The Pyramid of Souls (11 page)

   Nick's own sword was centuries old and forged by a Japanese swordsmith in magic fire. If Nick had a true heart—if he was not fighting for revenge or for evil—his sword was infallible. It always found its mark and could never slice Nick's own skin. Were he not true of heart…Boris had always told him the results would be bloody.

   Sascha entered and sniffed at the floor and walls, pacing.

   "Okay," Nick said, "Boris told me your sword picks you, not the other way around."

   The words had barely left his mouth when a clanging and clatter arose, and swords flew off the walls. They whistled through the air, moving so fast that all Nick saw were silver and gold streaks slashing through the air. Nick grabbed Isabella's hand as all the swords flew at them, points stopping inches from them until they were literally surrounded by gleaming, deadly blades.

   "We can't move," whispered Nick. "It's like they're guarding us."

   Either that or imprisoning them, he thought, but he kept that to himself. Isabella was hyperventilating.

   Sascha roared and walked around the swords. She even tried to bat one away with her big paw, but it wouldn't budge.

   Nick and Isabella stood there for a long time, until Nick's knees ached and his legs started shaking. He tried to command the swords away—but they remained, poised to strike. Sascha paced, clearly agitated.

   Finally, when Nick thought he could bear it no longer and his legs would just collapse from having to stand in one spot, Boris walked in.

   "Well, what do I have here?" he said, crossing his massive arms across his even more massive chest. The scar on his face—shaped like a starfish, but mostly hidden beneath a black eye patch—reddened angrily.

   "We can explain," Isabella squeaked.

   "I'm sure you can. In fact, it always seems like you two can
explain
the trouble you get into."

   "Honest, Boris," Isabella pleaded, "we promise you we didn't intend—"

   "Intend to break in here, and then find yourselves staring at the deadly points of hundreds of swords? Is that it?"

   She tried to smile. "Well, when you put it that way…"

   "
e3
Ho
ceM
Hap!" Boris shouted.

   At his command, the swords all flew back to their places on the wall—all except one.

   "This is your sword, Isabella," said Boris gruffly. "Now why don't you tell me what this is all about?"

   Isabella glanced at Nick.

   He nodded. "Go ahead. He'll find out anyway."

   "Boris," she said softly, "we saw Maria in the stalls.

She had a vial around her neck—just like when I was a little girl."

   Boris snorted. "You are still a little girl! A tiny little girl who thinks she is a big girl. Ha!"

   "Please, Boris. Teach me how to sword fight. I do not want to be captured by Maria."

   "You have a tiger."

   "But she shouldn't have to die to protect me!"

   Boris tapped his finger against his chin. "What should I do with you? What, in the name of all that is Mother Russia, should I do with you?"

   "You taught Nick," Isabella pointed out.

   "That is different."

   "Why?" She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Boris. "You don't think I can fight?"

   Boris walked over to her and looked down—way down, since Boris was easily six feet, six inches tall. "All right, my little impish buttercup, we will see what you are made of."

   He wiggled his finger, and the sword, which had been hovering near Isabella, moved to her side. Isabella wrapped her thin fingers around its hilt. It fit her hand perfectly, as if it had been forged precisely for her. The blade was thin—about an inch and a half wide—a blinding, shiny silver without so much as a single scratch. But the best part was that the hilt was carved with the head of a Siberian tiger, with sapphires in its eyes.

   Isabella almost dropped the sword. "It's very heavy," she said to Boris.

   "Too heavy for such a little buttercup?"

   "
No!
" she said stubbornly.

   "I will let you in on a little secret." Boris knelt down and looked Isabella in the eyes. "If you seek revenge, if you hold the sword in anger, it will weigh as much as a heavy stone. If you hold it believing that you will use it only to defend your family and your loyal sister, Sascha, it will be as light as a bird's feather and will do you no harm. Do you understand me, little Buttercup?"

   Isabella nodded solemnly.

   "Now, you think about what is in your heart. You search inside your heart."

   "Well, I—"

   "Hush," said Boris. "You are like your cousin here." He looked over at Nick. "Always in a hurry to open your mouth with an opinion—very often a
foolish opinion. No. Think. Tak
e some time and think. In fact, shut your eyes, little Buttercup."

   Isabella did as Boris instructed.

   "Now breathe. Slowly. And think of your tiger."

   Isabella breathed, and Nick watched as the sword, which she could barely lift a moment ago, seemed to rise on its own. Finally, it left her hand and flew around the room.

   "Control it with your mind," Boris instructed her, leaning

close and whispering in her ear. "Control your heart. Fill your thoughts with protection. Then control the sword."

   He gestured to Nick's sword on the wall. "All right, you shall now practice against each other. Remember, the minute you allow anger into your heart, or impatience, the swords will fail you."

   Nick and Isabella faced each other as their swords fought in the air above them. The blades struck each other, sparks flying like Fourth of July sparklers. The clanging was deafening, like marching-band cymbals.

   Nick concentrated, moving his sword in his mind with precision, fighting against his cousin's sword. He could not believe that she was such a formidable opponent for her first time fighting him. He broke out in a sweat, every muscle tense with concentration. Though he was not holding the sword, the effort to control it was exhausting. His arms trembled.

   "She will start out a
ryadovoy,
a private, and finish a
kapitan,
a captain, at this rate," Boris mused, chuckling slightly to himself.

   Finally, the two swords faced each other, point to point.

   "I call it a draw!" shouted Boris. The swords dropped to the floor. Boris clapped both Nick and Isabella on the back. "So now I have two sword fighters. Imagine that!"

   Isabella—brow sweaty, cheeks flushed with the effort— wiped away a stray hair. "That was fun!"

   Boris's face grew stormy again. "Yes, yes, Buttercup. In here, perhaps. But out there…out there with the Shadowkeepers, their swords fight for blood, for death, for evil ends. Never forget that. No fun for you. Not when Maria has been sighted. Not when evil has again decided to come to our home."

   "I can't forget about the Shadowkeepers," Isabella said softly. "I can't ever. And even when I want to sometimes, I still have nightmares, and they come to me in my sleep."

   "Better to be prepared then…" Boris said. "Let us speak of good now." He spat over his shoulder three times—it was a Russian superstition that if a person said something bad or talked about death, then they had to spit three times and then say something positive instead. When Nick first arrived, he'd felt like all anyone ever did was spit. "We speak of good, so I say to you that you are lucky you have each other. Now both of you—go! And do not let me catch you in here again without permission, or next time, I will leave you all night instead of for just one hour."

   "You
knew
we were here?" Nick asked incredulously. "You knew we were standing here, trapped by the swords?"

   Boris laughed so loud that his voice echoed off the walls and rattled the swords. "Do you think I would not booby-trap my swords? Especially when Shadowkeepers are lurking in our stalls and stealing the Pyramid of Souls? I am a better soldier and Magickeeper than that."

   Nick, Isabella, and Sascha turned to go. They had reached the door when Boris said, "One more thing."

   "Yes?" Isabella asked him.

   "Do not tell Irina that I trained you in the Cossack sword fighting arts. She will be very angry with me. And an angry Russian woman is worse than even Damian."

Later that night, Nick woke up, certain that Vladimir was bustling around his cage. Between Isabella and now Vladimir, he was positive he would be falling asleep at the breakfast table the next day—which would only infuriate Damian, since they had rehearsal.