CHAPTER ELEVEN

Hints and Promises

HORACE STARED AT THE LITTLE BLACK FLOWER IN MR. MEISTER’S hand. According to the old man, the Keeper of the Tan’ji from which this flower had been taken was coming here. Soon. And they had no idea whether it was friend or foe.

Chloe said, “So basically, the Tan’ji this came from might belong to one of the Riven. One of the freaks could be out there right now, homing in on the Warren. And leading all the rest of them here.”

“That is the worst case scenario, but quite possible,” said Mr. Meister. “On the other hand, it could be a harmless young soul out there, just as lost and uncertain as you once were, thick in the Find. Completely alone, perhaps. And with a crippled Tan’ji.”

“But there’s no way to know which it is?” asked Horace. “Friendly human or unfriendly Riven?” He looked at Brian for an answer, but Brian seemed lost in his own thoughts, staring at the daktan and glancing over his shoulder now and again.

Mr. Meister shook his head. “There is no way to know.”

“And even if it’s a human,” Chloe pointed out, “that doesn’t necessarily equal friendly.”

“Just so,” Mr. Meister said sadly. “We must act. Soon. The unknown Keeper is still far off, but—”

Brian held up a hand and said, “Actually . . .”

Mr. Meister looked at him sharply, then turned to the north again. The two of them stood there, Mr. Meister staring hard, Brian squeezing his eyes closed but clearly locked in concentration.

“What’s happening?” Chloe demanded.

“The Keeper of the daktan is on the move now,” Mr. Meister said. “Moving fast.”

“How fast?”

“Vehicle fast,” said Brian, opening his eyes. “Car or bus or train. Coming closer.”

Horace tried not to look shocked. “But if they were only forty miles away, that means they could be here in less than hour.”

“Forty miles as the crow flies,” Brian clarified. “By road, it might take an hour and a half to get here, all things considered.” He said this as though the extra half hour made it that much better, but Horace could see the concern in his eyes.

“So what will we do?” Horace asked.

Mr. Meister turned and leaned toward him. “That’s precisely what I was hoping you would tell us, Keeper.”

Horace hesitated. He looked at the old man, his soft steady gaze. Brian had the same expectant expression, and even Chloe—though she was tugging grumpily at a lock of her black hair—seemed to be waiting for him to respond.

“The lost Keeper is coming, Horace,” Mr. Meister prompted softly. “What will we do?”

“You’re asking me,” Horace said, stressing the word asking.

Mr. Meister nodded. “I am.”

Horace glanced again at Chloe. She yanked at her hair and gave him a single brusque nod. “Fine, then,” Horace said. He pulled the Fel’Daera from the pouch at his side. He sensed a sudden rise in alertness from Brian, felt the boy’s keen and curious eyes on him. Horace tried to brush the attention aside. Instead he let his mind settle across the box’s presence, so much a part of him, so reassuring and constant. His inner clock, always accurate, told him it was 8:02.

The box could show him the future twenty-four hours in advance—one possible future, anyway, here in this place, here in this room—but only if he concentrated hard on the path he already walked. In order for the box to see tomorrow truly, Horace had to think hard about the past, present, and future—where he was, how he’d gotten there, who else was with him at the moment. The path they all walked. The miserable daktan before them, calling out like a beacon. A new Keeper, a crippled Tan’ji—friend, or foe? What path forward could embrace both of those possibilities? The box would tell him.

In chess terms, Horace knew he was more of a positional player than a tactician, more suited to considering long-term advantages instead of short-term attacks. So he thought long. And when he thought long, he kept coming back to one idea: whoever this new Keeper was, it seemed likely he or she would never stop hearing—and heeding—the daktan’s call.

Cradling this thought, Horace pressed his thumb against the box’s silver seam and twisted it open. The lid split and spread wide like wings. And inside, through the box’s blue glass he saw—tomorrow’s workshop, sharp and clear, apparently empty; the fluorescent tube lights overhead burning like laser beams. He bent over the table where today the tiny black flower still sat.

Gone.

Horace felt a flutter of alarm, but quickly calmed it. Someone was going to take the flower away, but it was no good leaping to conclusions. He had to keep his mind open. He turned, seeing nothing else out of place in tomorrow’s workshop, and then, directly behind him—Brian, pale and stark, looking in Horace’s direction, a faint smile on his face; one finger pointed at his own black T-shirt, at the sharp white letters there:

GO TEAM!

Horace frowned, but then, as he watched, the Brian of tomorrow turned, revealing more words on his back:

NO, SERIOUSLY, GO.

DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME.

I’LL BE FINE HERE.

Horace laughed and lowered the box thoughtfully, sliding the lid closed. He mulled over what he’d seen.

“Well?” Chloe intoned after a moment. “Care to share? You were laughing, so I’m assuming you caught Brian with his shirt off.”

“That’s not so much funny as it is scary,” Brian said, looking down at his own ghostly arms.

“Shirt, right,” Horace said. “Brian, do you have a T-shirt that says GO TEAM! on it?”

Mr. Meister let out a sigh. Brian said with a wry smile, “I do, but I’m told it’s bad for morale.”

“Okay,” Horace said, “so you’re alone and wearing the shirt tomorrow. That tells me everything is fine here. And the little flower—the daktan—is gone. That, and the shirt, seems to suggest that we leave, and that we take the daktan with us.”

“But where do we take it?” asked Chloe.

“Out of the Warren. We need to make sure that this new Keeper, whoever it is, comes to us in a safe place. We can’t put the location of the Warren in jeopardy. It has to be someplace where we can be waiting for them.” Horace furrowed his brow, concentrating. “It seems obvious now that I say it.” He glanced at Mr. Meister, but the old man’s face was as blank as ever.

“So we set up an ambush,” Brian said.

Horace shrugged. “Or a welcoming party.”

Mr. Meister nodded. “Horace is right. We cannot risk revealing the location of the Warren to the Riven, but neither can we abandon a new Keeper who might be friendly to our cause. We will take the daktan to a location where we can control the manner in which the inevitable encounter will unfold.”

Brian circled a pointed finger in Mr. Meister’s direction. “You’re doing that thing where you say what somebody else said, but way smarter. Are you trying to impress us?”

“I am merely thinking out loud. I certainly won’t apologize for having an organized mind.” He clapped once and rubbed his hands together. “Let us go. The sooner we get in front of this, the better. Horace, since we do not know what to expect from our visitor, I’m guessing the Fel’Daera will be of great use to us today. Chloe, I’ll ask you to carry the daktan, please.” He reached back without looking and plucked the tiny daktan—the little black flower—from the table. He held it out to Chloe, who took it in her hand like it was a mouse turd. Mr. Meister seemed not to notice. “Brian, if rumors move as swiftly between you and Gabriel as they usually do, I’m assuming he and Neptune already know about our potential visitor.”

“Uh . . . ,” Brian began nervously.

“As I thought. I will let them know what we have decided to do. Horace and Chloe, meet me in the Great Burrow in ten minutes.” He spun on his heels and marched down the passageway, leaving the three young Wardens alone.

Brian watched him go with a sigh. “So I guess I’ll just be here. Ready for my big wardrobe change tomorrow.” He looked down at the daktan in Chloe’s hand. “But the mystery guest is still coming—coming fast—and you guys are the hero types. I’ll just be glad to get this thing out of here.”

Grimacing, Chloe slipped the daktan cautiously into her pocket. She wiped her hand against the edge of the table as if to rid it of filth, and considered Brian for a moment. “I can’t tell if you feel sorry for yourself or not.”

“Constantly. And never.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” she said.

“That’s a lie. But thank you for it.”

Chloe flinched slightly, yet had no answer. She turned to Horace and cocked her head. “Ready to go, then?”

Brian shifted uncomfortably. “Actually, if I could . . . have a second. With Horace.”

Chloe’s eyebrows knifed up as high as they could go. “Just Horace?”

“Just Horace,” Brian said, not a hint of apology in his voice. “Man talk.”

“Okay, well . . . if you’re sure you guys qualify for that, I’ll leave you to it.” She slipped a tiny nod to Horace and turned away, slinking silently down the passage.

Brian watched her go. “Watch out for the oublimort,” he called after her. “That first step’s a doozy.” She didn’t react, and once she was out of sight Brian sighed and said casually, “I’m going to marry her.”

Horace almost choked. “What?” he gasped.

“Or maybe not. I kind of just wanted to say that out loud, see how it sounded.”

“It sounded creepy.”

“Maybe you’re going to marry her.”

“No one is marrying anyone,” Horace said firmly, feeling his cheeks burn.

Brian’s eyes dropped to the box at Horace’s side. “Not today, no. Or tomorrow. Did the Fel’Daera tell you that?”

Horace sighed. So that was what this was about. Brian was going to ask him about what he’d seen—about whether Brian would actually have to go through with wearing the GO TEAM! shirt tomorrow or not, as Horace had foreseen. “I suppose you’ve got questions,” he said.

“Not exactly. That was the first time I’ve seen you use the Fel’Daera.”

“And?”

“Well, first of all—totally wow. I’ve never seen a Tan’ji so majorly complicated, never seen the Medium used that way. It’s wickedly cool. But look—we didn’t need the Fel’Daera to know that taking the daktan out of here was the best plan. It was the only plan. And I think Mr. Meister knew it.”

Reluctantly, Horace had to agree that this made sense. All the box had revealed was that the flower was gone. The rest was only logical. “Okay, but then why did he want me to use the box?”

“Meister never does anything without a reason,” said Brian. “And there was really only one reason to get you to use the box just now.” He shrugged and then gestured down the length of his own body with both hands.

Horace stared, still flummoxed. “You?”

“Me.”

“You’re saying he wanted you to see the box in action? But why?”

“Because he knows that I’ll tell you things I shouldn’t.”

Now Horace was completely lost. He glanced back down the passageway. Chloe was nowhere to be seen.

“Look,” said Brian. “Tan’ji don’t come with instruction manuals, right? Instead, we go through the Find. We’re supposed to figure it all out on our own.”

“Right.”

“Well, now that I’ve seen you use the Fel’Daera firsthand, I can tell you”—he paused and looked around conspiratorially—“you haven’t figured it out yet.”

Horace leaned back. A hot blossom of indignation exploded in his chest. He laid a hand on the box. “I know I’m not perfect, but I—”

“No, I mean . . .” Brian gestured at the box, flapping his hand. “Take it out, take it out.”

Horace reluctantly slid the box from its pouch and held it forward. Immediately Brian thrust a finger at it, pointing at the silver spoked star on the side of the box. “Never wondered about that?”

Horace, of course, could have drawn a picture of the star in his sleep. Not just a star, but the star. The sun. Twenty-four wavy spokes—twelve long and twelve short—radiating out from a smooth, rounded circle in the center. “One ray for each hour of the day,” Horace said. “The box sees one day into the future. This is like a symbol. A decoration.”

Brian shook his head. “Nope, not just a decoration. It does something. It wants to do something, actually—that’s what I saw when you had the box open. But I also saw that’d you’d never done it. As far as I can tell, no one’s done it in years.”

Horace’s heartbeat began to rumble forward, gathering speed. He rubbed his thumb across the silver sun. Nothing happened. “But what? What does it do?”

“I don’t know. Meister probably knows—he’s the historian. But he’s too old-fashioned to tell you.”

A cold stab of something like loneliness swept through Horace, desperate and fuming. Brian had seen something about the Fel’Daera that Horace knew nothing about. Perhaps his mother had seen it too and said nothing, a deeply shameful thought. He pressed the smooth black mound in the center of the silver sun. Nothing. He tried to twist it. Still nothing.

“Not like that,” Brian said. “It’s telemetric.”

“Telemetric?”

“You control it with your thoughts. Your mind.”

Horace concentrated but felt nothing. He’d never sensed the silver sun in any special way before, and couldn’t do so now. “Tell me,” he said, feeling sick and desperate.

Brian shook his head. “I can’t. Besides, Meister’s right that we don’t want all the answers given to us. The more our hands are held while we bond with our instruments, the less our instruments belong to us. You have to do this on your own, man. I just didn’t feel right saying nothing.”

Which was probably exactly what Mr. Meister had counted on. Horace tried the box again, staring hard at the star. But he was too angry and full of rage to concentrate.

“Nope, nope nope,” Brian said, waving his hands impatiently. “Stop it. Put it away. Take the hint home and figure it out.”

“I can’t!” Horace cried. “Daktan? Lost Keeper? Remember?”

“Right,” Brian said, looking chagrined. “Sorry, I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been down here for so long that sometimes I—” He stuck his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then started over. “Look, nothing ever happens down here. Ever. All that stuff you guys do up above—it’s all stories to me. And when all you get is stories for three years, it’s not always easy to remember that it’s real.” He threw up his bony arms. “Heck, I’ve never even seen a Riven!”

That was a surprise. Horace took a breath and tried to calm his sizzling nerves. “You’re not missing much, believe me,” he mumbled.

“Oh, yeah?” Brian said angrily. “Want to trade?”

They stood there staring at each other, until at last Brian looked away. He plucked at his VITAMIN D shirt and scuffed one foot thoughtfully against the stone floor. Horace calmed himself, forcing himself to put the box back in its pouch. Maddening as this new mystery was, Brian was only trying to help, he knew that. And he also knew that he could not begin to fathom a life like Brian’s.

“Hey,” Horace said, trying to sound kind. “Can Tunraden actually be moved?”

“Yes. I can draw on the Medium to lift her. But if you’re going to suggest maybe I can take her outside, get above ground for a minute—forget it. Way too risky, even for me.”

Going outside was precisely what Horace was going to suggest, but he understood the reluctance. “Okay, so maybe you could just leave her here for a little while. I know it hurts a bit when we move far away from our Tan’ji, but—”

“I can’t do that,” Brian said.

“Maybe just for a—”

“You’re not getting me. I mean I physically can’t leave Tunraden behind.” Brian held out his arms, exposing his wrists and the thin black bands. “These bands bind me to Tunraden. I can only get maybe two or three hundred yards away. Enough to get me up the Perilous Stairs. Enough—barely—to get me to Vithra’s Eye.”

“And what happens if you go farther than that?”

“Let’s just say my license would be permanently revoked. Tunraden generates a new pair of rings, and waits for a new Keeper.”

“But would you be okay?”

Brian just looked at him, flat and unblinking. “Being the Keeper of a Loomdaughter is serious business, Horace. Seriously serious.”

Horace eyed the bands with a new understanding. They looked painfully tight, almost melded into Brian’s skin. He said quietly, “I thought you said you weren’t a prisoner.”

Brian rubbed the ring around one wrist with the opposite hand. He glanced down at the Fel’Daera. “We’re all prisoners, man. Some of us just have the luxury of pretending we’re not.”