Sorcerer's Secret (15 page)

“There's something different about you today, boy,” he said, taking a step forward. “You seem especially . . . vulnerable. Are you injured? The way you sway where you stand . . . is it a head injury? I was able to find your dreams so easily this last time. Your defenses are weak. I wonder . . . could it be this easy? Could I just do this?”

Suddenly the man with the black eyes seemed to grow, blocking out the room as he towered over Rory. His body began to change, stretching out in all directions as if to swallow Rory whole. His eyes burned, pressing into Rory with the force of their hate, making him cry out. And then the knife, the glittering instrument of death, plunged down toward Rory's heart.

But before the knife could end him, the air before Rory erupted in fire. The man with the black eyes was driven back, cursing, as Rory heard a woman's voice in the flames.

“HE IS MINE!”

Rory fell back, into darkness, the thunderous sound of the woman's voice filling him with both hope and terrible fear . . .

R
ory woke up to a pounding headache. He was lying on his back, staring up at the sky. The late afternoon sun shone overhead, occasionally darting behind a cloud. He felt like the world was spinning, and at first he thought it was his head. But then he realized that whatever he was lying on was moving and he tried to sit up to see what was going on.

“You stay where you are!” Soka's voice said, and her head appeared hovering over him as she gently forced him back down. But not before he saw that he was stretched out in the back of some kind of wagon and Soka was sitting next to him. She turned behind her. “He's awake!”

“You scared the crap out of me, Rory Hennessy!” Bridget's voice said. “If you do that again, I will kill you myself!”

“Where am I?” Rory asked.

“You're safe, my boy!” Rory glanced to the front of the wagon, where a familiar man sat next to Bridget, guiding a pair of horses. It was Walt Whitman, the God of Optimism. He must have picked them up at the border. The eternal optimist glanced back to give him a smile. “We're taking you to the Old Stone House, where a friend is going to check on your head. Then you can plan your next move.”

“Where's Dad?” Rory asked, wincing as he forced himself to sit up. Soka looked like she wanted to protest, but he waved her off. She sat back; to his surprise, she looked like she'd been crying.

“He stayed behind to keep that Moses guy off our backs,” Bridget said. “He was very brave. I hope he's okay.”

“Well, he's lived this long, so he's probably fine,” Rory said, not wanting to worry about his old man but not able to help it.

“What about you?” Soka asked, her eyes concerned. “Do you feel all right?”

“A little woozy,” he replied. “But I think I'll live. Where are we going again?”

“That's it up ahead!” Whitman said. Their wagon was rolling along a side street surrounded by elegant brownstones toward a small park. In the middle of the park sat a simple twostory stone building. Whitman explained its importance as they approached it.

“The Old Stone House has been around for three hundred years,” he told them. “It's been torn down and built up a few times, but the foundation remained. It's a place of sacrifice, one of the holiest spots in New York! During the Revolutionary War, the British attacked General George Washington's men here in Brooklyn, trying to kill the Revolution before it really began. But the American people would not be beaten down! A group of brave soldiers from down south, Colonel Smallwood's Marylanders, made their stand here, taking the house from the British, then losing it, then taking it again, then losing it again. So many of them died here for their country!”

“Did they finally beat the British into a bloody pulp?” Bridget asked, caught up in the story.

“Not quite, though it was a noble effort! America lost the Battle of Brooklyn, and New York suffered under British rule for the rest of the war. But more importantly, if not for the Marylanders' refusal to give in, George Washington would never have escaped with the Continental Army. The Marylanders held off the British until the Americans were able to retreat to safety. You don't always have to win the battle to be a hero, you know. Sometimes it is heroic enough just to survive to keep fighting.”

They rode up to the door. The elegant structure was two stories of flagstone and mortar, a simple stone house just like its name suggested. But something about it seemed strong to Bridget. This was a house that survived.

Halting the horses, Whitman hopped out of the wagon to help Rory out of the back. Rory still swayed on his feet, so he needed both Soka and Whitman's help making it through the door, where a surprise waited for them in the main room of the house.

“Fritz!” Bridget cried, running forward to greet the battle roach, who stood on an old pitted table with Clarence by his side. Fritz seemed both delighted and concerned to see them.

“I can't leave you alone for five minutes!” he told them.

As Whitman and Soka helped him sit down in an overstuffed chair by the fireplace, Rory glanced around. The main room of the house sported worn stone walls and a big fireplace, with wooden beams crisscrossing along a hard wooden ceiling. It felt like a cozy safe place. “Is he okay?” Fritz was asking Whitman.

“I'm right here,” Rory said peevishly. “And I'm fine. How did your recruiting go?”

“Very well,” Fritz said, smiling. “The battle roaches know which side is just. Even my own clan finally came to my side.”

“Did Liv come, too?” Bridget asked.

“Yes, in fact, she did,” Fritz replied, trying not to grin but failing. “I left her in charge of the roach armies so I could come help you.”

“I knew you crazy kids would be reunited!” Bridget announced, and Fritz shook his head at her enthusiasm.

“Thank you for your belief.” He turned to Rory. “Did you find anything in Queens?”

“The second package!” Rory exclaimed, looking around in fear as he realized he didn't know where it had gone. He sighed with relief when Soka pulled it out of her pouch. “Can you read it out loud?” he asked reluctantly. “I can't focus that well, right now.”

“I'll read it,” Whitman offered, taking the pages. “Soka told me about this agreement your father mentioned, about the rules all gods must follow. I'd never heard of it! We'd always assumed our restrictions were part of the natural order of things. But if this is true, it will change everything we believe we know about ourselves. We must ask the old-timers what they have been hiding. I am curious to see what else is in these pages.” He opened to the top page. “Three,” he read.

“I hate skipping ahead!” Bridget pouted. Whitman snorted and began to read:

Rory glanced around in confusion. “What does this mean?”

“Who is Henry?” Bridget asked.

“This doesn't tell us anything!” Rory said, annoyed.

“Perhaps it does,” Soka said thoughtfully. “He would not write about this man Henry's secret, whatever it was, unless he thought it was important. He must be part of what Adriaen is trying to tell us.”

“But we don't even know who this guy could be!” Rory said. “Who can keep track of Kieft's servants, especially one from three hundred years ago!”

“Well, we know one thing,” Fritz said. The others looked at him. “Wherever they made this pact with the land, that's where we're going. It's the only thing that makes sense. This isa treasure map, of sorts. And we have to follow it to the end.”

They stared at one another, mulling this over, until a loud knock on the door made them jump.

“There they are!” Whitman said, striding over to the door. “I asked some friends to bring us someone to take a look at your head, Rory.” After glancing through a peephole to make sure he knew his visitors, he threw open the door to reveal two men, who strode into the room like soldiers, escorting a small woman in a nun's habit. Rory immediately recognized her as she hurried to his side.

“You are one of the nuns, aren't you?” Rory asked as the nun bent over him to check his wound. “From the Abbey?”

“I am Sister Charity,” the nun said. “The Abbess sent nuns to the different boroughs to assist with the wounded in your struggle. I was traveling with these soldiers' regiments when Whitman's request for medical help came. And when I heard it was you . . . the Abbess told us to keep an eye out for you. She's taken a liking to you, I think.” Sister Charity inspected his wound. “This was quite a crack you received. Normally, you would have to rest for weeks to recover. But I know you don't have that much time. Luckily, in your case, I am allowed to call on some extreme measures.” She muttered strange words to herself as she placed her hand over his wound. Rory began to feel warmth spread through his head. The feeling was familiar; he'd experienced this touch before. Her touch, he thought, and then wondered where that thought came from.

“Is that the Abbess?” Rory asked, his voice weak as the healing power flowed through him. “That touch I feel?”

The nun paused in her chanting, though her hand still covered his wound. “Not exactly. We nuns serve man, but not only man, and this power comes from she whom we also serve.”

“Who?”

The nun said nothing, returning to her chanting. Rory felt another wave flow through him and he had no strength to ask more.

Meanwhile, Whitman was introducing the soldiers as Colonel Wood and Colonel Smallwood.

“The same Colonel Smallwood from that story you told me about the heroic Marylanders?” Bridget asked, popping up to say hello. The shorter, fatter of the two colonels gave her a slight bow, his round red cheeks flushed with pleasure. He wore a blue overcoat with gold tassels on the shoulders, and his hair was powdered white.

“So you've heard of my brave men and their valiant stand?” Smallwood said, his voice booming as he waved his arms about energetically. “What a day that was, let me tell you! The British surprised us, but my men had blood of pure ice water. You should have heard the muskets fire. Boom! Crack! The smoke from the gunfire covered us all in a fog, turning the damned red-coated foe into demons in the mist. It was enough to scare the pants off of a Hessian! But we would not break! That's where you learn who you really are. Out in the thick of it!”

“Wow!” Bridget was impressed. “You're hard-core! And was your friend in your brigade?” She nodded at the taller colonel.

“Oh no,” Colonel Wood said, smiling. He sported a long blue coat with two rows of big gold buttons that hung down over a pair of bright red trousers, which were tucked into a pair of big black boots. He had the coolest mustache Bridget had ever seen—it ran down from his ears along his jaw until it leaped up above his lip, leaving his chin completely bare.

“Colonel Wood was the leader of the famous Red Legged Devils,” Whitman explained. “They were the fiercest fighters in the Civil War. I remember them vividly—I was mortal during the war, and I wanted nothing more than to be a solider in Brooklyn's Fourteenth regiment. Lincoln's favorite, you know. He often asked them to attend public functions with him.”

“President Lincoln appreciated our backbone,” Colonel Wood said modestly. He was less effusive than Colonel Smallwood, but he seemed just as brave.

“So will both your regiments join the fight against Kieft?” Whitman asked them.

“How can I fight for one oppressed people and not another?” Wood asked. “The Red Legged Devils will answer the call.”

“I always did like my tragic last stands,” Colonel Smallwood said. “It's no fun if it isn't hopeless.”

“That's heartening,” Fritz said wryly.

“What are you lot doing here, anyway?” Smallwood asked the roach. “Recruiting?”

“Actually, they've got another mission,” Whitman told the colonels.