OKSA FOLLOWED HER TO THE BACK OF THE ROOM, WHERE the blades of the giant fan were turning slowly with a faint grinding noise. To the Young Gracious’s surprise, the woman plunged her arms into the stone wall, then smiled confidently at her and disappeared.
“But…” stammered Oksa.
“Try!” urged Abakum.
“I’ve never managed to do it before,” she confessed in annoyance.
The woman’s arm popped back through the wall. Oksa put her hand in hers and found herself pressed flat against the stone, which remained impenetrable.
“It won’t work,” she complained. “I’m a Werewall and I can’t even pass through a lousy dividing wall!”
“Some things you can do just like that and others take a bit more effort,” remarked Abakum. “This new skill probably needs a little practice, that’s all.”
“That’s top of my list then!” exclaimed Oksa. “I really want to be able to do this.”
“Tugdual would make an excellent teacher, given half a chance,” added Abakum with a wink.
Oksa looked away, pleased and embarrassed at the same time, as a section of the wall swung open to reveal a concealed door.
“A back-up solution for failures like me,” she said, slipping through the half-open door. “Good thinking!”
On the other side, the apple-cheeked woman was waiting for her in a room with an impossibly high, domed ceiling. With a warm smile, she invited Oksa to see for herself how accurate her words had been: everyone watched with bated breath.
“Oh, I see!” breathed Oksa, flabbergasted at the sight before her.
The walls of this secret room were entirely lined with shelves laden with enormous bottles of Granoks and Capacitors, while other even bigger containers stood on the floor, painstakingly labelled by Attendants concentrating hard on their task.
“Hello, Oksa!” came a voice.
“Reminiscens!”
The fragile-looking woman emerged from the shadows, a Polypharus on each shoulder. Although the ordeal of her Impicturement and the injuries inflicted by her twin brother, Orthon, could still be seen in her face, she looked more radiant than ever. Her long, plum-coloured silk tunic rustled as she approached and her pale blue eyes shone with determination.
“How are you?” asked Oksa politely.
From the day Oksa had met her in the Maritime Hills, she’d been impressed by Reminiscens. The daughter of Ocious and Malorane, Orthon’s sister, Zoe’s gran, and a brave fighter to boot, Reminiscens had been through the mill: subjected to Beloved Detachment by her own father, ejected to the Outside, left to her own devices when pregnant by Leomido—whom she didn’t know was her half-brother—deprived of her son by Orthon, who’d ordered him to be killed, then Impictured: she’d suffered so much.
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t felt this well for a long time,” replied Reminiscens cheerfully.
Oksa could have sworn she was smiling at Abakum. She glanced quickly at the Fairyman. She might only be sixteen, but she knew he’d loved Reminiscens for ever, even though life had seen to it that his love would remain unrequited. Reminiscens had been prevented from feeling anything but friendship for him, at first by her devotion to Leomido, then by Beloved Detachment. Oksa thought it was terribly sad, even though Abakum seemed over the moon about things now.
A crackling noise roused her from her thoughts. A still, ten times bigger than the one that had held pride of place in Dragomira’s strictly private workroom, was vibrating steadily some distance away in the vast room. Its tubes intertwined to form a network so complex that it defied comprehension. Sweetish smoke was rising from the highest tube while the lowest one was spitting out hundreds of Granoks, which were being gathered carefully by an Attendant. Watching closely, Oksa was amazed to see that such clumsy-looking creatures could be so deft with their hooves—handling anything had to be a real challenge—but the Attendants were doing their job to perfection.
Oksa walked over to some waist-high jars, full to overflowing with Tornaphyllons, Dermenburns, Dozidents, Memory-Mashes, Colocynthises, Arborescens, Putrefactios, Hypnagogos—each one had to contain thousands of Granoks! On the top of one shelving unit she noticed a black glass bottle, much smaller than the others, whose label and lead seal looked intriguing.
“Crucimaphila,” she murmured, deciphering the name written in silvery letters. “The ultimate Black Globus.”
She stopped herself from saying out loud what she knew about the effects of this exceptional Granok. The highly dangerous Crucimaphila produced a black hole that sucked up and annihilated any form of life.
Abakum came over and stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders.
“Now you’re a Gracious, you’re allowed to use this Granok,” he explained. “In fact, you’re the only person who can.”
“You can too!” retorted Oksa earnestly.
She’d never forget the courage it had taken the Fairyman to fire the terrible Granok at Orthon when Dragomira was in danger in the Felon’s London cellar. Orthon hadn’t died, due to his unusual metabolism, inherited from Temistocles, the first and most powerful Werewall. However, the Crucimaphila had neutralized him for a while.
“You know this can only be used in exceptional circumstances,” continued Abakum. “Particularly as I’ve strengthened it,” he added, referring to the tragic episode Oksa had just remembered.
Oksa nodded seriously, her eyes fixed on the dark jar.
“Due to the power and unique nature of the Crucimaphila, your Granok-Shooter can only hold one at any given time. More than one will cancel out the effect of the other Granoks and cause irreparable damage to your Granok-Shooter. Likewise, a certain time-lapse has to be observed between uses.”
“How long?” asked Oksa, fascinated.
“One hundred days.”
She whistled between her teeth and turned round to look at Abakum.
“The Crucimaphila is deadly,” he whispered anxiously. “Using it runs counter to the principle of respect for human life which we hold so dear.”
He stopped, his face tense.
“Orthon and his followers left us no choice,” he added. “I know it’s the worst reason of all, but we were in such great danger—we had to be able to defend ourselves, and we had to have this deadly weapon in our arsenal.”
“I understand,” whispered Oksa.
He stood before her and gazed at her intently, his eyes full of bitterness and sorrow.
“What I’m going to say to you fills me with horror. I wish things could be different, but unfortunately I have to give you one of these lethal Granoks, because it might be the only way to stop the man who’s leading us into far worse danger than anything we’ve already overcome.”
“What do you mean?” stammered Oksa. “Am I going to have to kill Orthon?”
Her blood ran cold at the thought. She’d wanted him dead so many times. Orthon was the sworn enemy of the Runaways and she knew that the two worlds would be much better off without him, but the idea of killing him was both terrifying and inconceivable.
“Orthon is our worst enemy. The only way to stop the type of man he is would be to kill him, which is something I regret more than anyone. But don’t forget he isn’t acting on his own and that the harm has already been done.”
Oksa stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide.
“So if you have to do it, then do it,” he whispered.
“Abakum, tell me everything!”
“All you need to know is that I’ll always be near you, sweetheart. But fate will show you the way, not me.”
He turned towards the set of shelves and his arm lengthened by a foot to seize the black jar. An Attendant immediately galloped over to offer its back as a low table. Its velvety brown eyes gazed at Oksa with boundless admiration as Abakum opened the precious bottle. Reminiscens joined him and handed him a chrome-plated set of tongs. They exchanged a serious look.
“Oksa, let me have your Granok-Shooter, please.”
Oksa rummaged around in the little bag she never took off.
“Here,” she said, trembling.
Abakum took a soot-black Granok from the jar. It was so big that Oksa feared it wouldn’t fit into her Granok-Shooter, but it shrank, flattened and elongated on contact with the mouthpiece and was sucked into the depths of the magical blowpipe. The Granok-Shooter’s meerschaum surface grew so hot that Oksa almost dropped it, but the Attendant breathed on it and its temperature returned to normal.
“Abakum,” murmured Oksa, “please take one too.”
He looked at her sadly, then obeyed.
“Listen carefully,” he said finally, his face ashen.
He whispered in her ear the magic words that would let her use the ghastly Granok when the time came, although the Young Gracious hoped fervently she would never have to.