The Keepers (26 page)

“Don't be absurd,” Mr. Meister said. “Your visions are like ripples of the true future—which has yet to be formed—but they are sensible. They are likely. You are a practical-minded individual, Horace. You must be, in order to be the Keeper of the Fel'Daera. The future the box reveals is a logical extension of the moment in which you look through the box. It is not a flight of fancy.”

Horace frowned down at the box. He thought of the fire truck he'd seen through the box, racing past his house on the way to some emergency. “But if I'm responsible . . . ,” he began, and then lost the words. He sank deeper into his seat, feeling Chloe's eyes on him.

Mr. Meister leaned forward. His voice became velvet and low, gentle as a leaf. “Do not misunderstand me, Horace. You do not actually determine the future. You do not control it. No one person could be granted such power. You have a talent, to be sure—you are the Keeper of the Fel'Daera, and you can glimpse what no one else can—but you are still just a boy.”

Horace tipped his head back, blinking back the sudden water in his eyes and looking up at the curving red vault of compartments above him. “No, I'm not,” he said after a moment.
The strength of his own voice surprised him. “The box, what it can do . . . I'm not just a boy. Not anymore.”

Horace waited for the old man to argue with him, but Mr. Meister just sat there, his face dark and drawn with concern.

“He's right,” Chloe said. “And I'm not just a girl. Don't ask us to pretend we are.”

The old man went on saying nothing.

“Look,” Horace said at last, “I don't need to be told what I am, or what I'm not. But I wish you'd tell me, if you know: who decides what I see when I look into the box?”

“I have said too much already.”

“Tell me,” Horace insisted. “Who decides?”

“No one decides,” Mr. Meister said, his voice thick now.

“You said I see a future I believe in.”

“Belief is not a decision. Nor is it absolute knowledge. That's why the box is so often blurry.”

“Why did I feel sick when I didn't eat the sandwich? Was it because I was going against a future I had believed in?”

“You're missing the point. It's not that you must choose to do—or not do—whatever actions you see in the box. Instead, the seeing and the doing are a
single act
.”

“That doesn't really answer my question.”

“Once you've opened the box, you are beholden to whatever future you see. You still have free will, yes, but with that free will you
already
chose to open the box and observe the future. Therefore you should try not to take actions that would deliberately change that future.”

“In other words, I should eat the sandwich.”

“Yes!” Mr. Meister roared, throwing his hands up.

Chloe sat up, her eyes flashing. “And should he step in front of the train, too?”

Silence fell as Mr. Meister hesitated. He hesitated for ten long seconds. Fifteen. At last he spoke, quiet again, choosing his words carefully. “As I told you on the very first day, Horace, you must not open the box without reason.” He stared at Horace hard.

Suddenly Horace understood. Not without
a
reason—
without reason
. “I have to be logical,” he said.

“Yes. Remember that you are altering a chain of events. Before you choose to look through the box, recognize the path you are on. Recognize your motivations for looking through the box. Consider those around you who may have a part to play in the events to come. If you keep your head and your heart clear, and think logically about the consequences of the current moment, I believe that the Fel'Daera will speak to you truly.” He shrugged. He reached out and ran a bony fingertip across the brow of the delicate ivory mask in front of him. “What you choose to do after that is . . . as always . . . a matter of your own free will.”

Horace filled himself with breath and let it out. Beside him, Chloe was shrewd and alive, alert like an animal. “Okay,” Horace said. “It's funny—it all sounds like something my mom said to me: everything the future is made of is happening right now.”

“Mothers often know best,” Mr. Meister said. “I could not have said it better myself. Now, is there anything else?”

“No—or actually, yes. Why does Mrs. Hapsteade hate the box?”

Mr. Meister sighed. “She does not hate it. She fears it. And let us admit that there is reason to be afraid. But whereas she would let her caution steer us away from the Fel'Daera entirely, I believe that a healthy respect for the box's powers can lead its Keeper to a greater understanding, and a greater mastery. Mastery you are still acquiring. Does this make sense?”

“I think so. But even if I get more . . . mastery . . . what good could the box possibly be in a fight? If you expect us to go up against the Riven, I just don't know what good the box would be, no matter how much mastery I have.”

Mr. Meister shook his head, feigning sadness. “So much logic, so little imagination. Let us consider this scenario: I am about to put myself in danger; I can choose either to have ten companions at my side or knowledge of the future—knowledge of the events that are about to unfold.” He raised his eyebrows and spread his hands. “I will choose knowledge every time. And that is just a part of what the box has to offer.”

Chloe glanced over at Horace. “No pressure, though.”

“Seriously,” Horace said.

Mr. Meister sighed again. “Do not worry about purpose. Surely you have enough desire to master the box without
such outside concerns. And do not worry about Mrs. Hapsteade, either. She understands that we do what we must.” He straightened and slapped his thighs. “Very good. We have dug deeper than I thought we would, and come close to the limits of what I can tell you. Any other questions?”

“Definitely not. Not yet. I just need to . . . think.”

“As you should. More than any other instrument, the Fel'Daera requires it of you.” The old man settled back into his chair. He fiddled with his glasses. “And now Chloe,” he said, turning his attention toward her. “Not just an ordinary girl.”

Chloe gazed back at him. “Are we going to pretend to trust each other now?”

Mr. Meister chuckled so kindly that Horace almost forgot the dark silence of a few moments earlier. “Does the thought frighten you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then let us embrace trust. Come. The dragonfly. An exquisite piece, one of the most beautiful Tanu. What is it you wish to learn?”

“I don't really know.”

“Perhaps you want the science of it?”

“No,” said Chloe firmly, at the same moment as Horace said, “Definitely.”

Mr. Meister raised his bushy eyebrows.

“I don't want to know how it works,” Chloe said. “Everything you just told Horace—I don't need to hear that kind of
stuff. And I mean, what if knowing how it works makes it not work anymore?”

Mr. Meister's gaze was as steady as a cat's, his left eye appearing to bulge crazily behind the thick lens of his glasses. “But tell me, how could such a thing happen?”

Chloe frowned. The dragonfly's wings were vibrating ever so slightly. “The dragonfly works because I need it to, not because I . . . push a button or engage a gear or contemplate the universe or something. There's no on switch; it's just . . . on when I need it.”

Mr. Meister laughed softly. “Like right this moment, for instance?”

The dragonfly's wings went still. “What I mean is, I don't want to overthink it. I don't want to know how it works.” She trailed off for a moment, searching for the words. She held up the dragonfly. “This
belongs
to me. When I go thin, I am—
we are
—just doing the natural thing.”

Horace felt his fingers tighten around the Box of Promises in his lap. Although he understood what Chloe was talking about, still the dragonfly and the box were machines. Amazing, mysterious machines, yes, but it was not a matter of being natural; it was a matter of understanding the function of the machine.

Chloe abruptly broke into a torrent of talk. “It's like when you get really, really good at a video game, because you play it all the time, and then you're teaching a new person to play and they're like, ‘Hey, how do I do this, what button does
that?' And you
can't say
. Your fingers know, but your conscious brain doesn't know, because it can't be bothered to keep track of stuff like that anymore, because you've gotten so good at it—so natural. Well, it's like that. And I don't want to all of a sudden be thinking about what buttons I'm pressing, you know?”

“My young friend,” Mr. Meister said, “I have absolutely no frame of reference for what you're talking about, but I know precisely what you mean.” He beamed at Chloe. Chloe stared back at him thoughtfully, clearly still trying to figure the old man out.

Horace looked back and forth between them, realizing that no explanation for how the dragonfly worked was forthcoming. “Well, I think I can guess how it works. Solid matter is mostly empty space anyway, when you get down to particles—”

“Hush,” Mr. Meister interrupted harshly, his hand cutting through the air. “You are not the Keeper of this Tan'ji. If Chloe does not wish to hear the inconsequential ramblings of an old man—or a young one—who has no claim whatsoever on this instrument, so be it.” He turned to Chloe, his face softening. “As for you, young lady, please accept my apologies. Young Mr. Andrews and I . . . we perhaps got carried away with our talk of science and other apparent sensibilities.” He sat up and slapped his hands against his knees. “So tell me then, Chloe, is there anything you
do
wish to know about your dragonfly?”

Chloe scowled. “Tell me it's not just a glorified
whatchamacallit. A
passkey
.” She spat out the word like a curse.

Mr. Meister laughed. “First, understand that passkeys are fairly common, as Tanu go. They are mere Tan'kindi—anyone may use them. Most passkeys bond to an object or location, but a rare few passkeys bond to a Keeper instead—they can become Tan'ji. Some of these rare Tan'ji are known by name, but the records are sparse and vague. The oldest passkeys are among the oldest of all Tanu.”

“How old?” Chloe asked.

“Old,” said Mr. Meister, drawing the word out long and low. “I sought for a long time to identify the Tan'ji you now possess—long before you came for the claiming, seven years ago—but I could not. I confess I assumed it was a Tan'ji of only middling importance. And then, yesterday, Mrs. Hapsteade told me of your exploits at the warehouse.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Clearly you do not appreciate it, but what you did was astonishing. Perhaps unprecedented. Though you could not know it, the dumin is meant to keep out everything and everyone, including—indeed,
in particular
—those who wield the power of a passkey. You should not have been able to pass through the dumin. And yet you did. And then to walk into the golem itself, to carry the Vora through the golem and back into the dumin again! Astonishing.”

If Chloe was embarrassed by any of this, she didn't show it. “So it's not a passkey.”

“No, though it is related. You might say that it is the queen of passkeys.”

Horace couldn't help himself. “And so what's the king?”

Chloe shook her head, her eyes fixed on Mr. Meister. “There is no king.”

“Just so.”

“And does it have a name?”

Mr. Meister smiled. “In all these years, have you never given it a name?”

“No. Why would I? That would be like . . . naming my hand.”

“Well said.” Mr. Meister looked at his own hand and hummed. “Yes indeed. However, I must tell you that although with the Fel'Daera there can be no doubt of its true name, I am less certain when it comes to your dragonfly. If I could be allowed to examine it more closely, I could be sure.”

“Tell me what you think the name is, and I'll tell you if you're right.”

Mr. Meister's glasses nearly slid off his nose. “Very well. I suspect it is the Alvalaithen. The Earthwing.”

Wonder blossomed on Chloe's face. She bent over the dragonfly like it was a pet. Her eyes shone and her lips moved—mouthing the name to herself, Horace knew. He mouthed it once too, just to feel it. No one had to ask if the name was right.
The Alvalaithen
.

“Why do they call it the Earthwing?” Horace asked.

For an answer, the old man posed a question of his own to Chloe. “Tell me, Keeper, have you ever taken the dragonfly underground? Beneath the surface of the earth?”

Horace looked over at Chloe. He'd asked her this same question once, and she'd been weird about it.

“No,” she said tersely.

“And yet you could,” pressed Mr. Meister.

Chloe crossed her arms. “That's not how it works. What do you know about it?”

Mr. Meister studied her silently. Horace said, “Does that mean it's not the Alvalaithen? You said you weren't sure.”

“It means nothing. But there are many Tanu that do what the dragonfly can do, roughly speaking. I wonder, Keeper,” Mr. Meister said to Chloe. “May I examine the dragonfly? It has been long since I saw it last, and if it is indeed the Alvalaithen . . . let us just say, given that I failed to discover its true identity before, I would very much like to examine it again. Such opportunities do not come around very often.”

Chloe's hand went to the dragonfly. “Will you have to touch it?”

“That would be easiest, yes. But I will be most delicate. And I assure you I have a great deal of experience in such matters.”

“For a minute, then,” Chloe said after a long, silent deliberation.

“My gratitude.” Mr. Meister began polishing his glasses with a small square cloth pulled from one of his vest pockets. “Forgive me,” he said. “My eyes are not what they could be. And indeed, without these glasses of mine I would be unable to perform my duties at all.” Horace studied the fastidious
care the old man took with his glasses—folding the cloth to a point and wiping each lens with tiny, cautious circles. Every so often he brought them up to his face and scrutinized them closely. Sudden realization dawned over Horace. How could he not have seen it before?