Twice, Gabriel lifted Michael to his feet, and twice, the boy’s knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground.
“If you fall again,” Gabriel said, pulling him up once more, “I will have to leave you here.”
“That—thing took Emma!”
“I know.”
“But it took her!”
“Yes, and I cannot both pursue it and carry you; so either stand or you will be left behind.”
They were in the clearing. Emma and the creature had disappeared moments before. In the starlight, Michael could see the thick vein of Gabriel’s scar pulsing on the side of his jaw. Michael knew that Gabriel was restraining himself from going after Emma alone. He knew he needed to pull himself together.
Gabriel released his shoulders, and Michael swayed, but kept his balance.
“That thing,” Michael said. “Did you see—”
“Yes.”
“And was it a—I mean, was it actually—”
“Yes.”
It seemed that neither man nor boy wanted to name the creature aloud; but for Michael, it was enough that Gabriel had seen what he had—the great, leathery, bat-like wings, the long serpent’s body, the jagged line of spines ridged along the creature’s back, the enormous talons that had snatched Emma off the ground.…
He hadn’t imagined it; his sister had been taken by a dragon.
“But”—and, for a second, he felt so weak and lost that he was sure he would topple over and be left there by Gabriel—“what’re we gonna do?”
“We will find your sister and kill the beast that took her.”
“But what if—what if she’s already—”
Gabriel lunged, seizing a handful of Michael’s shirt. His face was cloaked in shadow, his voice a growl.
“She is alive. She is alive, and we will find her. Now—come!”
And he sprinted away across the clearing, with Michael staggering along behind.
Michael lost track of time. Half an hour. An hour. Gabriel kept disappearing into the darkness, leaving Michael to carve his own path through the thicket of ferns that blanketed the forest floor. Again and again, just when Michael was convinced that Gabriel had finally abandoned him, the man would appear from behind a tree, hissing, “This way! Faster!” and Michael would push himself on as the ferns beat at his arms and face and the same refrain played over and over in his head:
You lost Kate, and now you lost Emma.…
You lost Kate, and now you lost Emma.…
You lost Emma.…
You lost Emma.…
Then, abruptly, the trees and ferns ended, and Michael stepped out onto a rocky plain and found Gabriel waiting. Free of the weight of the forest, Michael felt the immense openness of the night sky, and he took a deep, relieved breath.
“There. You see?”
Gabriel was pointing up the valley to where the volcano rose from the plain, a quarter of a mile distant. It had not occurred to Michael what direction they were heading in, and he stared now in wonder. The volcano took up almost the entire width of the plain, a perfect pyramid rising nearly to the height of the canyon walls. Looking up, Michael could see an ominous red glow emanating from the cone.
Unbidden, the memories he’d acquired in Malpesa came surging up, and he had again the feeling of déjà vu. The Chronicle was close.
“You see it?” Gabriel asked.
Michael realized that Gabriel was pointing to a spot about a third of the way up the volcano’s slope, where a light flickered in the dark. Squinting, Michael could just discern the outline of a large structure. The dead man’s memories filled in the rest.
“It’s the Order’s fortress,” he said. “This is where they brought the book.”
“What I care about,” Gabriel said, “is finding your sister.”
And they set off once more.
The lower slope of the volcano was a jumble of giant black rocks, and Michael had to clamber upward on all fours as Gabriel strode ahead. Soon, the boulders gave way to small rocks and scree, and for every two steps, Michael slid back one. Still, he kept on. By now, the fortress was in sharp relief, and Michael could make out thirty-foot-high walls of black stone, ramparts and battlements where a defender might take position. He could see nothing of the buildings inside the walls save a lone tower that rose into the sky, at the crown of which a fire blazed forth.
It was an impressive, imposing structure, but Michael couldn’t help but question the wisdom of building on the side of a volcano.
“I mean,” he muttered, panting his way up the slope, “they do blow up after all.”
Gabriel was standing before the fortress gates, a pair of heavy wooden doors the height of the walls, and Michael arrived trembling and out of breath.
“Sorry. I’m … actually in excellent shape. Must be the altitude—”
“Look.”
Gabriel gestured to the three interlocking circles carved into the door. The fortress, the whole valley, was still and silent.
Michael whispered, “Do you … think they know we’re here?”
Gabriel picked up a large rock and hammered—thud—thud—thud—thud—till the doors swung open. He dropped the rock.
“Yes.”
With Gabriel leading, they passed into a courtyard of packed earth. Michael waited, and when no arrows came whistling out of the dark, he relaxed and allowed himself a quick survey. The fortress had been built on a flattened plot a hundred feet wide and perhaps twice that in depth. The central courtyard—where he and Gabriel stood—was dominated by a two-story stone building with long, narrow windows. The high, flame-topped tower rose from the building’s back corner. A wooden skeleton of ladders and catwalks clung to the inside of the fortress walls, providing access to the battlements. Other than that, Michael saw a few ramshackle structures—a small pen for livestock, a blacksmith’s forge, several storerooms—and all were dark and empty.
Gabriel unsheathed his falchion. “Stay behind me.”
Michael didn’t argue.
Gabriel kicked open the door of the stone building, and they stepped into a large, high-ceilinged room. Thick-bodied columns ran the length of the chamber, while an eerie red glow, rising from a gap in the floor, pushed back the darkness. The building was a keep, Michael realized, a place to retreat to should the fortress be breached.
They advanced slowly to the gap in the center of the floor. It was perhaps fifteen feet square, and there were a dozen steps leading down to a heavy iron gate, past which Michael could make out the mouth of a tunnel. The red glow was coming from deep in the volcano, and the heat rose up and stung Michael’s eyes. Still, he could feel himself being pulled forward by an invisible force.
“The Chronicle is down there,” he said quietly.
“Then it is not alone.”
Michael glanced at him, questioning.
“That gate locks from the outside,” Gabriel said. “It is not meant to keep us out; it is to keep something in.”
He nodded upward, and Michael found himself looking through a large, jagged hole in the keep’s ceiling. The hole was directly over the mouth of the tunnel, and Michael imagined that something very big—something, say, dragon-sized—had come roaring out and blasted through the roof of the keep.
Except that the gate over the tunnel was down and locked, which meant the dragon had returned home. Michael thought of the creature he’d glimpsed in the clearing, the huge, razor-sharp talons, fangs the length of his arm.…
“I guess,” he said, trying to sound gruff and ready and not completely, bone-shakingly terrified, “we should go down there, huh?”
“Yes.”
Michael nodded. And suddenly he knew that scared or not, if going into the tunnel was the way to save Emma, he would do it. Though he wondered if he should take a moment to stretch.
“But first,” Gabriel said, “we will search the tower.”
“What? Why?”
“The dragon did not close that gate. I want to know who did.”
He headed for a doorway in the far corner, through which a set of stairs could be seen climbing upward. Michael hurried after him, and for a few moments, the chamber was still. Then a shadow separated from one of the columns, and a cloaked figure drew a sword and followed.
“Emma!”
Michael ran forward and threw his arms around his sister.
He and Gabriel had reached the top of the tower. Climbing the last flight of stairs, Michael had looked up and seen the night sky still brimming with stars, the looming, snowcapped mountains, the red and smoking cone of the volcano; he’d seen a fire burning in a brazier on the tower wall; he’d been nervous, not knowing who or what might be waiting in ambush; then he saw Gabriel stiffen in surprise, and he turned and there was his own sister, alive and unharmed.
“Oh, Emma!” He hugged her as if he would never let her go ever again. “I was so worried! Gabriel too! We were both really, really worried!”
Gabriel said his name, but Michael ignored it.
“Emma,” he said, holding her arms and stepping away. Now that she was safely back, he felt the need to be the stern older brother. “I know you’ve been through an ordeal, but I did ask you to stay out of that clearing. I think there’s a lesson here, don’t you? Perhaps you should pay more attention when I tell you things?”
“Michael …”
“Just a moment, Gabriel. Emma, do you hear me?”
“No, I do not think she does.”
“What? What’re you—?” Then Michael finally realized that the whole time he’d been hugging her, Emma hadn’t once groaned or tried to push him away or made a joke about why didn’t he go hug a dwarf.
“Something has frozen her,” Gabriel said.
For a moment, Michael stared at his motionless sister. Her arms were stiff at her sides and her eyes unblinking; the curled tip of a fern was stuck in her mud-caked hair. As he reached over and plucked it out, he felt the coldness of her skin.
Then he said faintly, hopelessly, “Can you fix her?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“What about Dr. Pym?”
Gabriel hesitated only a fraction of a second, but Michael understood. They had left the wizard fighting for his life in Malpesa. Who could say when they would see him again?
“Never mind,” he said. “I know—”
Without warning, Gabriel spun around, his falchion hissing through the air; there was a loud metallic clang, and Michael turned to see a cloaked, sword-wielding man stagger back.
The man had almond-colored skin, long, unkempt black hair, and a wild black beard. He was shorter than Gabriel and very thin. His clothes were ragged and patched and looked to have been salvaged from a dozen different sources, giving him the appearance of a down-on-his-luck harlequin. Michael’s eyes went to the man’s tunic, where, stitched into the fabric, were three faded, interlocking circles.
Gabriel took a step forward, more to shield Michael than to attack, but the man dropped his sword, threw up his hands, and fell to his knees, crying, “I yield! Don’t kill me! Don’t kill poor Bert!” and promptly burst into tears.
“He’s not what I expected,” Michael said.
“He has likely been here a long time,” Gabriel said. “Perhaps alone. Solitude can have a terrible effect on the mind.”
That much, Michael thought, was obvious.
The man had finally stopped whimpering and seemed to believe, at least for the time being, that Gabriel and Michael were not going to murder him. He was sitting on the short wall that encircled the tower and consoling himself by munching on a fat black beetle he’d taken from a pocket of his cloak.
“I just expected someone … cleaner. And not named Bert.”
“Do you want to question him or shall I?” Gabriel asked.
That was clearly the next step. Finding out who the man was. Was he indeed a member of the Order? Was he alone here or were there others? Was the dragon locked safely inside the volcano? Was it guarding the Chronicle? What was the dragon’s connection to the man? Why had it left Emma atop this tower? And, most importantly, what exactly had happened to her and could it be reversed?
Michael looked at his sister. Her mouth was slightly open, as if she’d been on the point of speaking; her eyes were narrowed, and there was a wrinkle of fury on her brow. Michael saw that her hands, down at her sides, were clenched into fists. He knew the signs and was not surprised: his sister had been fighting when she’d been frozen.
“I will.” Emma was his sister, his responsibility.
“Very well. I will be here if you need me. But be quick.” Gabriel gave him a meaningful look. “Sooner or later, the dragon will return.”
Michael conceded that Gabriel had a point. He stepped forward.
“Right. I want to ask you a few questions.”
The man had been picking at his teeth with one of the beetle’s legs, but now he sat up, running a hand down his beard, and put on an eager-to-please smile. He was crazy, Michael thought, but he appeared to be nice-crazy, and not I’ll-kill-you-I’ll-kill-you crazy.
“Happy to talk. Love having visitors. Bert hasn’t had any in, well, ever.” He spoke in choppy, heavily accented English. “Oh, Bert’s very sorry about the whole”—he mimed hacking at them with an imaginary sword. “He thought you were elves.”
“Yes, well, that’s certainly understandable,” Michael said. “No one wants elves sneaking about.” As he spoke, Michael was mentally reviewing passages from The Dwarf Omnibus about the art of interrogation (the Omnibus, as Michael had often reflected, really did touch on everything). He remembered that G. G. Greenleaf suggested first establishing rapport with your subject. He also said that when the subject’s guard was down, the interrogator should “whack him in the head with a club. He won’t see that coming! Ha!” Michael wasn’t planning anything quite so violent, but considering how skittish the man was, building rapport seemed like a good initial step. With that in mind, Michael tried to make his tone as chummy as possible. “So tell me, friend, you’re one of the Order of Guardians, aren’t you?”
The man shook his head. “No, no! Bert’s not one of the Order—”
“But you’ve got the symbol on your—”
“Bert’s not one of the Order! He’s all of the Order! He’s the last there is! Beginning, middle, and end!” He thumped his chest proudly.
Michael thought of the silent, deserted fortress and decided the man was telling the truth.
“What happened to the others?”
“Gone,” the man said quickly, in a way that told Michael there was more to the story. “Bert’s been alone for a very, very, very, very long time.” And he popped another beetle in his mouth.
“But you’re not completely alone. I mean, there’s a dragon here.”
The man jerked forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ve seen the dragon?”
“Yes. In the forest.” Then, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, Michael asked, “Just out of curiosity, where is the dragon now?”
The man raised a finger to his lips and pointed toward the volcano, whispering, “… Sleeping … best not to wake.”
Michael was taking note of the things he would return to later: the dragon, what had happened to the man’s comrades.… He decided it was time to come to the key issue.
“What can you tell me about my sister?”
The man’s eyes widened. “That’s your sister? Oh. Oh no.…”
“What do you mean, oh no? What’s happened to her?”
“Well, she’s frozen, isn’t she? Thought that much was fairly obvious.”
“I can see that!” Michael felt his let’s-be-friends mask slip for a second. “But what froze her in the first place? Dragons don’t freeze people. It’s not in any of the literature.”
The man began nervously braiding his beard. “Hmm, well, Bert didn’t know she was your sister. Dragon just dumped her in Bert’s lap! She was very loud. Lots of threats. About how a certain fellow was going to cut off Bert’s head! Shouting, shouting, shouting. All these years alone, Bert isn’t used to so much yelling. And she kicked Bert in the shin—hard! Bert will have a bruise tomorrow!”
He began rolling up the cuff on his pants.
“Stop that. What did you do?”
“Do? Oh, nothing … much.…”
Michael gave his best glower. He was honestly rethinking whacking the man in the head. The deranged Guardian seemed to get the message. He reached into one of the pockets of his cloak and drew forth a folded patch of cloth.
“Bert used to be quite the hand at potions. They taught us magic, the wizards did. Long ago.” He unwrapped the cloth and displayed a scorched needle. He began murmuring, like someone repeating a recipe, “Two parts dragon’s blood. Three parts deathshade. Ground-up sloth tongue, not too fine. Water from an untouched stream. Add salt. Heat. Then one quick prick”—he made a jabbing motion with the needle—“and silence.”
The man nodded, then reached into another pocket. “Beetle?”
“I don’t want a beetle! Is she”—Michael had to swallow before he could find his voice—“is she alive?”
“Oh yes, yes. Still alive. But the life has been stopped within her. Like a frozen river. Quite a powerful little potion. One prick.” He jabbed the air with the needle again.
“So how do we fix her?! She’s my sister! I’m supposed to be looking out for her.”
All of Michael’s relaxed, rapport-building demeanor was gone. He wanted to grab the man by the beard and shake him.
“Can’t.”
“Can’t what? Can’t tell us? Because my friend here—”
“Can’t fix her. No antidote. At least, none Bert has. But she doesn’t look that bad. And you could put her somewhere nice. She would really brighten up a room.”
“My sister is not a piece of furniture!”
“Of course, of course,” agreed the man, “but she’s not going to be much good for conversation anymore, you do realize that, don’t you?”
“I’m going to cut off his head,” Gabriel growled.
The man’s bottom lip began trembling, and he let out a low moan.
“Oh, stop it!” Michael snapped. “You’re supposed to be the last of an ancient order of warriors. Have some dignity.”
As the man pulled his cloak over his head in an effort to hide, Michael took a moment to regroup. This wasn’t going well. There seemed to be no quick way of restoring Emma, and the more time that passed, the more likely it was that the dragon would wake up, and then what? As much faith as Michael had in Gabriel’s strength, a dragon was, after all, a dragon. And he still didn’t understand the relationship between the Guardian and the dragon. Was the man the creature’s master? It didn’t appear so. But clearly there was something between them, or the dragon would have killed the man long ago.
Michael found that he was unconsciously rubbing the blue-gray orb that hung around his neck. Could the glass marble possibly help? Should he just smash it, as Emma had suggested? What if it had been sent by their enemies? With Emma frozen, smashing the orb seemed too much of a risk. Michael slipped it back inside his shirt.
Plan B, Michael thought. We leave now. Before the dragon wakes up. Gabriel carries Emma back to the plane. We find Dr. Pym—assuming he’s still alive—and he fixes Emma. Then we all come back for the Chronicle.
Reviving Emma had to come first.
But Michael also knew they couldn’t leave without hearing the deranged Guardian’s story. There was no telling what might help them when they returned for the Chronicle.
“I want you to tell us everything. How you came here. What happened to the other Guardians. Where the dragon came from. Start at the beginning. But be quick.”
“And if you lie to us,” Gabriel said, “I will most certainly chop off your head.”
They had not moved from atop the tower, and as the man spoke, Michael glanced now and then at Emma. Part of him kept expecting her to start laughing and announce that she had been playing a practical joke and wasn’t frozen at all.
But she stayed just as she was.
Don’t worry, he promised silently. I won’t leave you like this.
“Four thousand years ago,” the man began, “when the world was a very different place than today—much dustier, for starters—there was a council of big-brain wizards in the city of Rhakotis on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.”
To Michael’s great annoyance, the man seemed unable to tell the story without indulging in any number of digressions, on topics as diverse as the varieties of edible fruits, the intelligence of camels, the stupidity of birds, and his own astonishing amiability. Along with all this, he made repeated offers for Michael and Gabriel to share his supply of beetles, offers that Michael and Gabriel always declined while pressing him to get to the point.…
“And these big-brain wizards decided it would be a wonderful idea to write down their greatest, most terrible, most secret secrets, the ones that concerned the very making of the world. In the end, they created three books.” The man held up two fingers. “One dealt with time. One with life. And one with death. And they were locked away in separate vaults below the city—which really was a lovely city.”
There followed a disquisition on the many charms of Rhakotis, till a growl from Gabriel prompted him to continue.
“Then the big-brains in their braininess created an Order of Guardians who were sworn to protect the Books with their lives. There were only ten Guardians at any one time, but they were versed in both magical and nonmagical combat and were supported by the power of the wizards.” He scratched his beard. “Time passed. The big brains grew soft and were perhaps not quite so big as they once had been. This is where Bert enters the story. He was a young Guardian. Bright-eyed. Zealous. Amiable, oh my—”
“Skip that part,” Michael said.
“And then everything changed.” The man leapt up and began pacing back and forth, waving his arms about violently. Michael and Gabriel moved in front of Emma so the man didn’t strike her by accident. “It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, Bert was atop the watchtower—out of nowhere, a thousand ships materialized off the coast. Fire filled the sky. Dragons appeared in the east of the city. Sand trolls attacked from the south. It was Alexander, the boy conqueror, and the big brains were doomed. Alexander was too strong. Had too many dark wizards in his army. It was up to Bert and his brothers to get the Books out of the city. But by the time they reached the vaults, only the Chronicle remained. The other two books were already gone.”
The man’s mind seemed to drift off. He stood, stroking his beard and murmuring, “Not Bert’s fault, did his best, can’t fault old Bert…,” until Michael called him back.
“In the end, only four Guardians escaped the city. The rest died in the fighting. The survivors fled south, to the bottom of the world. There were elves living here, in the ice and snow. At first, Bert liked them. He should’ve known better.”
“Why?” Michael asked. “What’d the elves do?”
The man didn’t answer; he was caught up in his story.
“Bert and the others tapped into the power of the book. The valley became lush. They gained long life. They hid the Chronicle anew and built this fortress. More time passed. Century upon century. They had a scrying bowl that showed the outside world. So many changes. But though they searched and searched, they saw no traces of the two missing books.” The bearded, wild-eyed man faced them, grinning. “But they learned of the prophecy. The Keepers of the Books would appear. They would bring the Books together once again. Bert convinced the others it was their duty to guard the Chronicle until its Keeper arrived. Then … then …”
His energy abruptly ran out. He slumped onto the tower wall. Michael and Gabriel had to wait several moments for him to continue.
“Men are not meant to live for thousands of years. The minds of the strongest become dry and brittle. One of Bert’s brothers decided that he was the Chronicle’s Keeper, and Bert and the others were keeping it from him. Brother slew brother! O murder! O treachery! The blood! Terrible! Terrible!” He covered his face with his beard and spoke through the matted hair. “Bert’s false brother was finally slain, but then only Bert and one other remained. Not enough to defend the Chronicle. Bert’s last brother ventured forth, in an attempt to find the true Keeper. Poor, brave soul! Poor Bert, all alone!” And the man began bawling once more.
Michael glanced at Gabriel. They were thinking the same thing. The other Guardian, the one who had left, had to have been the skeleton that Michael and Dr. Pym had discovered in Malpesa.
“So where’d the dragon come from?” Michael asked. “And what did the elves do that you don’t trust them? And would you please stop crying?”
The man dropped his beard and laughed, slapping his knees in joy. “Yes! Yes! The elves! It was when Bert was alone that the elves showed their true colors. Tried to steal the book! But they didn’t know that Bert and his brothers had brought a dragon’s egg from Rhakotis! Bert hatched it in the heat of the volcano! Bonded it to the Chronicle. When the elves marched on the fortress, well …”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Michael chuckled. “I’ll bet they weren’t expecting that!”
Then he saw Gabriel scowling and dropped the smile.
“And that”—the man clapped his hands, apparently pleased with himself—“is that! Now”—he leaned forward, peering at Michael—“tell Bert the truth. Have you come for the book?”
“Well … yes—”
“Ha! Knew it! But the real question, the big question …”
The man came closer, his breath rasping through his beard. He placed a trembling hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“… Are you the Keeper? The one Bert has been waiting and waiting for?”
Past the dirt and matted hair, the man’s face was unlined. Only his eyes betrayed his age. They were eyes that had lived with one single purpose for nearly three thousand years; they were asking: Is it over? Is it finally over?
They were the saddest eyes Michael had ever seen.
“Are you the Keeper?”
It should have been a simple question to answer. Michael had been told he was the Chronicle’s Keeper by Dr. Pym. And then he’d felt the book calling to him through the snowstorm. Still, saying it, acknowledging it, was somehow different.
But there was no hiding from the eyes.
He said, in a whisper, “Yes. I am.”
The madman nodded and took his hand from Michael’s shoulder. “I suppose we’ll soon see, won’t we?”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“You want to restore your sister, yes? The screaming shin kicker?”
“Of course—”
“And you’ve seen the forest. That was once ice and snow. What do you think called it to life? The Chronicle! It will revive your sister! Awaken the life sleeping within her! It is the only way.”
“Then let us waste no more time,” Gabriel said, and started for the stairs. “We know it is in the volcano.”
“No!” The man jumped to block him. “The dragon will kill you!”
“But don’t you control the dragon?” Michael demanded. “You said you hatched it from an egg!”
“No, no, no! The dragon doesn’t obey Bert! The dragon serves the Chronicle! Bert is suffered to live because Bert serves the same purpose. However”—once again, he leaned close to Michael—“the Chronicle is hidden in the volcano, yes, and the dragon will kill any who enter. Even Bert. But the true Keeper can pass unharmed.” He gripped Michael’s shoulder. “To save your sister, you must go into the volcano and face the dragon—alone.”