The Invisible Tower (3 page)

Artie pulled open the store's heavy oak front door. A brass bell attached to it tinkled. He could swear that in the little bell's ring was a voice that said, “Welcome, good sir.”

But bells couldn't talk, right?

He crossed the threshold. Artie couldn't explain it, but as he did, he felt
stronger
. It was like he'd gained twenty pounds of muscle. His fingertips tingled. His hunched back—the default posture for any tallish preteen who preferred to keep a low profile—straightened out. He turned his neck from side to side and it cracked. He took a deep breath. He felt amazing.

The inside of the store was dimly lit. The windows were totally blocked by all of the stuff on display in them, and Artie couldn't see outside at all. Not even a crack of sunlight. Artie blinked as his eyes adjusted.

The shop was narrow and high ceilinged. There were three rows of lofty shelves stretched out before him. On the end of one of the shelves was a large sign in silver letters that read:

SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PUNISHED. MALCONTENTS WILL BE BANNED. LOYALISTS WILL BE BLESSED.

—MANAGEMENT

Something about its lettering conveyed its seriousness. Artie instinctively doubted that the Invisible Tower was robbed very often, if at all.

He walked around and touched the shelves and the spines of the books and comics with reverence. Things were crammed together and not always well organized. Low, Celtic-sounding music played over a tinny sound system from beyond the bookshelves.

Artie suddenly remembered what he was there for and wandered deeper into the place, looking for the video game stuff.

At the back of the store was a checkout counter unlike any he'd ever seen. Instead of the usual waist-high case with a cash register on top, there was a hulking ebony-black desk that looked plain ancient. Its legs were carved in the shape of a draft horse's—hooves, muscles, tendons, and all. On top of the table was a gigantic and ornate cash register. There was also a normal-looking ledger, a brass desk bell, and a liter bottle of water.

No one was behind the desk. Artie stepped forward to ring the bell, and that's when he saw them.

In a locked case to his right were the customized gaming controllers. There was one for PlayStation encased in snakeskin, another that was fire-engine red, and an Xbox one that was striped like a tiger and had little cat eyes for buttons. There was a pink one with orange flames on it,
and a glittery purple one with silver buttons. There were also several boxes of standard controllers that hadn't been opened. But, above all these, on the highest shelf and with a light shining on it, was a golden Xbox controller that looked like it was made of real metal. All of its buttons were jet-black, and its connector cable was red velvet. It was, without a doubt, one of the coolest things Artie had ever seen. In front of it was a small placard with golden handlettering that read, “Display Only.”

“Ahem.”

Artie turned. Standing behind the black desk was an old man in a red long-sleeved T-shirt and billowing linen pants. He was shorter than Artie, and thin like Kynder, but he had a little gut that filled out his shirt. His skin was very wrinkled yet very healthy-looking. He had on round eyeglasses and a black porkpie hat, and had huge sideburns that curled below his jawline. He wore a long necklace with some sort of wooden pendant weighing it down.

The old man smiled like a Buddha, and Artie couldn't help but move toward him. As he got closer, Artie realized that what he'd taken for deep wrinkles on the man's face was in fact a maze of black tattoos crisscrossing in every direction.

“Like what you see, eh?” His voice was clear and substantial sounding.

“Uh, yes sir. I've never been in a place like this before.”

“Yes, it is pretty cool, isn't it?” He chuckled and placed his hands palm down on the desk.

“Say, uh, I was wondering—”

“The golden one? Display only, like it says.”

“So does that mean you have others like it that
are
for sale?”

The man looked down at the table and chuckled again. Without looking up, he said, “No, I'm afraid not, child. Can I ask you something, though?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. And I'm almost thirteen. I'm not really a child anymore.”

“Ah, pardon me. To these eyes, everyone seems a child. Here's what I want to ask: May I try to guess your name?”

That was weird, but hey—why not? “Okay. Shoot.”

“Excellent.” The old man laced his fingers together and closed his eyes. He rocked easily on his feet. “Hmm. Yes. You've got a royal name, I think. An old name. English. Not Charles. Not Henry or James. Edward? No, no. I think it starts with
A
.” Artie felt his palms clam up. Then the man stopped rocking, opened his hands and his eyes, and leveled a gaze on Artie that made his knees buckle. “You're Arthur!”

Artie couldn't believe it. Then suddenly the message from the
Otherworld
game, the one he'd forced himself to forget, hit him like a bolt of lightning:
Arthur. In one week's
time you will come to me at the IT. You are special, Arthur, and I have need of your service and power. I have been waiting so long for you. Your humble servant, M
.

The IT. Invisible Tower.

Which made this old guy M.

Artie took a small step backward as he realized that the Easter egg had not been a coincidence at all.

Then a silly notion sprang into his mind. He said, “Yeah, and I guess that makes you Merlin, huh?”

The words, while his own, sounded utterly ridiculous. Arthur and Merlin, together alone, in some geek-fest comic-book-collectors' shop called the Invisible Tower.

The old man smiled and took a deep breath before he spoke. “I've gone by many names, dear Arthur, some kind and some horrific. Lately I've been known as Lyn. Many of the children who enjoy my shop just call me “dude,” which is a little absurd but fine by me. Merlin, though. My goodness.”

Artie developed a lump in his throat the size of a tennis ball. He choked it back and asked, “So wait. You
are
, like, Merlin?”

“Aha! There you go again. So easily you say it! Part of the spell has already been broken. The first stones have begun to crumble. So soon I am in your debt.”

Artie was thoroughly confused, and a little scared. He
asked, “What are you talking about, mister?”

The man ignored Artie's trepidation and said, “Arthur, my boy, you may find this hard to believe, but there is magic at work here that has kept me from my proper name for nearly as long as I can remember…” The old man looked at the ceiling then at the huge desk. He looked back at Artie. “Merlin! Not even I have been able to say it! Merlin.
Mer
lin!” Each time he said it, he got quieter and quieter, until he was whispering, “
Merlin
.”

Artie asked weakly, “So what exactly are you saying?”

“What I'm saying is that you are special, my boy. You see me as I am. Most people look at me and maybe they
begin
to think of Merlin, but then that idea is dashed from their mind. But you! You see me as I am,” he repeated with wonder. “Tell me—what is the strangest thing about the way I look?”

Artie felt supremely uneasy, but this was a simple question to answer. “Your tattoos, sir,” he said.

The old man beamed. “Exactly. Come here, I want to show you something.”

Artie didn't want to go anywhere with this old freak, yet something about his tone enraptured him. He had to hear the old guy out. He said, “All the same, sir, I'd like to stay where I am. If you have something to show me, you'll have to show it to me from over there.”

The man waved his hands through the air comfortingly and said, “Of course, of course. Here. Look.” He bent down
and lifted a small color TV onto the great desk. It took Artie a second to realize that he was looking at live surveillance images of the store. The bookshelves, the toy cases, the front door, the desk. There he was, and there was the old man. The man took off his hat. Something was different. Artie took a step forward and looked closely. The man in the monitor was bald but didn't appear to have a single tattoo on his head. Artie turned quickly to the man. He nodded. His head was definitely crisscrossed by a swarm of lines and runes and shapes, all in dark ink. Artie looked back at the monitor. It was as if the man on the screen had been washed clean.

“How are you doing that?”

“That is how most everyone sees me. As I said, Arthur, you are special. You are very special, my boy.”

A shiver ran down Artie's spine.

“Special? You mean something's wrong with me?”

“No, no! Nothing is wrong with you. You are King Arthur, the only one who can break the spell and say my name. Which means, of course, that I
am
Merlin!”

This was too much. The heck with Kay's special controller. No way this old guy was the real Merlin and Artie was some kind of reincarnation of King Arthur. What did that even mean? That he was the king of England? Artie had never even been to England!

Surely Artie was going insane. Yeah, that was it.

Artie backpedaled. “I, uh, I've got to get out of here, mister. I'm thinking you're probably just a crazy old tattooed dude and I shouldn't be talking to you.” Not looking where he was going, he bumped into a shelf and spun around a little. He had to look away to catch himself, and when he turned back, the man had moved from behind the desk and right up to Artie's side.

Artie backed quickly toward the exit, but while he did, the old man held his hands open in front of him and pleaded, “Please, child, hear me out! You are special! A king, I swear it! Ask your father, if you don't believe me! Ask how you came to him!”

“I'm adopted, I already know that!” Artie was halfway to the door. His instincts were to turn and run, but something about the power of the man's voice held his attention. It was like a spell was being cast over him.

The old man continued, “Yes, but ask about Mr. Thumb. Ask him where you're from. Ask Kynder today, and if he tells you that you are special too, then please consider coming back here tomorrow. You've nothing to fear! If you allow me to show you something, then the controller is yours—and Kay's as well!”

“Kay—how do you know my sis—” He was so close to the door now.

“I know much about you, Arthur. You've nothing to fear from me. You are my king! You are my king and I am
now and forevermore at your service!”

Artie stumbled through the door into the blinding daylight as these preposterous words rang in his ears. Barely paying attention, he tripped across the pavement and back into the same cab, and without saying a word the driver sped off to the Hilton.

When Artie got back to
the hotel room he lied, saying that the store was closed but that it would be open early the next morning before the tournament started, and that he'd be happy to go back and get Kay a controller then. Kay was soothed a little, and Kynder was satisfied that it would be taken care of, and so they passed the rest of the day quietly hanging out in the room and around the pool on the roof.

Artie didn't mention the old man—wizard—Merlin—whatever—at all. But he couldn't stop thinking about him.

Trying to fall asleep that night was torture. How had that dude known Kay's and Kynder's names? Had he used magic on Artie? Was there even such a thing as magic? Was Artie going crazy?

He had to be.

But even if he was, this Merlin guy had touched on
the
question that Artie had longed to know the answer to: Where was he from? Kynder had never told him, preferring to play it off like it wasn't important because they had such a great little family. Still, like a lot of adopted kids, Artie couldn't help but wonder if he had come from somewhere—from
someone
—special. He didn't want to take anything away from Kynder, because he loved his dad a ton, but now more than ever he needed to know if he had come from someone
important
.

He resolved to do as the old man had said and ask. So, as Kay snored away in the other bed, Artie gathered his nerve and whispered into the darkness, “Kynder?”

“Mmmm?”

“You awake?”

“A little, Arthur.” Kynder turned over and rubbed his face hard. “What's up?”

Artie said quietly, “I heard you talking to her yesterday.”

Kynder paused. Finally he breathed, “You … did?”

“Yeah. Don't worry, I didn't tell Kay.”

Kynder sounded sad when he said, “Me either.”

“It's okay. It's better that way. But that's not what I want to talk about. It just got me thinking. You know, about how you got me. Can you tell me how you got me? Please?”

Kynder sighed and said, “I adopted you, Arthur, you know that. Kay's mom and I adopted you, and awhile later Kay's mom left us. That's all.”

Artie took a deep breath and then he said, “Yeah, but the thing is, I've been thinking about it a lot lately and I really want to know more. Look, don't ask me how, but I've heard a little about Mr. Thumb. Please, can you tell me the rest?”

Of course Artie knew nothing about Mr. Thumb, but he had to take a chance.

And it worked. After a few moments Kynder propped himself up and began talking. This was more or less how it went:

On a clear September night Kynder and his ex-wife were woken by a horrible sound coming from Kay's baby monitor: a sudden and horrendous coughing fit.

Kynder jumped out of bed and ran to Kay's room, his ex-wife not far behind. Kay's door was half open and they could see the warm glow of her night-light coming from inside. She coughed and gasped desperately.

But then she stopped, and the light from her room got much brighter. This, along with Kay's silence, made Kynder and his ex-wife freeze in astonishment.