragonfly once more. They walked on in silence, shuffling along the strange wet path, nearly to the opposite shore now. A small shadow flashed across Horace's field of vision, bulky and swift and soundless. An owl.

They stepped onto solid ground. Horace glanced back. He guessed they'd come at least the length of a football field. Directly behind them, the path they'd taken—the solid-water
trail made by the black crystal—was dissolving as swiftly as it had formed, returning to water. And that other path—the brick walkway that cut across the middle of the water.

Chloe was looking back at it too. “That bridge, then. It leads through the center of the Nevren? It's harder to pass there?”

“Yes, much harder. The Nevren works on everyone who has the bond, friend or foe, and I know of no Tan'ji who could pass straight through the heart of Vithra's Eye. No one who's tried has returned whole.”

“What about Mr. Meister?” Horace asked.

“Mr. Meister least of all.” Mrs. Hapsteade put the jithandra back around her neck. She turned away from the water and began walking. “But perhaps you would like to ask him yourselves. We're nearly there.”

Ahead, a perfectly round tunnel—big enough for a train—led onward and downward, running for a hundred feet or so before it opened up again.

Before them lay what looked like some sort of underground forest. The cavern was two stories high, with the same stone floor and a brownish-blue ceiling. There were more of the glowing amber lights here, but these were much larger, with great spiraling gouts of twinkling illumination rising and spreading from them. And then, stranger still: the place was filled with dozens of massive, round stone columns that rose from floor to ceiling, as wide as they were high. They were not simply support columns, though—they were hollow
inside, and had open doorways, windows. Horace tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Chloe stepped forward. “It's a town.” And it did look like one, made up of little houses, chiseled from the trunks of gigantic stone trees.

“Once, perhaps,” Mrs. Hapsteade said. “A place of refuge, anyway. These buildings are called dobas. This chamber is the Great Burrow, the topmost level of the Warren.”

“Do you live here?” Chloe asked.

Horace frowned at the question. Somehow it was strange to think of Mrs. Hapsteade living anywhere.

“From time to time.”

“And what about Mr. Meister?”

“He does keep a doba here. We're going there now.”

She led them forward through the columns. Their footsteps—Mrs. Hapsteade's sharp and brisk, Horace's shuffling, Chloe's light—echoed through the huge, quiet space. It really was like a forest, lit faintly in gold by the rising shimmer of the great amber lights. The columns were irregularly spaced, not in any kind of pattern. As they passed deeper into the Great Burrow, the air became crisper, fresher.

Most of the dobas were empty, or looked like they were being used for storage, but a few had furniture—couches, tables, chairs. Horace saw a rumpled bed in one that had clearly been recently used. They passed by another and were startled to see a figure standing at the window. It was a boy, about their age, with glasses and a ponytail and extremely
pale skin. He watched them with a flat, measuring gaze. He wore a T-shirt with a picture of a reclining sea otter, paws folded serenely across its chest. Beneath that it said
GODLY OTTER
. He and Mrs. Hapsteade exchanged a silent nod.

“Who was that?” Chloe asked, after they passed.

“Brian,” Mrs. Hapsteade said, but it was clear she meant to say no more.

At last they came to a doba larger than the others. This one was perhaps fifty feet across, filling half the passageway. Mrs. Hapsteade led them straight inside through a reckless clutter of crates and boxes. Horace recognized some of the bins' labels—
MISPLACED
,
DISPLACED
,
UNSAVORY
,
DESPERATELY UNNEEDED
,
UNBINNABLE
. Horace broke into a smile, remembering. “These are from the House of Answers. The warehouse.”