فصل 23

Chapter 23

TAMARA, WHO HAD bent down beside Call, made a choked sound.

“Drew,” Aaron panted, in obvious pain. He reached out for the manacle around his ankle, then fell back as the chaos elemental lifted a shadowy tentacle. It took clearer form as the tentacle drew closer to Aaron, until it was almost solid, brushing his skin. He jerked and cried out in agony. “Drew, let me go —” “What, you can’t get yourself free, Makar?” Drew sneered, jerking on the chain so that Aaron rose a few feet out of reach of the chaos elemental. “I thought you were supposed to be powerful. Special. But you’re not really special, are you? Not special at all.” “I never said I was,” said Aaron in a choked voice.

“Do you know what it was like to have to pretend I was bad at magic? That I was a fool? To listen to Master Lemuel bemoan choosing me? I was better trained than all of you, but I couldn’t show it or Lemuel would have guessed who’d really trained me. I had to listen to the Masters tell their stupid version of history and pretend I agreed, even though I knew that if it hadn’t been for the mages and the Assembly, the Enemy would have given us the means to live forever. Do you know what it was like to learn that the Makar was some stupid kid from nowhere who would never do anything about his powers except what the mages told him to do?” “So you’re going to kill me,” Aaron said. “Because of all that? Because I’m a Makar?” Drew just laughed. Call turned away and saw that Tamara was shaking, her fingers wound tightly together. “We have to get in there,” he whispered to her. “We have to do something.” She rose to her feet, her wristband glittering in the shadows. “The rafters. If we climb up there, we can haul Aaron out of the range of that thing.” Panic flooded him. Because the plan was a good one, but when he imagined the climb and trying to balance his weight as he inched across the beam, he knew he couldn’t do it. He’d slip. He’d fall. During the whole painful journey through the forest with his legs stiff and aching, he’d told himself that he was going to help save Aaron. Now, when he was right in front of Aaron — Aaron in danger, Aaron needing saving — he was useless. The crush of despair was so awful that he considered not saying anything, just trying to climb and hoping for the best.

But remembering the fear on Celia’s face when she surfaced from the river, only to see Call lose control of the log and send it hurling toward her, decided him. If he made things worse by pretending he could help, he was only putting Aaron in more danger.

“I can’t,” Call said.

“What?” Tamara asked, then glanced at his leg and looked embarrassed. “Oh. Right. Well, just stay here with Havoc. I’ll be right back. It’s probably better with one person anyway. Sneakier.” At least he’d managed to seem capable for a while, Call thought. At least Tamara thought of him as a person who could do things and was surprised when he couldn’t. It was cold comfort, but it was something.

Then, suddenly, Call realized what he could do. “I’ll distract him.”

“What? No!” Tamara said, shaking her head for emphasis. “It’s too dangerous. He’s got a chaos elemental.” “Havoc will be with me. And freeing Aaron won’t work otherwise.” Call looked her in the eye and hoped she could see that he wasn’t going to back down. “Trust me.” Tamara nodded once. Then, with a quick smile at him, she slid through the door, the tread of her boots so soft that after two steps, he could no longer make them out over Drew’s giggles and the growl of the chaos elemental. He counted to ten — one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand — and then flung open the door as wide as it would go.

“Hey, Drew,” Call said, plastering on a grin. “This sure doesn’t look like pony school to me.” Drew jerked back so hard in surprise that he hauled on the chain, yanking Aaron several feet up. Aaron yelled out in pain, making Havoc growl.

“Call?” said Drew in disbelief, and Call flashed back to that night in the ditch outside the Magisterium, Drew shivering and shouting out for Call, his ankle snapped. Behind him, Call could see Tamara starting to climb the far wall, using the stacked cages as a sort of ladder, jamming her boots in between the bars, moving as silently as a cat. “What are you doing here?” “Seriously? What am I doing here?” Call demanded. “What are you doing here? Besides trying to feed one of your fellow students to a chaos elemental. I mean, seriously, what did Aaron do to you? Beat you on a test? Take the last piece of lichen at dinner?” “Shut up, Call.”

“Do you really think you won’t get caught?”

“I haven’t gotten caught yet.” Drew seemed to be recovering from his surprise. He gave Call a nasty smile.

“Was it all just an act — all that stuff about Master Lemuel, all those times you pretended to be a regular student? Have you been a spy for the Enemy all along?” Call wasn’t just playing for time now; he was curious. Drew looked the same — tangly brown hair, skinny, big blue eyes, freckles — but there was something behind his eyes Call hadn’t seen before, something ugly and dark.

“The Masters are so stupid,” said Drew. “Always worrying about what the Enemy was doing outside the Magisterium, worrying about the Treaty. Never thinking there could be a spy right among them. Even when I escaped the Magisterium to send the Enemy a message, what did they do?” He opened his blue eyes wide, and for a moment, Call caught a glimpse of the boy on the bus, sounding nervous about going to magic school. “ ‘Oh, Master Lemuel is so mean. He scares me.’ And they fired him!” Drew laughed, the innocent mask slipping away again, showing the coldness underneath.

Havoc growled at that, sliding between Drew and Call. “What were you bringing the Enemy a message about?” Call demanded. To his relief, Tamara was almost at the rafters. “Was it about Aaron?” “The Makar,” said Drew. “All these years, the mages have waited for a Makar, but they’re not the only ones. We were waiting, too.” He jerked on the chain holding Aaron, who made a noise of pain, but Call didn’t look up. He couldn’t. He kept staring at Drew, as if he could make Drew pay attention to nothing but him.

“We?” Call said. “Because I just see one crazy person here. You.”

Drew ignored his dig. He even ignored Havoc. “You can’t think I’m in charge of this place,” he said. “Don’t be stupid, Call. I bet you saw the Chaos-ridden, the elementals. I bet you can feel it. You know who’s running this show.” Call swallowed. “The Enemy,” he said.

“The Enemy … isn’t what you think.” Drew rattled the chain idly. “We could be friends, Call. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. We could be on the same side.” “We really couldn’t. Aaron’s my friend. And the Enemy wants him dead, doesn’t he? He doesn’t want another Makar to challenge him.” “It’s so much fun. You don’t know anything. You think Aaron’s your friend. You think everything they told you in the Magisterium is true. It’s not. They told Aaron they’d keep him safe, but they didn’t. They couldn’t.” He jerked on the chain holding Aaron, and Call winced, waiting for Aaron’s cry of pain.

It didn’t come. Call looked up. Aaron was no longer dangling. Tamara had pulled him up to the rafter and was kneeling over him, her fingers feverishly working to undo the chain around his ankle.

“No!” Drew yanked on the chain once more in a rage, but Tamara had broken it at her end. Drew let go as the chain came falling down.

“Look, we’re going to just leave now,” said Call. “I’m going to back out of here and —” “You’re not leaving!” Drew shouted, racing forward to press his hand against the glass container.

It was like he’d slid a key into a lock and opened a door, but way more violent. The container shattered, glass blowing in all directions. Call threw his hands up to cover his face, as glass shards, like a rain of tiny needles, pierced his forearms. Wind seemed to be blowing through the room. Havoc was whimpering, and somewhere, Tamara and Aaron were yelling.

Slowly, Call opened his eyes.

The chaos elemental surged up in front of him, filling his view with shadows. Its darkness churned with half-formed faces and toothy mouths. Seven clawed arms reached out for him at once, some scaled, some hairy, and some as pale as dead flesh.

Call gagged and staggered back a step. His hand slapped blindly at his side — his fingers closing around Miri’s hilt, and he drew the blade from its sheath, swinging it out in front of him in a big, curving arc.

Miri sank into something — something that gave under the blade like rotten fruit. Howls poured from the chaos monster’s many mouths. There was a long gash down one of its arms, darkness pouring out of the wound to swirl in the air like smoke from a fire. Another arm tried to grab him, but Call dropped to the ground and it succeeded only in grazing his shoulder. Where it had touched, though, his arm went instantly numb, and Miri dropped from his fingers.

Call struggled up onto his elbow, trying to reach across his body with his good hand, scrabbling for Miri. But he was out of time. The elemental lunged, rolling toward him across the floor like an oil slick, a huge, toadlike tongue slithering out, right for Call — With a howl, Havoc threw himself into the air, landing directly atop the back of the elemental. His teeth sank into its slick surface, his claws piercing the roiling darkness. The monster spasmed, rearing back. Heads exploded out all over its body, arms shooting out to grab for Havoc, but the wolf held on, riding the monster.

Seeing his chance, Call scrambled to his feet, grabbing Miri with his good hand. He lunged forward and sank the knife into what he thought was the elemental’s side.

The blade came away covered in dripping black, halfway between smoke and oil. The chaos elemental roared and thrashed, hurling Havoc off. The wolf flew and hit the floor on the far side of the room, near a pair of doors. He whimpered once, and then was still.

“Havoc!” Call shouted, darting toward his wolf. He was halfway there, when he heard a growling behind him. He whirled on the chaos elemental. Rage was pouring through him — if the creature had hurt Havoc, he would cut it up into a thousand gross, oily pieces. He stalked forward, Miri flashing in his hand.

The chaos elemental shrank back, darkness puddling around it, as though no longer so eager to fight.

“Go on, you coward,” screamed Drew, kicking at it. “Grab him! Do it, you big stupid lump —” The chaos elemental sprang — but not at Call. Twisting around, it lunged at Drew. Drew screamed once, and then the elemental was on him, rolling over him like a wave. Call stood frozen, Miri in his hand. He thought of the icy pain that had shot through him at just a touch of the chaos creature’s substance. And now that substance was sinking down over Drew, who was jerking and twisting in its grip, his eyes rolling back to the whites.

“Call!” The voice yanked Call out of his shock — it was Tamara, yelling down to him from the rafters. She was on her knees, and Aaron was beside her. The manacle and chains were a twisted pile: Aaron was free, though his wrists were braceleted with blood where he had clearly been tied up, probably when they had dragged him from the Magisterium, and Call bet his ankles were in even worse shape. “Call, get out of there!” “I can’t!” Call pointed with Miri. The chaos elemental, and Drew, were between him and the door.

“Go that way,” Tamara said, pointing to the doors behind him. “Look for anything — a window, anything. We’ll meet you outside.” Call nodded once, lifting Havoc. Please, he thought. Please. The body in his arms was warm, and as he pressed the wolf against his chest, he could feel the steady beat of Havoc’s heart. The extra weight hurt his legs, but he didn’t care.

He’s going to be okay, he told himself firmly. Now move.

Looking back, he saw that Tamara and Aaron were shinnying down from the rafters, close to the other door. But as he looked up, the chaos elemental rose from where it was hunched over Drew. Several mouths opened and a whiplike purple tongue lashed out to taste the air with its forked tip. Then it started to move toward Call.

Call yelled and jumped back. Havoc jerked in his arms, barked, and leaped to the ground. He ran toward the doors at the far end of the room, Call right behind him. They crashed through the doors together, nearly knocking them off their hinges.

Havoc came to a skidding stop. Call nearly fell over him, and barely righted himself.

He stared around the room — it looked a lot like the laboratory of Dr. Frankenstein. Beakers of odd-colored liquids bubbled all around, massive machinery hung from the ceiling, wheeling and turning, and the walls were lined with cages full of elementals of various sizes, quite a few of them glowing brightly.

Then Call heard it behind him — a thick, bubbling growl. The chaos elemental had followed them into the room and was sailing after them, a massive, dark cloud covered in claws and teeth. Call jerked into an uneven run again, sending beakers of liquid crashing to the floor as he hurtled toward what looked like a display of old weapons on one of the walls. If he went for the elemental with that hefty-looking axe, maybe — “Stop!” A man in hooded black robes strode from behind a huge bookcase. His face was shrouded in darkness, and he swung a massive staff topped with onyx. Havoc, on seeing him, let out a whimper and dove under one of the nearest tables.

Call froze. The stranger swept past him without a glance and raised his staff. “Enough!” he cried in a deep voice, and pointed the onyx end of the staff toward the elemental.

Darkness exploded from the tip, shooting across the room toward the beast, striking it squarely. The darkness swelled and grew, wrapping the elemental, swallowing it into nothingness. It gave a last horrible, bubbling cry and vanished.

The man turned toward Call and slowly drew back the hood of his robes. His face was half hidden by a silver mask that covered his eyes and nose. Below it, Call could see the jut of a chin, a neck slashed with white scars.

The scars were new, but the mask was familiar. Call had seen it before in pictures. Had heard it described. A mask worn to cover the scars of an explosion that had almost killed the wearer. A mask worn to terrify.

A mask worn by the Enemy of Death.

“Callum Hunt,” said the Enemy. “I was hoping it would be you.”

Whatever Call had expected the Enemy to say, it wasn’t that. He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out. “You’re Constantine Madden,” he said. “The Enemy of Death.” The Enemy moved toward him, a swirl of black and silver. “Stand up,” he said. “Let me look at you.” Slowly, Call pulled himself to his feet and stood facing the Enemy of Death. The room was almost silent. Even Havoc’s whimpers seemed faint and far away.

“Look at you,” said the Enemy. There was an odd sort of pleasure in his voice. “It’s a pity about the leg, of course, but that won’t matter in the end. I suppose Alastair preferred to leave you as you were than dabble in healing magic. He always was stubborn. And now it’s too late. Did you ever think of that, Callum? That perhaps if Alastair Hunt had been a little less stubborn, you might have been able to walk properly?” Call hadn’t thought of it. But now the thought lodged like a cold piece of ice in his throat, choking off his words. He took a step away, until his back hit one of the long tables full of jars and beakers. He froze.

“But your eyes …” And now the Enemy sounded gloating, though Call couldn’t figure out what about his eyes might be worth gloating over. He felt dizzy with confusion. “They say eyes are the windows of the soul. I asked Drew quite a lot of questions about you, but I never thought to ask about your eyes.” He frowned, the scarred skin tightening beneath the mask. “Drew,” he said. “Where is the boy?” He raised his voice. “Drew!” There was silence. Call wondered what would happen if he reached behind himself, grabbed one of the beakers or jars, and threw it at the Enemy — could he buy himself time? Could he run?

“Drew!” said the mage again, and now there was something else in his voice — something like alarm. He strode past Call impatiently, stalking through the double doors into the wooden chamber beyond.

There was a long moment of utter silence. Call looked around desperately, trying to see if there were any other doors, any other ways out of this room besides the way he’d come in. There weren’t. There were only bookshelves piled with dusty tomes, tables loaded with alchemical materials, and, high up the walls, small fire elementals set into hammered copper niches lighting the room with their glow. The elementals stared down at Call with their blank black eyes as he heard the noise from the other room — a long, keening cry of grief and despair.

“DREW!”

Havoc wailed. Call picked up one of the glass beakers and staggered to the double doors. Pain was shooting through his leg, up into his body, like razor blades stabbing through his veins. He wanted to fall over; he wanted to lie on the ground and let unconsciousness take him. He grabbed for the arch of the doorway and stared.

The Enemy was on his knees, Drew lying half across his lap, limp and unresponsive. His skin had already begun to turn a cold blue color. He was never going to wake up again.

Call’s heart gave a dull thud of horror. He couldn’t seem to wrench his gaze away from the Enemy hunched over Drew’s body, his staff lying discarded on the floor beside him. His scarred hands raked through Drew’s hair, again and again. “My son,” he whispered. “My poor son.” His son? Call thought. Drew is the Enemy of Death’s son?

Suddenly, the Enemy’s head jerked up. Even through the mask, Call could sense the glare of his eyes: They were bent on Call, and they were black with laserlike fury. “You,” he hissed. “You did this. You unleashed the elemental that killed my child.” Call swallowed and backed up, but the Enemy was already rising, seizing his staff. He swung it toward Call, and Call stumbled, the beaker flying out of his hand to shatter on the floor. He went down on one knee, his bent leg screaming in pain. “I didn’t —” he began. “It was an accident —” “Get up,” snarled the Enemy. “Get up, Callum Hunt, and face me.”

Slowly, Call rose to his feet and faced the silver-masked man across the room. Call was shaking all over, shaking from the pain in his legs and from the tension in his body, from fear and adrenaline and the thwarted desire to run. The Enemy’s face was set in a furious expression, his eyes glittering with rage and grief.

Call wanted to open his mouth, wanted to say something in his own defense, but there was nothing. Drew lay unmoving, still and vacant-eyed among the smashed remains of the glass container — he was dead, and it was Call’s fault. He couldn’t explain himself, couldn’t defend himself. He was facing the Enemy of Death, who had slain whole armies. He would hardly hesitate at one single boy.

Call’s hand slipped from Miri’s hilt. There was only one thing left to do.

Taking a deep breath, he got ready to die.

He hoped that Tamara and Aaron had made it past the Chaos-ridden, out the window, and back on the path toward the Magisterium.

He hoped that, since Havoc was Chaos-ridden, the Enemy wouldn’t be too hard on him for not being an evil zombie dog.

He hoped his dad wouldn’t be too mad at him for going to the Magisterium and getting killed, just the way he had always been warned he would.

He hoped Master Rufus wouldn’t give his spot to Jasper.

The mage was close enough that Call could feel the heat of his breathing, could see the twist of his narrow mouth, the glint of his eyes, and the tremors that ran through his whole body.

“If you’re going to kill me,” Call said, “go ahead. Do it.”

The mage raised his staff — and flung it aside. He dropped to his knees, his head bent, his whole posture one of supplication, as if he were begging Call for mercy. “Master, my Master,” he rasped. “Forgive me. I did not see.” Call stared in confusion. What did he mean?

“This is a test. A test of my loyalty and commitment.” The Enemy took a ragged breath. It was clear that he was barely controlling himself through sheer force of will. “If you, my Master, decreed that Drew must die, then his death must be to a greater purpose.” The words seemed sliced out of his throat, as if it pained him to speak them. “Now I, too, have a personal stake in our quest. My Master is wise. As always, he is wise.” “What?” Call said, his voice trembling. “I don’t understand. Your Master? Aren’t you the Enemy of Death?” To Call’s utter shock, the mage raised his hands and drew off the silver mask, baring the face beneath it. It was a scarred face, an old, lined, weathered face. It was a strangely familiar face, but it was not the face of Constantine Madden.

“No, Callum Hunt. I am not the Enemy of Death,” he said. “You are.”