The Fire Chronicle (45 page)

Michael nodded. He was still somewhat dumbfounded.

“First, we must look at the particular nature of his longevity. Do you remember Dr. Algernon referring to him as the Undying One?”

Again, Michael said he did.

“Well”—and here the wizard smiled—“far from never dying, the Dire Magnus has died many times.”

“But you said—”

“And each time, he has been reborn. He dies and is reborn, dies and is reborn, over and over.”

“You mean he’s reincarnated?”

“Not exactly—”

“So it’s more a rising-from-the-ashes thing?”

“Nor that either—”

“Does his spirit possess some poor kid’s body? I saw that in a movie—”

The wizard held up his hand. “We could speculate all day. That has been my dilemma. Many theories, but no proof. However, all magic, especially powerful magic, leaves traces, and in that mansion, I finally found what I needed.”

Michael was doing his best to remember every word the wizard said, but oh, how his hand ached for pen and paper! There was just no substitute for a written record.

The wizard blew another smoke ring and then asked, abruptly, “My boy, what do you think happens when the universe dies?”

“Huh?”

“You can’t imagine that all this will just go on forever. The universe is a mass of constantly expanding energy, and one day
it will collapse upon itself. Like a cake left too long in the oven. Then what? Nothingness?”

Michael shrugged. He had no idea.

The wizard leaned over the table. “It will be reborn.”

Michael almost said “Huh?” again.

“The life of the universe is not a straight line. Rather, imagine a circle. And along that circle, the universe is born, destroys itself, and is born again, over and over, endlessly. You understand?”

“I … think so.”

“Well, here is the truly amazing part. Just as the universe is reborn over and over, so is everything in it.” The wizard waved his arm in a broad, encompassing gesture. “This forest, the valley, the world outside, all the creatures who inhabit it, have all existed before, and will all exist again.”

“You mean, we’ve all … been alive before?”

“Exactly so. You, me, Emma, Katherine, Gabriel, this tree—in a pattern repeated for eternity. Who knows how many times you and I have sat here, having this exact conversation? And what the Dire Magnus did was to make contact with those earlier versions of the universe, to reach into them and pluck out his other selves and bring them here. How many times he did this, how many copies of himself he gathered together, I cannot say. But he then threw these other selves out across time, each further than the last, like stones tossed into the ocean, so that every few hundred years, another would be born into this world.”

“But … why?”

“Because long ago, it was prophesied that the full power of
the Books would not be unleashed for thousands of years. And without the power of the Books—all three, you understand, working in concert—he had no hope of achieving his goal. So—”

“Dr. Pym,” Michael interrupted, “do you realize that you’ve never said what exactly his goal is?”

“I haven’t?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Why, to usher in an age of magic in which he wields ultimate power! In which humanity is enslaved! That is his goal! And has been, these many, many centuries!”

“And he could do that?”

“Could he do that? My boy, the power of the Books is inseparable from the fabric of existence. Think of it this way—each time Katherine used the
Atlas
, each time you used the
Chronicle
, the world about us was changed. And that was done unconsciously. Imagine someone who
wanted
to change the world. Oh yes, if the Dire Magnus controls the Books, he can achieve his goal.”

Michael nodded, wondering what he had done, what he had changed, each time he’d used the
Chronicle
. No wonder Dr. Pym called the Books an option of last resort.

“As I was saying,” the wizard continued, “by means of these other selves, the Dire Magnus created a living bridge to carry himself across time. Now—and here we come to what I discovered in the mansion—it was always the duty of the current Dire Magnus to locate the next and confer on him the memories and power due him.”

“What do you mean, confer the memories and power?”

“These individuals are not born with knowledge of their true origin. It is not until the memories of the previous Dire Magnus—indeed, of each previous Dire Magnus—are transferred that the new Magnus gains the knowledge of who he is.

“And the last Dire Magnus came into being, or awoke, you might say, in that mansion at the turn of the twentieth century. That was what I discovered. And it was he whom my fellows and I fought and vanquished—or so we imagined—forty years ago. Since then, no other has risen to take his place. I believe that he was the last of those taken from the other worlds.”

“Then if you killed the last one, shouldn’t it all be over?”

“You would think. But even in death, his spirit has continued to drive his followers. And now that the prophecy is close to being fulfilled, the Books found and brought together, he is determined to rejoin the world of the living and reclaim all his old power.”

“How is that even possible?”

“My boy, the answer lies beside you.” He nodded at the red leather book resting on the branch. “Which is why the
Chronicle
must be kept from him.” Dr. Pym knocked the smoking tobacco from his pipe. “Now I think it is time to see your sister.”

Michael nodded. “I assume Emma’s with Gabriel—”

“Actually,” the wizard said, “I was speaking of Katherine.”

Kate was in a different tree, and to get there, the wizard led Michael across several of the bridges formed by the entwined branches, then down a harrowing staircase that wound around
one of the massive trunks. As they walked, Dr. Pym explained how he had arrived in the valley just after the volcano had erupted, emerging from the tunnel beneath the mountains in time to see the dragon fly past, with all her passengers. He’d followed them to the elf colony.

“The scene was chaotic, as you might imagine: between the elves’ joy at their princess’s return, their grief at learning of those who had fallen in battle, Emma shouting for someone to help Gabriel—I’m afraid my own arrival did little to calm things down—and then, without warning, Katherine was in our midst.”

Dr. Pym abruptly stopped walking and turned around. They were on the stairs, Michael two steps behind and above the wizard, one hand clutching the
Chronicle
, the other the trunk of the tree. He’d been staring at the old man’s back as a way of ignoring the plunging drop to his left. Now he found himself and the wizard eye to eye.

“Michael”—the wizard’s voice was somber—“there is no way to prepare you for what awaits, but do know we will make things right.” Then, without explaining further what he meant, the old man turned away down the stairs.

Rounding the curve of the tree, they came upon a room very like Michael’s own, a deep alcove in the trunk set above a wide, flat branch. The wizard paused at the entrance and gestured for Michael to go ahead. Inside were three figures. The elf princess Wilamena stood to Michael’s left. She wore a dress of dark green satin, embroidered with golden thread in the design of a great tree that seemed—if one did not look at it directly—to be moving its branches in the wind. The princess’s hair had been washed
and braided, and it shone brightly in the dim light. She looked at Michael, her eyes full of sympathy, but did not speak or move toward him.

Across from her, to Michael’s right, was Emma. She had neither changed clothes nor washed nor slept since the previous night, and, seeing Michael, she leapt up from where she was kneeling and ran and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing. Michael made the motions of holding her and patting her back, but something in him had shut down. His eyes were vacant; his body no longer seemed his own.

Directly before him, Kate lay on a low bed. Her eyes were closed, and she was wearing an ivory lace dress with a high neck. A blanket had been pulled up to just below her shoulders, and her arms lay outside the covers, her hands clasped about their mother’s golden locket. Her face was very pale.

Michael didn’t have to ask; he knew his sister was dead.

Gently, he disengaged Emma’s arms from around his neck, took her hand, and went and knelt beside Kate. He paused a moment to gather himself before speaking.

“When … when did she …”

“Just after she appeared,” the wizard said from the doorway. “The elf physicians and I tried everything we could. I’m very, very sorry.”

Michael reached out and touched his sister’s hand. The skin was cold.

It wasn’t real, he thought. It was some trick. This wasn’t Kate; she couldn’t be dead. And yet he knew it wasn’t a trick, and this was his sister.

Emma seized his arm, shaking it as she sobbed.

“Michael—bring her back! Use the book! You can do that, right? Bring her back! You have to! You have to!”

Michael didn’t have to be told. He already had the
Chronicle
open, the stylus in hand, and was getting ready to prick his thumb.

“I’m afraid that is not going to work.”

Michael looked to where Dr. Pym stood, framed against the forest.

“Your sister’s spirit has crossed into the land of the dead, the same place where the Dire Magnus has been trapped for forty years. His power there is very great. He will not release her.”

“What’re you talking about?” Michael demanded. He was impatient and scarcely heard the wizard’s words.

“There is a shadow over her,” the elf princess said, speaking for the first time. “It settled on her the moment she died.”

“Your sister,” Dr. Pym said, “is a prisoner in the land of the dead.”

Michael insisted that he at least be allowed to try to bring Kate back. The wizard agreed, but said that if he felt any resistance, he must not force it. Michael barely heard him. Pricking his thumb, he placed the bloodied tip of the stylus on the page, felt the familiar current run through him, saw Kate’s face snap into focus, and began to write.

He couldn’t get past the second letter of her name. It was as if an invisible force stood against him, and when he tried to push back—directly disobeying the wizard’s orders—he felt a crack start to open in the stylus. He stopped, panicked.

And that was that. Dr. Pym urged the children not to give up hope, saying he was going to consult with Princess Wilamena’s father and the elders among the elves, that they would find a way to free Katherine; then the wizard and the elf princess left, and
Emma collapsed against her brother, sobbing; and Michael, who felt as if he were at the bottom of a dark well, and receiving only dull vibrations from the world above, put his arm about her and let her cry.

The two of them stayed by Kate the rest of the day, hardly speaking. Twice, Emma left to check on Gabriel, returning each time to say that he was still asleep.

When night came, there was singing in the forest. It was sad and beautiful, and an elf who brought them dinner said it was a death song for the elves who had fallen in the battle; and the children listened and felt comforted. But neither was hungry, and without Dr. Pym to tell them to eat, the food remained untouched. The wizard returned sometime later. He told them he had not yet found a way to free Kate from the Dire Magnus’s hold and he pressed them to get some rest. Michael said he wasn’t going anywhere, but he joined the wizard in demanding that Emma go to bed. Emma tried to argue, but having stayed up with Kate all the previous night, she was mumbling and heavy-lidded and almost trembling with fatigue. Eventually, she gave in.

Her room was in a different tree, and she hugged Michael before she left.

“It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it? I guess … happy birthday.”

As Emma stepped out onto the branch, Dr. Pym called for her to wait, saying he would guide her through the dark. He turned to Michael.

“What is it, my boy? I can see you have a question.”

“Could I … could I have brought her back? Did I do something wrong?”

It had tortured him all day, the idea that it might have been possible to bring Kate back, if only he’d been strong enough or clever enough, and that the wizard, to spare his feelings, had placed all the blame on the Dire Magnus.

Dr. Pym seemed neither troubled nor surprised by Michael’s question. “No, my boy, you did nothing wrong. You never had any chance of reviving your sister. I only allowed you to try so that you could understand what it is we face.”

“But I almost broke the stylus.”

The wizard shrugged. “Worse things might have happened. The stylus is a crutch, nothing more.”

The elf who had brought dinner had also brought candles, and in the flickering light, Michael studied the old man’s face and tried to divine his meaning. The answer, if there, was impossible to read.

“Tell me,” Dr. Pym said, “did the Guardian give you any warnings about using the book?”

“He said … he said it would change me.”

“How could it not? Each experience we have changes us. And when you use the
Chronicle
, you live another’s entire life, share their hopes and fears, their loves and hatreds; it would be very easy to become lost. You must always remember who you are.”