CHAPTER TWO

Nine Days

HORACE ANDREWS THOUGHT HE MIGHT NEVER STOP BEING tired.

He lay on his bed, with Loki the cat slumbering enviably at his side. It was a Tuesday afternoon in mid-June, nine days after the raid on the Riven’s nest and the rescue of Chloe’s father. Nine days since the escape from Dr. Jericho and the rest of the Riven in that dark, underground labyrinth. Or at least, the calendar claimed it was nine days. Horace sometimes felt like only hours had passed, and that his exhaustion had not yet left him. At other times, though, the rescue seemed like a distant thing, years old, and his memories of it seemed like nothing more than visions from the Fel’Daera—promises made, but not yet fulfilled.

The last nine days had been confusing. Confusing and lonely. Summer days were often lonely, but this was a new kind of emptiness. He hadn’t seen Chloe since the night of the rescue, hadn’t been back to the Warren, hadn’t received word from Mr. Meister or Gabriel or Neptune or Mrs. Hapsteade. In a way, not hearing from the Wardens was a relief. No more missions, no heavy expectations. Most of all, no more secrets. No more lies.

But of course, he was still a Keeper. And not just a Keeper. He was a Warden, charged with protecting the Tan’ji from the Riven. Being a Warden meant new secrets around every corner, deep and surprising secrets—secrets which, when revealed, could knock you off your feet. And nine days ago, Horace had learned a secret so surprising that he still hadn’t found his feet again.

As if on cue, he heard the front door open. It was 4:04; his mother was home from work. She called hello up to him, and he hollered back. This was a change from their normal routine—or maybe it was the new normal, her calling out instead of coming up in person to chat. He wasn’t sure who to blame for that, but wondered if it might be himself. His relationship with his mother had changed ever since the nest—or rather, ever since the talk they’d had just afterward, a talk that felt as much like a dream as the nest itself. Yes, secrets had been revealed that night—deep and surprising—but what scared him was that he hadn’t even glimpsed the bottom. His mother was keeping deeper secrets still, secrets he wasn’t sure he wanted to learn.

Horace preferred not to think about it. As a result, of course, he thought about it all the time.

He lay there for another ten minutes, wondering if he could fall asleep again, maybe sleep until dinnertime came. Loki, stretched out lazily on the bed beside him and purring agreeably, certainly seemed willing to try. But Horace couldn’t sleep. Instead he took the Fel’Daera from the pouch at his side—a small oval box about the size of his hand. He swung the lid slightly open, the two halves swiveling smoothly apart like wings, but he didn’t look inside. He hadn’t looked inside the box since the nest. Every day was the same anyway, especially without Chloe around. Why bother?

He closed the box, slipping it back into its pouch. From a small pool of marbles on his covers, he plucked out a shooter and dropped it into the thick fur on Loki’s flank. The cat didn’t stir. Horace kept going, seeing how many he could get to stay. With each new marble, he chanted softly to the cat: “Three little marbles on you. Four little marbles on you . . .” These were the sorts of mindless activities he busied himself with these days, keeping his brain distracted. He was up to eleven marbles when a sharp, familiar voice rang out.

“God, Horace, need a new hobby much?”

Loki leapt up, scattering the marbles. Chloe—Horace’s good friend Chloe, so brave and fierce and pretty and true—stood at the foot of the bed. She was tiny, but her presence was huge, her dark eyes as full of keen mischief as ever. Her black hair had grown out a little. The Alvalaithen, a bone-white pendant in the shape of a dragonfly, hung around her neck. Its wings were a blur, fluttering madly. Chloe grinned. “Sorry for not knocking,” she said.

Horace grinned back, reveling in the sight of her, the sound of her surly voice. “I’m pretty sure you’ve never knocked,” he said. “Why start now?”

The dragonfly’s wings went still. The Alvalaithen—the Earthwing—was the reason she never knocked, of course. She didn’t have to knock. When the dragonfly’s wings were moving, she was incorporeal, her body still visible but formless like a ghost. This was her talent. Going thin, she called it, and while she was thin she could walk through walls, through trees, through fire—through anything.

Chloe looked around the room, and up at the glowing, precisely plotted stars on Horace’s ceiling. She went to the window and bent down in front of the tiny message she’d written on the wall the very first time she’d come here.

Dear Horace,

I hope this doesn’t get you in trouble.

Your friend,

Chloe

She peered at it for a moment and then announced flatly, “Being here again makes me feel sentimental.”

Horace laughed. “I missed you too,” he said.

Chloe licked her thumb and rubbed at the word “trouble,” but it didn’t budge. She grunted, apparently satisfied.

Horace couldn’t help but notice her arm. Two wide, fresh scars slashed down her right forearm, one on the inside and one on the outside, running from wrist nearly to the elbow. Eight inches long, they were shaped like the flames of giant candles. She’d gotten these scars—far from her first, but possibly the worst—on the night of the rescue. She’d gone thin and plunged her arm into the mesmerizing green fire of the crucible, deep in the Riven’s nest. Extinguishing the crucible’s light had effectively destroyed the nest and freed her captive father, but these scars were the price. Mocha colored and smooth as ivory, they drew Horace’s gaze like the flame that had created them.

Chloe noticed and held out her arm, showing them off. “What do you think? I sort of like them.”

“They’re . . . kind of cool looking,” Horace said, surprising himself by admitting it. He’d been horrified the first time he’d seen any of her scars—the slashes in the hollow of her throat, the forest of textured skin that covered the bottom half of her legs. But these new scars were different—dark instead of light. Burns left by a flame that was not a flame.

“They’re good reminders,” said Chloe. “That was a heck of a night—or a night and a day . . . and another night, I guess. Have you recovered?”

“Probably not.”

“You had it the worst,” said Chloe.

Horace wasn’t sure how true that was, but it had certainly been bad—horrible, actually. Sometimes he woke up in the night thinking he was still trapped in the great iron boiler Dr. Jericho had locked him in, the lightless coffin where he’d spent nearly twenty-four hours. He’d spent that terrible day not only facing his crippling fear of small spaces, but also knowing that his escape depended on a future he alone had foreseen—the future he had promised to his friends, the same future they too had risked everything on.

Sometimes Horace still couldn’t believe it had all worked out. Yes, he was the Keeper of the Fel’Daera, the Box of Promises. And yes, he could see the future. By opening the box and looking through the blue glass bottom, he could see what was happening a single day forward in time. But there was no guarantee that the future the Box of Promises revealed would come to pass exactly as he had seen. Promises could be broken, after all. On that night, however, everything he’d seen through the box had come to pass, even when it seemed impossible. Inside the nest, he had sent Chloe’s dragonfly forward through time twenty-four hours—another power of the box—and she had been there to receive it, exactly as the box had foreseen. Thanks to the box, and with Gabriel’s help, they’d destroyed the crucible, freed Chloe’s father, and escaped from the terrible clutches of Dr. Jericho.

Chloe sank onto the bed, giving Loki a scritch and fussing with the marbles. Horace now noticed that the scar on the inside of her forearm reached all the way down into her palm, where it branched jaggedly, like a stubby winter tree. She sighed and said, “I feel a little bad. I snuck in past your mom just now. I wasn’t sure what you told her after the nest—how you explained being gone for so long. I thought maybe she might be blaming me.”

“No,” Horace said quickly, and found himself wanting to say more. But he had no idea where to begin. “No.”

Chloe searched his face. “You okay? Everything going all right?”

“It’s cool,” Horace said. “Totally cool. I’ve been sleeping a lot.”

“Me too. My dad and I are still staying at the academy.” The Mazzoleni Academy was a boarding school downtown. Chloe and her father, Matthew, had been staying there ever since their house had been burned down by the Riven. Chloe wasn’t a student at the academy—and it was summer anyway—but the academy was more than it seemed. Deep beneath its walls lay the Warren, the secret underground headquarters of the Wardens.

“My dad and I have been playing a lot of chess,” Chloe continued. “I’m getting pretty good, so you better watch out.”

Horace nodded, expressionless. He and his mother had not played chess once since that night. “Your dad’s doing better, huh?”

“Much better. He’s like . . .” Chloe’s face glowed, and Horace understood. She had her father back again. “The only bad thing is, I haven’t seen Madeline much. She’s still staying with Aunt Lou.” Horace had only met Chloe’s little sister once, a girl with serious eyes and copper-colored hair, but he knew she and Chloe were very close. Chloe had practically raised her. Chloe’s mom was not in the picture, having abandoned her family when Chloe was little. She’d simply taken off one day, never to return. “Anyway,” Chloe continued, “what about your folks? How’s your mom?”

Horace shifted uneasily, knowing how much Chloe liked and trusted his mom. “They’re fine. My mom is . . . you know. She’s good. Fine. The same.”

Chloe peered at him suspiciously. “She’s good, fine, the same. Super convincing. Are you in trouble? Grounded or something? Whatever lie you told her about the nest, I’m guessing she didn’t believe you.”

But that was just it. He hadn’t lied. Unbelievably—unthinkably, even now—he hadn’t needed to lie. “Not grounded,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”

“Fine,” Chloe repeatedly dubiously. “Well, that’s good news, Horace. Because you’ve got to come with me.”

Horace frowned. “Mr. Meister wants us?”

“Yes. He was going to send Neptune to come get you, but I volunteered. Heavily.” She smiled. “Beck’s waiting for us down the street.”

Beck was the Warden’s enigmatic chauffeur, a driver who ferried the Wardens around the city in a run-down cab. Horace felt a brief surge of excitement at the thought of seeing Beck, of returning once more to the Warren with Chloe, but almost as soon as his excitement appeared, it faded. Going to the Warren meant seeing Mr. Meister again, and Horace wasn’t ready for that. Not after what he’d learned.

“Why do they want me?” he asked. “What’s happening?”

“I’m not sure. Mr. Meister was in full cryptic mode. He said, and I quote, ‘Something long asleep has been awakened.’” She imitated Mr. Meister’s crisp German accent.

It was impossible for Horace’s sizable curiosity not to be stirred by those words, just for a second. But only a second. “Great,” he complained. “More secrets. Very helpful.”

“Horace, what is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Ah,” she said wryly. “More secrets. Very helpful.”

Horace sighed. He spoke lightly, but his heart pounded. “I found out something about my mom, okay?”

Chloe frowned warily. “You say that like it’s bad. Are you about to tell me something bad about your mom? Because as someone who doesn’t have a mom of her own, I sort of rely on yours to be ongoingly awesome.”

“Yeah, well, you tell me how bad it is. It turns out she knows who Mr. Meister is. It turns out she knows about the Fel’Daera—she’s known all along.”

The wings of the Alvalaithen fluttered, just for an instant, as Chloe’s eyes went wide. Horace knew just how she felt. Mr. Meister was the leader of the Wardens—technically the Chief Taxonomer, overseeing the collection, cataloging, and safekeeping of all the instruments the Wardens could find, trying to keep them out of the hands of the Riven. And the old man was a recruiter, too. It was Mr. Meister—and his partner, Mrs. Hapsteade—who had made it possible for Horace to find the Fel’Daera in the first place, to become Tan’ji. But neither of Horace’s parents knew anything about all that.

Or so he’d thought.

“Explain, please,” Chloe said quietly.

Horace told her the whole story, how he had come home before dawn after the escape from the nest, only to find his mother waiting for him. How she’d spoken of people and things she had no business knowing—Mr. Meister, Mrs. Hapsteade, leestones, Keepers, Tan’ji, the Box of Promises. “She knows about me,” Horace explained. “And you. She always has.”

To his surprise, Chloe seemed to be suppressing a smile. When he finished his tale, she threw her arms wide. “Well, that explains everything,” she said, beaming. “That explains why your mom is so chill. She’s a Keeper, like us.”

As usual, Chloe was adapting more quickly than he had. But Horace shook his head. “She told me she’s not a Keeper. She’s not Tan’ji.”

“Then what is she?”

“I don’t know,” Horace admitted.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“I was pretty exhausted that night. She said we could talk about it after I recovered. She said I could ask her whatever I wanted, whenever I was ready. But . . .” He trailed off, shrugging.

Chloe scowled, mimicking his shrug. “But what?”

“But I never asked.”

Now she reared back and shook her head. “Wait, your mom drops the bomb that she knows all about the box, and the dragonfly, and the Wardens and everything, and two weeks later, you still haven’t brought it up again?”

“Nine days. Not two weeks.”

“I mean seriously, what is wrong with you? You’re Captain Curious. You ask more questions than a five-year-old. You not asking questions is like me not . . .” She fished around for an example.

“Hassling me?” Horace offered.

“Very funny. But yeah, actually.”

“It’s not so easy to ask about this. This is different.”

“How is this possibly different?”

“Because my mom says she knew the Maker of the Fel’Daera.”

Chloe stared at him for a long time. As was his habit, Horace counted automatically while he waited. Five, six. Chloe’s eyes flicked to the box in its pouch at Horace’s belt, then back to his face. Eight, nine. She said softly, “But the Makers are the . . .”

“Yeah,” Horace said, knowing they were both thinking the same thing.

The Riven.

Chloe squirmed. “Okay, but Mr. Meister said that the Riven of today aren’t really the Makers. They’re like the sad, scary leftovers of the original Makers.”

Horace remembered the story. The Makers in question were the creators of the Tanu, wondrous and seemingly magical devices that operated outside the known laws of physics. Tanu came in all shapes and sizes, from simple Tan’kindi that could be used by anyone to powerful Tan’ji that would only bond to certain individuals. All the Tanu, both grand and humble, had been made by a mysterious race living quietly on the fringes of humanity, long ago.

“The Altari,” Horace murmured. According to Mr. Meister, a few Altari had been friendly with humans from the start, even giving them gifts of Tan’kindi. Back then, it was assumed that only Altari could bond with and use the more potent Tan’ji. But at some point it was discovered that some humans had the ability to become Tan’ji as well. A rift then grew among the Makers. Some embraced the idea of human Keepers, but others rebelled. This rebellious group renamed themselves the Kesh’kiri, the Riven. They lurked in the shadows and dedicated themselves to reclaiming all the Tanu for themselves, to hunting down every last human Keeper. The rest of the Altari, meanwhile, went even deeper into hiding, all but vanishing from the face of the earth.

Now, it turned out, Horace’s mother claimed to have met one of them—and not just any Altari, but the Maker of Horace’s own instrument. The very thought left him completely unmoored, full of doubts and an angry confusion that he couldn’t seem to tame.

“Well,” said Chloe, “whether we say Riven or Altari, the Maker of the Fel’Daera must be terribly old.”

“I guess so.”

“Where is he now? Is he even still alive?”

“I don’t know,” Horace mumbled.

“Why would your mother have met him? And when did that even happen?”

“I have no idea. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go to the Warren.”

Chloe shot up and planted her fists on her hips, fuming. “I see. So this is what happens when I’m not around. Wallowing. Throwing yourself a pity party.”

“I’m not wallowing.”

“You are. You feel sorry for yourself because somebody knew something you thought was private. And now you’re afraid to ask your mom about it. You’re afraid of the answers.”

“I’m not afraid. I’m just not ready to talk to her. What’s there to be afraid of?”

“Betrayal,” Chloe said simply. “Jealousy.” She held out the dragonfly. “I know what the bond is like, Horace. My claim on the Alvalaithen is way beyond ownership—my instrument is me, completely and privately and forever. And if someone came along with some older claim to it, even a tiny one, it would drive me completely nuts. I would want to send that person packing, because who the hell are they to presume to know something about my Tan’ji? Heck, I didn’t even like having to ask Mr. Meister what the dragonfly’s name was.”

It was true, of course. So true that there was nothing more to discuss. “Fine,” he said. “You’re right. I don’t want to ask my mom what she knows about the Fel’Daera, or its Maker. Not at all. So let’s go. Something’s going on at the Warren, right? Mr. Meister says someone woke up, or something.”

Chloe snatched a pillow off Horace’s bed. The wings of the Alvalaithen began to whir, and she swung the pillow mightily, right at Horace’s face. He flinched, but the pillow passed clean through his head like a ghost, cool and shocking.

“You’re the one who needs to wake up,” Chloe snapped. “I’m not taking you anywhere until you get your answers.”

“I’ll get my answers when I’m ready.”

Chloe swung the pillow again, and Horace forced himself not to flinch, but this time the pillow smacked him hard, right in the face.

“Gah!” he cried.

Chloe dropped the pillow. The dragonfly had gone still again. From the other end of the bed, Loki watched them with wide golden eyes. “You’re not fine,” Chloe said. “You’re distracted. Half your brain is curled up in the corner, worrying about what you don’t know. And the Keeper of the Fel’Daera can’t use his Tan’ji properly with only half a brain.”

Now it was Horace’s turn to scowl. He picked up a marble and chucked it back into the pile with a clack. “If my mom wanted me to know, how come she hasn’t brought it up again?”

“Probably because she’s a good mom—unlike mine. She’s here. She’s not pushing. It’s your Tan’ji, Horace, and she’s waiting for you to bring it up—waiting for you to be you, as usual. And instead of doing that, you’ve been pouting.”

Another marble. Another clack. “Ah, crap,” he said. She was right. She was right, and he’d been stupid—a pity party indeed.

Chloe grabbed him by the hand and hauled him to his feet. “Let’s go. Right now. Beck can wait.”

His mother wasn’t in her room. They went downstairs, past the empty living room. As they entered the kitchen, Horace started to have second thoughts. “Chloe,” he began, “Maybe right now isn’t—”

Chloe came to a sudden halt. “Too late,” she said.

Horace’s mother sat at the kitchen table, smiling tentatively, clearly expecting them. A vase of freshly cut daisies sat on the windowsill beside her, white petals vibrantly aglow in the afternoon sunlight. But Horace’s eyes fell immediately upon the strange, delicate object in his mother’s hands. About the size of a football, it was obviously Tanu. Horace had never seen anything quite like it—four curved pieces of wood bent together, outlining a shape kind of like a fish. The open space within seemed to glimmer faintly.

“Hi,” said Horace’s mother.

Horace was rooted to the spot. He looked over at Chloe, sure she had planned this whole encounter from the start. But Chloe just stared at the strange Tanu, clearly as stunned as he was.

His mother said, “I hope I haven’t guessed wrong, Horace, but I think maybe you’re ready to finish the conversation I started when you came home that night.” Smoothly she unfolded the Tanu in her hands, unfolding the four curving arms one by one until it became a bowl-shaped letter X. From each arm a rising ribwork of shimmering strings ran toward the center. The device looked like two sailboats crisscrossed at right angles, each with glinting strands of light for sails. Horace couldn’t quite pin those strands down, though. The moment he focused on one, it vanished, twinkling. Counting them was an impossibility.

“What is that thing?” Horace breathed.

“Sit and let me tell you,” his mother said kindly. “You too, Chloe. Both of you, please—sit and let me tell you everything I can.”