The Keepers (27 page)

“Your glasses,” he said. “They're Tan'ji.”

Mr. Meister glanced at him in surprise, his eyes tiny but bright. “Indeed they are,” he said. “Your eyes are getting keener.” Done polishing, he tucked the cloth back into his vest and put the glasses back on, looping the curved arms behind his ears with a practiced flick. He reached out a hand to Chloe. “I ask your permission one more time, Keeper,” he said formally. “May I intrude upon what is yours?”

Chloe lifted the dragonfly by the tail. A quick shimmer of the wings, and it was free. Leaning forward, she laid it in Mr. Meister's palm. It looked much smaller there. A little wave of distaste shimmered across Chloe's face as she let go.

Mr. Meister bowed his head. “Thank you, Keeper.” He brought the dragonfly close to his face, peering at it with his enormous left eye. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Quite right. Remarkable.” He twisted his hand, looking at the dragonfly from all angles. Chloe watched him intently, bristling faintly but bearing it.

“What do your glasses do, anyway? If you don't mind me asking,” Horace said, partly to distract her.

“Hmm? Oh . . . the glasses are ordinary, for the most part. However, this lens in particular,” said Mr. Meister, lifting a
finger to the thick round lens over his left eye, “is an oraculum. A common enough kind of Tanu, as such things go, but like the dragonfly here, a cut above the ordinary.”

“What does an oraculum do?”

“Many things. Some allow the user to see long distances, or see things that are very small—though of course ordinary human devices will do the same. Some grant the power to see through darkness, through flesh, through lies. Through walls.”

“Through time?” Horace asked.

“Very clever, but no—no oraculum can do what the Fel'Daera does.”

“But yours lets you see through the Tanu,” Chloe said. “You can see what they do.”

Mr. Meister nodded, still peering closely at the dragonfly. “I can see patterns in their energies, the same way a carpenter sees patterns—sees potential—in the grain of a piece of wood. Function, condition, origin, strength, beauty. These things are made known to me through this lens, and through the knowledge gained from a lifetime of study.”

“And you can see us too, can't you?” Horace asked, watching the old man look at Chloe. “That's how you knew I would be able to use the box.”

“In part. As has been explained to you, it was the Vora that first revealed the general nature of your talents. That is its purpose—indeed, the purpose of the entire warehouse. Those who have the aptitude are drawn to the warehouse—by
a sight, a sound, a sensation.”

“Horace F. Andrews,” Horace murmured to himself, remembering back to the first day he'd seen that sign.

Mr. Meister continued as if he had not heard. “Once inside, visitors use the Vora. The ink of the Vora reveals much, if you know what to look for. Mrs. Hapsteade sees much more in the ink than I, of course, but I had strong suspicions about you when I saw your entry in the guestbook, Horace. And once I got a look at you in person with the oraculum, yes—I knew. Almost knew. And I had to know, because the box—well . . . let us say there is only one Fel'Daera.” Just then Mr. Meister startled and gave a little cry. The dragonfly's wings swept into motion, and it fell clean through his hand. In the same moment Chloe darted forward and snagged it out of the air, drawing it to her chest.

Mr. Meister stared and muttered something beneath his breath that Horace couldn't quite catch. It sounded like
“By the loom . . .”

Chloe sat back and threw them both a sly, challenging look. She shrugged at Mr. Meister. “You seemed like you were done,” she explained.

M
R
. M
EISTER WIPED THE SURPRISE FROM HIS FACE
. “Q
UITE
done.” He gestured at the dragonfly. “You needn't feel so sour about passkeys, my dear. They are no more like the dragonfly than a puddle is like the sea. The dragonfly's power is subtle, but unmistakable now that I know to look for it. If this is not the Alvalaithen, it is its equal. And the Alvalaithen has no equal.”

Chloe seemed not to be listening to him as she sank back into the couch, fussing instead with the dragonfly and the cord, but Horace was sure she was soaking up every word.

Mr. Meister gave a satisfied sigh. “The Fel'Daera. The Alvalaithen. Two talented young Keepers. If I may say—if you will not allow it to go to your heads—you possess potential the likes of which I have not seen for many years, and your powers, I feel sure, will only continue to grow. Your Tan'ji are
instruments . . . well . . . of legend.”

Horace and Chloe shared an embarrassed look—or at least, Horace felt embarrassed; as usual, Chloe looked more surly than shy.

Mr. Meister leaned forward. “But now that I have given you your answers, you will return the favor. One question only.
Will you join us?
”

“Join your fight, you mean,” Chloe said. “That's what Mrs. Hapsteade said you wanted.”

“Indeed we do. But understand that our fight is your fight too. We simply want you with us.”

Chloe bent forward. “Who exactly is
us
?”

“We are the Wardens.”

“Wardens,” said Chloe. “Like guardians.”

“Yes. Mrs. Hapsteade, Gabriel, myself, and many others—all Wardens. It is my fervent hope that you will be one too.”

“Mrs. Hapsteade said you were the resistance,” said Horace.

“Indeed. The Wardens are defenders. As Mrs. Hapsteade no doubt explained, we protect that which our enemies would call their own.” He looked pointedly up at the busy walls, indicating the Tanu all around them. “The Riven would do anything just to possess the instruments in this room alone—and there are other rooms, other strongholds. Some of the most powerful instruments remain in the protection of the Wardens. The Riven seek to control every last one—especially Tan'ji—but we stand in their way.”

“So basically,” Chloe said, “you sit around here and guard the stuff you've hoarded.”

“Hardly. The Riven have their own collections of Tanu, and we take from them just as they attempt to take from us. But there are signs that our long conflict is nearing an end.”

“But if the Riven have their own Tan'ji, why do they want ours?”

“They believe they are the rightful owners of all Tanu. And they consider it a blasphemy that ordinary humans like us would call ourselves Tan'ji.”

Horace pressed on. “Ordinary humans? So the Riven—what are they, exactly? Are they human?”

Mr. Meister sat back. “I do not know,” he said plainly.

This frank admission of ignorance caught Horace by surprise. “Okay then . . . but why do they think they're the rightful owners of the Tanu?”

Mr. Meister hesitated. “The long answer is not for today. The short answer would perhaps mislead you.”

“Try us,” Chloe said. “The short answer. Who are they?”

“The short answer.” A sigh. Another measuring look at the two of them. “They are the Makers.” A slow shrug, and then a sweeping gesture at the room around them, all the compartments and shelves full of mysterious devices. “They are the Makers of the Tanu.”

Silence fell. Horace's thoughts raged forward. Hand on the box, he sipped at its presence in his mind, testing. Chloe twisted the dragonfly rapidly between two fingers, spinning
it back and forth, the wing tips tapping her skin. It had never once occurred to Horace to wonder who made the box, but the idea that the likes of Dr. Jericho could have had anything to do with something so beautiful and so . . .
alive
. . . as the Fel'Daera—or the Alvalaithen, for that matter—was beyond incomprehensible. It was revolting.

“I confess I misled you, just a trifle,” Mr. Meister said. “The Riven today—what Dr. Jericho and his kind have become—are not to be confused with those who forged the Box of Promises or the Earthwing. Or the Laithe of Teneves, for example.” He pointed to the spinning globe on his desk, shaking his white head. “Such feats are beyond them now. Nonetheless, it is true that the Riven are descendants of the Makers.”

“This is—” Horace began. He glanced over at Chloe, who looked both furious and confused at the same time. “I think we need to hear more. The long story.”

“Truly, that is not my tale to tell. And I only know what has been passed on to me, or what I have been able to glean from a few timeworn manuscripts. But very well; let me encapsulate what I can.” Mr. Meister sighed again, dropping his chin to his chest. When he spoke again, it was in low, somber tones. “The Makers—the Altari, they called themselves then—once lived quietly among us, not quite hidden. They had the ability to create the Tanu, and this they did for the betterment of their own lives, for the sake of curiosity, for aesthetic reasons, for the pursuit of power. They
alone had the ability to become Tan'ji. The histories are unclear, but gradually discord grew between the Altari and ordinary humans, and the Altari went peaceably into hiding. Even then, though, there were those among the Altari who were friendly. They gave us gifts of their own making, simple things . . . Tan'kindi. In fact, that's the origin of the word they still use for us today—”

“Tinkers,” Horace said, comprehension dawning.

“Yes. They mean it as an insult now, where once it was a term of affection. Centuries after the Altari went into hiding, though, it was discovered that some ordinary humans had the aptitude to become Tan'ji. They possessed the talent, much to the surprise of the Makers. Some of the Altari welcomed this development, but many others revolted violently against the idea. They wanted to keep the Tan'ji for themselves, believing that only they had the right of ownership, and that we were inferior creatures unfit to take the bond.

“A kind of civil war broke out among the Altari. Those who opposed the friendship with ordinary humans broke away, calling themselves the Kesh'kiri—the Riven. They remained in darkness but began to interfere with human affairs, hunting down the human Keepers and their instruments, and struggling bitterly against the other Altari, who meant us no harm.”

Horace stirred, fascinated. “Those Keepers—were they the first Wardens, then?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“And what about the rest of the Altari? Are they still around?”

“Some remain. Most have become more deeply secret than ever, refusing to meddle as the Riven do. The Riven, meanwhile, have declined in skill and power, but they will never stop fighting until the Tanu are under their control, one way or another. Some among them only want to escape the lot that was given to them, to crawl up from their nests and hide no more. Others seek nothing less than the subjugation of all humankind, hoping to rule over us all. But every last Riven wants to see the long diligence of the Wardens come to naught. They hate that we possess the powers that we do, that we continue to hold fast. They will do whatever they can to put things, as they see it, back to rights. Their time is short, however. Their desperation grows. And therefore I ask again: will you join our fight?”

Horace took it all in, breathless. What was this tale he had wandered into? He looked at the others. Mr. Meister, shrewd and expectant. Chloe, intense and fuming, perhaps at the thought of anyone considering her to be unworthy of the dragonfly. Neither of them looked the least bit frightened or uncertain. Horace wondered what his own face looked like.

“As I feared,” Mr. Meister said after a time. “I've taken you beneath the surface, shown you the bulk of the iceberg. It is too much.”

“No, no, it's just . . . ,” Horace began, but trailed off.

“You feel small, perhaps. You have come into the tail end
of a story as big as the ages.”

Chloe scoffed, but that was exactly how Horace was feeling—small. And he still had so many questions. “The tail end of the story,” he said. “And you said their time is short. Why?”

But Mr. Meister shook his head firmly. “I will say no more. You must decide. Will you join our fight, or won't you?”

Horace glanced at Chloe. She just sat there, still saying nothing. “Well,” Horace said, “I think maybe we've already been fighting—in our own little way.”

Mr. Meister's eyebrows slowly lifted. “Indeed? How so?”

“Chloe . . . ,” Horace said, but she stayed as still as stone.

“I know about Horace's encounter on the bus,” said Mr. Meister, watching the two of them closely. “And the golem and your escape in the sewers, of course. Have there been any other recent confrontations with the Riven?” The old man turned to Chloe, his bushy eyebrows still arched high and his left eye shining. But Chloe only shook her head.

“Mr. Meister,” Horace began, “Dr. Jericho was—”

“Following us,” Chloe cut in suddenly. “He's trying to find out where we live.”