The Fire Chronicle Read online

  Rourke stopped Kate beside the chandelier.

  “Mistress Gnome.”

  One of the tiny creatures turned. She was three feet tall, with a face wrinkled like an old apple; she wore a gray dress that went to her toes, and she had a faded red kerchief covering her head.

  “This young lady is here for an audience with our master. Clean her up a bit, won’t you? There’s a dear.”

  The little creature set down her tongs, snapped at a female gnome who was polishing the floor, and seized two of Kate’s fingers in her small, rough hand.

  “I’ll be seeing you very soon,” Rourke said.

  The gnome led Kate out of the ballroom and down a dark-walled, portrait-lined hallway, with the second gnome trailing behind. Kate thought that this was her chance to get away—she was, after all, nearly twice the size of the gnomes—and when they reached a stairway and the gnome matron had started up, Kate tried to jerk away her hand, intending to bolt down the stairs to freedom.

  “Ahhhh!”

  Kate fell to her knees as the gnome bent her fingers to the point of breaking. The second gnome thudded into her back with both feet, so that Kate was slammed flat onto her face. The first gnome kept bending and twisting her fingers while the other jumped up and down on her back, cackling gleefully. The red-kerchiefed gnome peered into Kate’s face.

  “Now, Missus Big-Shoes,” she said in a high, squeaking voice, “are we going to have any more kerfuffle from you?”

  “No,” Kate cried as the other gnome dug her doll-like fingers into Kate’s hair and yanked.

  “Ah, but big-shoes is all liars, ain’t they?” And the wrinkle-faced gnome gave Kate’s nose a painful wrench.

  “No! I’m not lying! I promise!”

  “Hmph,” said the tiny creature, releasing Kate’s fingers and nose and nodding to the other, who let go of Kate’s hair and leapt off her back. The lead gnome started up the stairs, and Kate, her fingers, scalp, nose, and back aching, followed obediently.

  She was bathed in a tub of scalding water. Her skin was scrubbed raw. Her hair washed. Her chewed-up nails filed down evenly. One of the gnomes raked a hard-toothed comb through her hair, pulling at the tangles with such fury that Kate was sure that by the time they finished, her scalp would be bald and bleeding. They yanked her into undergarments, like a dress, and then into a long-sleeved, high-collared ivory dress that had intricate lacework across the breast. And finally, one of the gnomes buckled Kate’s feet into a pair of leather boots with dozens of hooks, while the other tugged her hair this way and that in a complex braid.

  It was then the door opened, and Rourke entered.

  “Ah now, I knew there was a young lady hiding under all that dirt.”

  The red-kerchiefed gnome jerked Kate to her feet and dragged her before a mirror. Kate hardly recognized the girl staring back at her. In the old-fashioned, high-necked dress, she looked like a girl from a book or a movie. There were pink blushes on her cheeks. Her dark blond hair shone, and it had been pulled up and braided in a way that showed angles of her face that Kate had never known existed. She looked down at her nails and saw that they had been trimmed and filed so that the evidence of her constant worried chewing was nowhere to be seen.

  “Yes,” said Rourke, “you’re ready to meet him.”

  He led her up another set of stairs. Unlike the rest of the mansion, this floor was quiet and still. She and the man walked along a dimly lit hallway, the wooden floor moaning under Rourke’s weight, and Kate glanced out the window and saw that it was growing dark. Evening was falling, and it was snowing again.

  And then, halfway down the hall, she heard the sound of a violin.

  Kate stumbled, the heels of her boots folding beneath her.

  “Steady there,” Rourke said, and lifted her by the elbow.

  This was not Rafe’s song, the mournful, gray-toned winter song he’d played that morning. This was the song that Kate had heard on the Countess’s boat, the one that was somehow both manic and haunting. It was the song that would play as the world burned. The Dire Magnus was near.

  An Imp stood at the end of the hall, and as Kate and the bald man approached, the creature opened a door. Unobstructed, the music poured forth, and Rourke placed a hand in the small of her back and she was propelled forward, as if she were dinner chucked into an animal’s cage, and she heard the door slam shut behind her.

  Kate staggered to a stop. The violin was silent. She was standing on a narrow gravel path and seemed to be surrounded by jungle. All about her were oily, fat-leafed plants, tall, spiny-stalked palm trees, fan-fronded ferns, plants with orange and red and yellow and purple flowers clustered in tight profusion. The air was warm and humid. Kate glanced up and saw the glass dome of the greenhouse. The heat had steamed the panes, obscuring the world outside.

  The gravel path wound away, and a voice spoke from deep in the jungle:

  “Come here, child.”

  Kate shuddered; she knew that voice. It was the voice of the being that had possessed the Countess; it was cold, and ancient, and savage.

  “I am not accustomed to asking twice.”

  Very slowly, Kate stepped forward, her new boots crunching the gravel. She held her breath, tensing for her first sight of the speaker. Then, as she came around the bend, the jungle opened, revealing a gravel cul-de-sac at the end of the greenhouse, and there, surrounded on all sides by a tropical forest, an old man sat in a wooden wheelchair, a blanket across his lap.

  He was the oldest person Kate had ever seen, almost more skeleton than man. His flesh seemed to have been sucked away, and his body had begun to collapse upon itself, though his head and hands were both strangely, grotesquely large. His skin was loose and scabbed and had a rotten greenish tint. He looked like something that had crawled its way out of a grave. He raised his lumpy head, and Kate saw that the old man’s eyes were clouded with cataracts. He flicked two fingers, and a chair appeared across from him.

  “Sit.”

  When Kate didn’t move, there was a hiss, and she felt herself pulled forward and forced into the chair.

  “Better.”

  Oddly, his voice was still the voice she remembered from the Countess’s boat, full of energy and fire. But could this gnarled, shrunken creature really be the Dire Magnus? Kate had built the Dire Magnus up in her mind as a force of almost unimaginable power and malevolence, not this shattered wreck with milky eyes.

  The old man grinned, displaying a mouthful of yellowed and broken teeth.

  “You are wondering how this wasted thing before you could be the Dire Magnus? How could he lay claim to such power? Inspire such loyalty and terror? One might ask how a young girl, little more than a child, could contain within herself the ability to reshape time. One must not be misled by appearances. Power is power. While an outward appearance”—he flicked his fingers again—“is quickly changed.”

  A mirror appeared in the air, and Kate saw, staring back at her, a silver-haired crone whose face was so wrinkled that her skin seemed to be melting from her bones. Gasping, Kate raised her hands and saw her knuckles were swollen, her nails thick and clawlike. Before she could cry out, the old man waved his hand again, and Kate looked in the mirror and saw her face returned to normal.

  “Do not place your trust in appearances, child.”

  Kate’s heart was pounding as the old man chuckled wetly. She tried to force herself to remain calm. Even if he really was the Dire Magnus, he couldn’t know anything about her. It was a century before they would meet on the boat in Cambridge Falls. She just had to stay quiet. She could get out of this.

  The old man cocked his head, as if hearing some far-off tune.

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we? Or not yet. In the future.”

  Kate said nothing. Was the man reading her thoughts?

  The old sorcerer went on speaking.

  “The Keeper of the Atlas. Of course, I knew the moment you arrived in the city. I couldn’t say exactly where you were, but I felt your presen
ce. And how auspicious that you should be here this night of all nights. Tell me, child, do you know why tonight is so important?”

  “The … Separation,” Kate said, relieved to be talking of something where she could give nothing away. “The magic world is disappearing at midnight.”

  “Yes. We are going into hiding. Ceding the world to the nonmagical for no reason but that they hate us for our power and outnumber us ten thousand to one.”

  Kate didn’t know how to respond and so said nothing.

  “They say, those who wish us to retreat, that the age when magic ruled the world is long past. That Separation, retreat, hiding like scared children, is our only hope for survival. In part, I agree.” The man’s wheelchair crawled closer. “It is pointless to live on equal terms with those not touched with magic. We are not equal and never will be. But magic can rule the world once more. All that is required is will and power. I have the will. And soon, very soon, I shall have the power.”

  Kate had been thinking only of protecting herself, giving away as little as possible. Now, suddenly, she was beginning to understand.

  “I foresaw this all long ago. I saw that magic would fade. That our kind would be swallowed by the rising sea of humanity. I tried to make others listen. But magician fought magician. Elf fought dwarf fought goblin fought dragon. None would face the true enemy. And the power we needed was there. It had even been gathered together into one place, as if waiting for me to take it.”

  “The Books of Beginning,” Kate whispered.

  “Exactly so. But the wizards of Rhakotis, for all their learning, were fools. They had written the Books merely to have the world know that they had written them, never to actually use them. Still,” the old man wagged his monstrous head, “the council was powerful. For centuries, they were too strong to attack. But my day finally arrived, and I helped the warlord Alexander to conquer the city.”

  “You partnered with a lowly human,” Kate said, unable to resist the jab. “I thought you hated them.”

  The Dire Magnus shrugged. “War makes for unlikely bedfellows, and I killed him soon after.”

  “But you didn’t get the Books, did you?” Kate said.

  The old man moved his white eyes toward her, and Kate felt an invisible weight settle upon her chest. The man’s face showed no emotion. The weight became greater. Kate was determined not to scream or ask for mercy, but the weight pressed harder and harder and finally, while she still had breath, she cried, “Stop! Please!” The weight lifted, and she gasped quietly.

  “You are right, child,” he said, continuing as if nothing had happened. “The Books had vanished by the time I arrived at the vaults of Rhakotis. For twenty-five hundred years, I searched for them. And all the while, humans grew stronger, and the magical world grew weaker. Now, what is the great solution? We will hide. Only I have not given up. I will yet find the Books, and humanity will tremble. Your coming is only the first sign. Tell me, where are the other two books?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think you’re being entirely honest.”

  He crooked one gnarled finger, and Kate felt the magic rise inside her. She tried to push it down, but the man was too powerful. The greenhouse vanished, and Kate was somewhere else entirely. And then—Kate barely stopped herself from crying out his name—she saw Michael. Fire swirled about him. He clutched a book with a red leather cover. She knew she wasn’t really there, that Michael couldn’t see her. Then, just as quickly, Kate was back in the greenhouse. She felt the magic settling inside her.

  “You see, child, you do know. That was the Chronicle, the Book of Life. And holding it … your brother?”

  Kate gripped the arms of her chair and said nothing.

  “We will look into this later. We have other, even more pressing matters.” His wheelchair crept forward another inch, and the man brought his giant head close. “For the Separation is not the true reason why tonight is significant. Tonight is significant”—and again he showed his jagged yellow grin—“because I am going to die.”

  “What?”

  It was all Kate could manage to say. She was vaguely aware of a large red snake slithering through the jungle to her right. The old sorcerer chuckled.

  “You’re surprised? Perhaps you thought the Dire Magnus was immortal? But death is the sea to which all water flows. Elves might live for thousands of years. Dwarves a few hundred. Wizards and witches are too close to humans. We might survive a century or two. After that, if we wish to continue living, we must resort to more … forceful measures. As you see me here, I am three hundred and forty-one years old, and tonight, finally, I will die.”

  “But … I don’t understand. I met you … in the future.…”

  “You met me, yes. And yet you met another. What happens when a king dies? A new king rises to take his place, taking on all the titles and powers of the old, wrapping himself in the dead man’s office. The Dire Magnus is one man, but also many men.

  “I am the ninth Dire Magnus. I was chosen as a young boy. I had no knowledge of who I was, what my destiny would be. I was called. And when I awoke to myself, I took on not just the title of the Dire Magnus, but also the powers and memories of the eight who preceded me. Just as when I die tonight, I will also be reborn, as I pass on my power and memories to my successor. He will carry us all forward. He will be the greatest of us. The most powerful. He will also be the last. It will fall to him, the duty of turning the world back as it is meant to be. And he will not fail.”

  Kate shook her head; the heat in the room was making her thickheaded.

  “There’s … another? Another Dire Magnus?” Even as she asked the question, a terrible thought occurred to her, and she felt a stab of dread. “Who is he?”

  “A boy. It is always a boy. He is ignorant of his power. Ignorant of his destiny. But there is power in him even now. Others will feel it.…”

  Kate couldn’t breathe; the heat and moisture in the room were choking her. She wanted to rip away the collar of her dress. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible!

  The old sorcerer went on speaking:

  “It has taken years to track him to this city. And still some magic cloaks him from my view. Rourke has hunted the boy the length and breadth of the island, yet he continues to elude us. No doubt, whoever is hiding him thinks they are protecting him.” He waved his hand, brushing the matter aside. “It matters not. The boy will come to me tonight. He will be drawn here. He cannot escape his fate. He will come, and the chain will not be broken.”

  Kate felt herself gripping the arms of her chair as if she might tumble forward.

  “What … what’s his name?”

  The ancient creature smiled, and Kate sensed that he had been waiting for this moment.

  “You ask that, child, but you have already met him. His presence is all around you. I felt it the moment you entered.” The old man’s milky eyes cleared, and Kate stared in horror, for they burned the same shade of emerald green she had seen that morning as Rafe had brushed soot over her cheeks.

  “He will come,” the old man hissed. “He will come, and the Dire Magnus will live again.”

  Kate was aware of the Imp entering the greenhouse and lifting her out of the chair. She heard the old Dire Magnus say, “Take her to a room and watch her. She will be my guest at tonight’s ceremony.” She felt the cold air as she entered the hallway. At the head of the stairs, she heard Rourke’s brogue, “Here now, I’ll take the lass,” and she was passed from the Imp to the huge man, and then she heard shouting coming up the stairs, and she was pulled out of her daze, for the voice that was shouting below was Rourke’s, and yet Rourke was standing beside her, and the Imp seemed to notice the strangeness as well, and then, without warning, Rourke kicked the Imp hard in the chest so that he flew crashing out of the window. Then there were boots pounding up the stairs, and Kate saw a shimmer in the air in front of Rourke, and suddenly, standing beside her was not Rourke at all, but Rafe.

&nb
sp; “So much for that,” the boy said. “You feel like running?”

  Michael woke, saw blue sky above him, and, for one perfect moment, had no idea where he was.

  Then a face appeared, upside down, leaning in very close to his own.

  “How do you see out of these? They make everything so fuzzy!”

  Instantly, Michael was on his feet. He took in the blurred outlines of the forested valley, the snow-covered mountains, the volcano, the ruined tower.…

  Okay, he thought as his heart galloped in his chest, okay, I know where I am.

  Then his hand went to his throat and he felt the bump of the glass marble, still hanging from the rawhide strip about his neck. Reassured, Michael reached up to adjust his glasses and realized he wasn’t wearing glasses, that they were being worn by the figure in whose lap his head had been resting just moments before.

  “You don’t really need these awful things, do you?” The elf girl had taken off his glasses and was holding them as one might hold a particularly slimy piece of seaweed. “You look so much better without them. Except for your nose. Were you in an accident?”

  “What? No.”

  “Or cursed by a wizard?”

  “No—”

  “So you were born with that nose? I suppose after we’re married I’ll just make a point of not looking at your face too often so that it doesn’t frighten me.”

  Michael was still groggy from sleep and struggling to get his bearings—not to mention that what the elf girl had said was so utterly horrifying—and he had no idea how to respond. He simply said, “Can I please have—” then cut himself off. “Wait—where’s Emma? Where’s my sister? And where’s the Chronicle?”

  “Your overly large friend carried her downstairs. And he took that annoying book with him. As if I ever want to see it again—oh la!”

  “Gabriel? He’s okay?”