Claudia raced back across the floor, grabbing the Warden’s hand. “Father. Come away! Quickly!”
He stared at the broken door, the arms thrusting through, as if he would stop them with only his authority.
“I’m the Warden, Claudia. I’m in charge.”
“NO!” She hauled him back and pulled him, and as she did the door collapsed.
They saw a mass of Prisoners, those in front crushed and trampled by others behind. They hammered with fists and flailing chains. Their weapons were manacles and iron bars. They howled the cries of the desperate millions of Incarceron, the lost descendants of the first Prisoners, the Scum and the Civicry and the Ardenti and the Magpies and all the thousands of gangs and tribes, Wingtowns and outlaws.
As they poured into the hall Claudia turned and ran, her father at her back, both of them fleeing over the trampled snowfield that the floor had become, and in its mockery the Prison picked them out in intense spotlights that crossed and recrossed from its invisible roof.
“HERE IT is.” Keiro tugged the receiver out of Medlicote’s pocket and tossed it to Finn, who let the man go and flicked it open.
“How does this work?”
Medlicote crumpled onto the floor, half choked. “Touch the dial. Then speak.”
Finn looked at Jared. Then he jabbed his thumb down on the small disc at one edge.
“Warden,” he said. “Can you hear me?”
RIX STOOD.
Attia grabbed a piece of wood as a weapon and tested it. But she knew that before the sweeping anger of that mob nothing would be strong enough.
On the steps the Warden turned.
A tiny bleep sounded inside his coat; he reached for the disc, but as he brought it out Claudia grabbed it, her eyes widening as the Prisoners poured in, a jostling, stinking, roaring host.
A voice said, “Can you hear me?”
“Finn?”
“Claudia!” The relief was clear in his voice. “What’s happening ?”
“We’re in trouble. There’s a riot here. We’re going to burn the statue, Finn, or try.” She caught, out of the corner of her eye, the flicker of flame in Rix’s hand. “Then Incarceron has no way out.”
“Is the Glove destroyed?” the Warden hissed.
A murmur. A blur of static. And then, in her ear, Jared’s voice. “Claudia?”
She felt only a stab of joy.
“Claudia, it’s me. Listen to me please. I want you to promise me something.”
“Master …”
“I want you to promise me that you will not burn the image, Claudia.”
She blinked. Attia stared.
“But … we have to. Incarceron …”
“I know what you think. But I’m beginning to understand what is happening here. I have spoken to Sapphique. Promise me, Claudia. Tell me you trust me.”
She turned. Saw the crowd reach the bottom step, the front runners flinging themselves up.
“I trust you, Jared,” she whispered. “I always did. I love you, Master.”
THE SOUND rose to a screech that made Jared jerk away; the disc fell and rolled on the floor.
Keiro pounced on it and yelled, “Claudia!” but there was only a hissing and spitting that might have been the noise of a multitude or the chaos of interstellar static.
Finn turned on Jared. “Are you crazy? She was right! Without its body …”
“I know.” Jared was pale. He leaned against the fireplace, the Glove tight in his hand. “And I ask you what I asked her. I have a plan, Finn. It may be foolish, it may be impossible. But it might save us all.”
Finn stared at him. Outside the rain lashed, flinging the casement open, snuffing the last flicker of the candle out.
He was cold and shaken, his hands icy. The fear in Claudia’s voice had infected him like a taste of the Prison, and for a moment he was back in that white cell where he had been born, and was no prince but a Prisoner with no memory and no hope.
The house shivered around them as lightning struck.
“What do you need?” Finn said.
IT WAS Incarceron that stopped them. As the Prisoners surged to the second step its voice rang out in power through the vast hall.
“I will kill anyone who comes closer.”
The step pulsed with sudden light. Currents of power ran along it and rippled in blue waves. The crowd convulsed. Some pushed on, others stopped, or squirmed back. It became a vortex of movement, and the spotlights circled lazily over it, stabbing down to show a terrified eye, a flailing hand.
Attia snatched the kindling from Rix.
She moved to thrust it into the rotten fibers, but Claudia grabbed her hand. “Wait.”
“For what?”
She turned, but Claudia jerked her wrist savagely and the tiny burning scrap fell, flaring in the air. It landed on the tapestries but before the whoof of flame took hold Claudia had stamped it out.
“Are you mad? We’re finished!” Attia was furious. “You’ve finished us …”
“Jared …”
“Jared is wrong!”
“I am very pleased to have you all here for this execution.” The Prison’s sarcasm echoed through the freezing air, tiny, icy snowflakes drifting from its heights. “You will see my justice and understand that I have no favorites. Behold, the man before you. John Arlex, your Warden.”
The Warden was gray and grim, but he drew himself up, his dark coat glistening with snow.
“Listen to me,” he yelled. “The Prison is trying to leave us! To leave its own people to starve!”
Only the nearest heard him, and they howled him down.
As she closed up beside him Claudia knew that only the Prison’s proclamation kept the mob back, and that the Prison was playing with them.
“John Arlex, who hates and detests you. See how he cowers under this image of Sapphique. Does he think it will protect him from my wrath?”
They needn’t have bothered with the tapestries. Claudia realized that Incarceron would burn its own body, that its anger at the Glove’s loss, at the end of all its plans, would be their end too. The same pyre would consume them all.
And then, beside her, a sharp voice said, “Oh my father. Listen to me.”
The crowd hushed.
They stilled as if the voice was one they knew, had heard before, so that they quieted to hear it again.
And Claudia felt in her bones and nerves how Incarceron zigzagged closer, moved in, its reply murmured in her ear and against her cheek, a quiet, fascinated question of secret doubt.
“Is that you, Rix?”
Rix laughed. His eyes were narrowed, his breath stank of ket. He opened his arms wide. “Let me show you what I can do. The greatest magic ever performed. Let me show you, my father, how I will bring your body to life.”
33
He raised his hands. They saw his coat was feathered like the wings of the Swan when it dies, when it sings its secret song. And he opened the door that none of them had seen until now.
—Legends of Sapphique
As Finn moved out into the corridor he saw that Keiro was right. The very antiquity of the house was against them now; all its true decay, like the Queen’s, had come upon it at once.
“Ralph!”
Ralph came hastening up, stepping over lumps of fallen plaster. “Sire.”
“Evacuate. Everyone is to leave.”
“But where will we go, sire?”
Finn scowled. “I don’t know! Certainly the Queen’s Camp is in no better shape. Find what shelter you can in the stables, the outlying cottages. No one must stay here but us. Where’s Caspar?”
Ralph tugged off his decaying wig. Underneath, his own hair was shaved close. His chin was stubbled, and his face unwashed. He looked weary and lost. “With his mother. The poor lad is devastated. I think even he had no idea of her reality.”
Finn glanced around. Keiro had Medlicote in an armlock.
Jared, tall in his Sapient robe, carried the Glove.
&nb
sp; “Do we need this scum?” Keiro muttered.
“No. Let him go with the rest.”
Giving the secretary’s arm one last painful jerk, Keiro shoved him away.
“Get outside,” Finn said, “where it’s safe. Find the rest of your people.”
“Nowhere is safe.” Medlicote ducked as a suit of armor beside him suddenly crashed into dust. “Not while the Glove exists.”
Finn shrugged. He turned to Jared. “Let’s go.”
The three of them ran past the secretary and along the corridors of the house. They moved through a nightmare of dissolving beauty, of fragmented hangings and paintings lost under grime and mold. In places chandeliers of white candles had fallen; the crystal droplets lay like tears in the broken wax. Keiro moved ahead, heaving wreckage aside; Finn kept near Jared, unsure of the Sapient’s strength. They struggled to the foot of the great stairway, but as Finn looked up he was appalled at the destruction on the upper floors. A silent blink of lightning showed him a vast crack running right down the outside wall. Debris of vases and plastiglas crunched under their feet; potpourri and fungal spores and the dust of centuries blurred the air like snow.
The stairs were ruined. Keiro climbed two, his back flat against the wall, but on the third tread his foot plunged through, and he tugged it out, swearing. “We’ll never get up this.”
“We must get to the study, and the Portal.” Jared looked up anxiously. He felt utterly weary, his head light and dizzy. When had he last taken his medication? He leaned against the wall and tugged out the pouch and stared at it in despair.
The small syringe had broken into pieces, as if the glass had brittled and aged instantly. The serum had congealed to a yellow crust.
Finn said, “What will you do?”
Jared almost smiled. He replaced the pieces and tossed the pouch out into the corridor, and Finn saw his eyes were remote and dark. “It was only ever a stopgap, Finn. Like everyone else, I must now live without my little comforts.”
If he dies, Finn thought, if I let him die, Claudia will never forgive me. He glared up at his oathbrother. “We have to get up there. You’re the expert, Keiro. Do something!”
Keiro frowned. Then he tugged off his velvet coat and tied back his hair in a scrap of ribbon. He tore away some of the hangings and bound them rapidly around his hands, swearing as he touched his scorched palm.
“Rope. I need rope.”
Finn snatched down the thick tasseled ties that held the curtains and knotted them firmly together—bizarre cables of gold and scarlet. Keiro looped them over his shoulder.
Then he set off up the stairs.
The world had inverted, Jared thought, watching his inching progress, because a staircase he had climbed every day for years had became a treacherous obstacle, a deathtrap. This was how time transformed things, how your own body betrayed you. This was what the Realm had tried to forget, in its deliberate elegant amnesia.
Keiro had to ascend the stairs as a mountaineer climbs a scree slope. The whole central section was gone, and as he grabbed at the higher treads their edges crumbled away in his hands.
Finn and Jared watched, anxious. Above the house thunder rumbled; far off in the stableyard they heard the shouts of the guards, ushering everyone out, the neighing of horses, the screech of a hawk.
Finally, at Finn’s elbow, a breathless voice said, “The drawbridge is down, sire, and everyone across.”
“Then you go too.” Finn didn’t turn, willing Keiro on as he balanced precariously between a banister and a fallen panel.
“The Queen, sire.” Ralph wiped his smeared face with a filthy rag that might once have been a handkerchief. “The Queen is dead.”
The stab of shock was so distant that Finn almost missed it. And then the news sank in, and he saw that Jared had heard it too. The Sapient bowed his head sadly.
“So you are King, sire.”
Was it that simple? he wondered. But all he said was, “Ralph, go now.”
The old steward didn’t move. “I would like to stay and help. To rescue the Lady Claudia and my master.”
“I’m not sure there are any masters now.”
Jared drew in his breath. Keiro had slithered to one side; now all his weight was on the curved banister, and it was bending, the wood snapping out, dry and brittle.
“Be careful!”
Keiro’s reply was inaudible. Then he heaved himself up, leaped two steps that cracked under him, and flung himself at the landing.
He grabbed it with both hands, but as he did so the whole staircase collapsed behind him in a thunderous crashing of dust and worm-ridden timber, tumbling down on the hall, choking the stairwell.
Keiro swung, dragging himself up, every muscle in his arms straining, blinded by dust. Finally he got one knee over and crumpled on the landing in cold relief.
He coughed until the tears made tracks down his smudged face. Then he crawled to the edge and looked down. Below was a black swirling vortex of dust and debris.
“Finn?” he said. He stood, his legs aching. “Finn? Jared?”
HE WAS either completely crazy or off his head on ket, Attia thought.
Rix stood before his audience in perfect confidence, and the people stared up at him, bewildered, excited, thirsting for truth. But this time the Prison was in the audience too.
“Are you mad, Prisoner?” it said.
“Almost certainly, Father,” Rix said. “But if I succeed, you will take me with you?”
Incarceron spat a laugh. “If you succeed, you really would be the Dark Enchanter. But you’re just a fraud, Rix. A liar, a mountebank, a conman. Do you think to con me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Rix glanced at Attia. “I’ll need my old assistant.”
He winked, and before she could stammer an answer he had turned to the crowd and stepped forward to the edge of the pedestal.
“Friends,” he said. “Welcome to my greatest wonder! You think you will see illusions. You think I will fool you with mirrors, with hidden devices. But I am not like other magicians. I am the Dark Enchanter, and I will show you the magic of the stars!”
The crowd gasped. So did Attia.
He raised his hand, and he was wearing a glove. It was made of skin, dark as midnight, and flickers of light sparked from it.
Behind Attia, Claudia said, “I thought … Don’t tell me Keiro had the wrong one.”
“Of course not. This is a prop. Just a prop.”
But the doubt had slid into Attia too, like a cold knife, because how could you know, with Rix, what was real and what was not?
He waved his hand in a great arc, and the snow stopped falling. The air grew warmer, lights in every color rainbowing from the high roof. Was he doing this? Or was Incarceron amusing itself at his expense?
Whatever the truth, the people were transfixed. They stared upward, crying out. Some fell on their knees. Some moved back, afraid.
Rix was tall. Somehow he had brought nobility to his craggy face, made the wildness in his eyes a holy glimmer.
“There is much sorrow here,” he said. “There is much fear.”
It was the patter of his act. And yet it was fragmented, changed. As if in the kaleidoscope of his mind it was falling into new patterns. Quietly he said, “I need a volunteer. One who is willing to have its deepest fear revealed. Willing to bear its soul to my gaze.”
He looked upward.
The Prison flickered white lights over its statue. Then it said, “I volunteer.”
FOR A moment all Keiro heard was his own heart thudding and the echoes of slithering wood. Then Finn said, “We’re all right.”
He stepped out of an alcove in the wall, and from the shadows behind him Ralph said in despair, “How do we get up now? There’s no way …”
“Of course there is.” Keiro’s voice was brisk. From the darkness a red and gold tassel came down and hit Finn on the shoulder.
“Is it safe?”
“I’ve tied it to the nearest column. It’s th
e best I can do. Come on.”
Finn looked at Jared. They both knew that if the column gave way or the rope fell apart the climber would fall to his death. Jared said, “It has to be me. With respect, Finn, the Portal is a mystery to you.”
It was true, but Finn shook his head. “You won’t manage …”
Jared drew himself up. “I’m not so weak.”
“You’re not weak at all.” Finn glanced up into the dimness. Then he grabbed the rope and tied it fiercely around Jared’s waist and under his arms. “Use it to abseil. Use all the footholds you can find and try not to put all your weight on it. We’ll—”
“Finn.” Jared put a hand on his chest. “Don’t worry.” He braced the rope, then turned his head. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Thunder,” Ralph said doubtfully.
They listened a moment, hearing the terrible storm rage across the Realm, the atmosphere loosed from its long control.
Then Keiro yelled, “Move!” and Jared felt the rope jerk him up the first stairs.
The climb was a nightmare. Soon the rope was burning his hands, and the effort of clambering and hauling himself up left him breathless. The old pain burned in his chest, and the ache of his back and neck as he groped from splintered step to panel, grabbing at cobwebbed sills and shifting timbers, exhausted him.
Above, Keiro’s face was a pale oval in the shadows. “Come on, Master! You can do it.”
Jared gasped. He had to stop, just for breath, but as he did the small notch into which he had jammed his boot gave way, and with a crash and a cry he fell, the rope bringing him up short in a bone-cracking agony of wrenched muscles.
For a moment he saw nothing.
The world was gone and he was hanging weightless in a black sky, and around him, silently, galaxies and nebulae were icily turning. The stars had voices; they were calling his name, but still he circled, slowly, until the star that was Sapphique leaned close and whispered, “I’m waiting for you, Master. And Claudia is waiting.”