The Keep of Fire (9 page)

The force of Farr’s words struck Travis by surprise, pushing him back into the seat. “Duratek,” he said.

Deirdre crouched down beside Travis. “Yes, the man at the saloon was from Duratek Corporation. They’ve been—”

Farr raised a hand. “Not yet, Deirdre. There are some things we must tell Mr. Wilder first.”

Deirdre stood and gave a curt nod.

Farr leaned against the stage. “It’s true that we’re interested in the man in the black robe who came to the saloon. We’ve been investigating cases like this for some time. However, we investigate many things, and it was not because of him that we came to Castle City.”

“But what happened to him?” Travis said, his voice a croak. “How did he …?”

Farr picked up the envelope and pulled out more photos. He handed them to Travis. Although he did not want to, Travis forced himself to look. Images met his eyes: dark husks twisted into horrible poses. He recalled a television special he had seen about Pompeii. Thousands had been buried by the scalding ash of Vesuvius. Nineteen centuries later, archaeologists had poured plaster into the hollows where their bodies had been burned away. Those casts reminded Travis of the shapes in the photos, each one a perfect effigy of the final moment of pain, before the fire consumed them.

Farr held out a hand, and Travis gratefully surrendered the photos.

“What’s happening to them?” he said.

Farr drew on his cigarette. “That’s a question we
very much want to answer. There have been incidents of spontaneous combustion recorded for centuries, but the current cases are different in subtle ways. Our tests show that the spot temperatures reached are far higher than in previous cases. Even so, with almost all victims, the body is not consumed by the heat. Instead, we’ve recorded distinct changes in morphology, organic chemical composition, and even DNA structure. The man who entered your establishment is one of the few exceptions, as his immolation was complete. In virtually all other cases, it is not as if the victim is being burned so much as … changed.”

Travis glanced up at Deirdre, his gray eyes wide behind his spectacles. “It’s just like what you told me, the story about the Immolated Man. But you said that was only a myth.”

Deirdre gave a wry smile.
“Only a myth
is an oxymoron, Travis. Myths have the power to reveal truths about our lives in ways our senses can’t. In some ways, myths are
more
real than the world we see, not less.”

Farr crushed out his cigarette in a rusted sardine tin. “Over the last several months, there has been an epidemic of these new cases of spontaneous combustion. Some in our organization believe they might be related to the current heat wave on this continent. Some have … other ideas. Regardless, right now the outbreak is largely unknown to the public. But that might soon change.”

“Why?” Travis said, not sure he wanted to know.

Farr’s expression was grim. “Just last week I watched a man in a Kansas City hospital burning, even as the doctors there tried to save him. His case was atypical in that, for several hours after the immolation, he survived.”

Travis pressed his eyes shut. No, he had not
wanted to know this. He forced his eyes back open. “What … what did he …?”

“What did he become?” Farr shook his head. “I’m not certain. However, the hospital’s tests will certainly reveal what our own studies have. It is only a matter of time before this story is more widely known. But to answer your question: Toward the end, before he ceased, his flesh was the color and texture of basalt, and when a nurse attempted to give him an injection, witnesses say that he touched her, and she caught on fire. She’s in an intensive care unit at the moment. The doctors doubt she will survive.”

Travis swallowed hot bile. “So what does this have to do with me?”

“Nothing, or so we thought,” Farr said. “We did not think these incidents were related to your case. And they still might not be. But one thing I have learned over the years is to seek connection in coincidence.”

Something was wrong—something beyond the Seekers, beyond the immolations. “But if you didn’t come to Castle City because of the burnt people, why did you come?”

Farr glanced at Deirdre. “I think you might do a better job here.”

Deirdre perched on the corner of the seat next to Travis. “You say you’ve spoken to Dr. Beckett. That means you know what happened to her last fall at Denver Memorial Hospital, when—”

“—when she killed one ironheart, and Hadrian helped her escape another at the Denver police station.” He knew it was wrong to enjoy the surprised looks on their faces, but he did all the same.

Deirdre gave a slow nod. “I imagine Grace told you the Seekers were interested in her experiences. After the incident at the police station, we tried to regain contact with her, but we failed. The car we had given her was found abandoned just outside Castle City. In
the time since we’ve tried to discover where she went next.”

“It’s a world called Eldh,” Travis said quietly.

He could see both Deirdre and Farr tense as they exchanged looks. Deirdre started to lift a hand. Farr gave a slight shake of his head, and she nodded.

“Here,” Farr said as he took another photo from the envelope. “I want you to look at something else.”

Travis took the photo, afraid he would see more images of shriveled bodies. Instead it was a view looking west down Elk Street, in tones of sepia rather than Kodacolor. The muddy street was crowded with horses and wagons. Men in rumpled wool suits stood in groups, and women walked by in dark, heavy dresses.

“This photo was taken here in Castle City in 1897,” Deirdre said. “I found it in the archives at the county library.”

Travis squinted. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Here,” Farr said, pointing to a figure in the lower left corner of the old photo. “This man.”

The photo was blurry at the edges, but Travis could still make out an elderly, dignified gentleman in a dark jacket and waistcoat. His white beard was neatly trimmed, but his hair flew about his head, and he gazed forward with piercing eyes.

It felt as if someone had slipped a needle into Travis’s heart. He looked up. “But that’s … that’s Jack.”

“Yes,” Farr said. “We’ve been searching for your friend Jack Graystone for some time now, Mr. Wilder.”

Travis clutched the photo. “You’re too late.”

Deirdre met his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Travis.”

Silence settled over the opera house.

“I’d like a cup of coffee,” Farr said. “Would anyone care to join me?”

Minutes later they stood on the stage. Travis gripped a Styrofoam cup in his hands, filled from a thermos that Farr had produced. Travis had thought the stage to be empty, but he saw now it was just an illusion conjured by the spotlight. A table stood at the back, cluttered with folders, laptop computers, and pieces of electronic equipment whose purposes he couldn’t guess.

Travis took a sip from his cup. It burned his tongue, but he didn’t care. “What’s going on, Deirdre?

What is all of this?”

She glanced at Farr. “What can I tell him?”

“Whatever you need to tell him. Just remember the Nine and the One.”

Deirdre’s expression was thoughtful, then she nodded and looked up. “It was the autumn after I left Castle City that I first heard of the Seekers.” She paced as she talked, her black biker boots beating against the stage. “I traveled to Ireland, looking for some inspiration for my music, and after that I spent some time tramping around England, Wales, and Scotland. For a week I played at a pub in Edinburgh. That was where I first met Hadrian. We talked after my set one night, and he said some amazing things about … possibilities. Possibilities I’ve wondered about myself.” She smiled. “A week later, he took me to the Seekers’ Charterhouse in London.”

“I was lucky to find you,” Farr said. “The Seekers were lucky.”

Deirdre’s eyes grew distant. “I’ve always known there are many worlds besides our own, worlds that can sometimes draw near to this one. It’s a belief both my parents gave me.” Her gaze focused again on Travis. “I knew the moment I met them that I belonged with the Seekers.”

“So you look for other worlds,” Travis said.

It was Farr who answered him. “As I said, Mr. Wilder, we seek many things. But to answer your
question—yes, for five centuries the Seekers have sought out, cataloged, and studied evidence of worlds other than this Earth.”

Deirdre gave a wry smile. “It’s not quite as glamorous as it sounds. After I joined, I found out that most of what the Seekers do consists of reading boring old papers and entering records into a computer.”

Farr glanced at her. “However, it was in doing just such
boring
work that you found the key to a case that had hit a dead end over a century ago.”

Deirdre picked up a folder. “This file concerns a man the Seekers know as James Sarsin. We don’t know what his real name is, as he’s had many. However, he went by the name of Sarsin when the Seekers first became aware of him. He was a bookseller in London at the time. This was early in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.” Deirdre glanced up from the folder. “By the way, that’s Queen Elizabeth
One
. All of this occurred in the year 1564, but it was clear even then that the man who called himself Sarsin had been living in and around London for nearly two centuries.”

Travis shook his head. “But that’s—” He cut the sentence short.
Impossible
was a meaningless word. Anything was possible. Hadn’t he learned that well enough?

Deirdre pulled several papers from the folder. “These are copies of the deeds for Mr. Sarsin’s London bookshop, dating from 1532 to 1851. If you look at them, you’ll see that, every fifty years or so, the proprietor of the Queen’s Shelf died, and the business was bequeathed to another individual.”

Travis flipped through the pages. Reading was always hard, and the ornate script complicated the task, but his work with runes helped him concentrate and decipher the signatures:
Oliver Sarsin, Jacques Gris-Pierre, Louis Gris-Pierre
. He looked up. “What’s so unusual about this?”

“Not much—that is, until you take a look at this.” Deirdre pulled another sheet from the file. “All of these deeds were drawn up in the days of inkwells and quill pens. Occasionally, the person signing the deed smudged the document, leaving a fingerprint. This shows a comparison of prints lifted from deeds signed in the years 1592, 1651, and 1799.”

Travis glanced at the sheet. He was no expert on the subject, but even he could see that the magnified sections of the three prints bore the same pattern of whorls. “So you’re telling me that this man lived in London for over three centuries, every once in a while pretending to die and leaving his business to himself so the neighbors wouldn’t get too suspicious?”

Deirdre’s dark eyes sparkled. “You make it sound so mundane.”

“The Seekers suspected that there might be something otherworldly to Mr. Sarsin’s nature,” Farr said. “So over the centuries we have observed him, hoping to learn more.”

“Didn’t they ever consider just asking him?”

Farr set down his coffee. “Seekers tried to approach Mr. Sarsin on several occasions. However, he refused to speak to them. It was clear he was aware of us and our curiosity, and he had no intention of cooperating. Then, shortly after 1880, the Queen’s Shelf burned to the ground. Mr. Sarsin vanished, and the case was closed. That is, until Deirdre came along.”

She shrugged. “It was chance, really. I was archiving old folders, scanning evidence into the computer system in London. One of the pieces was a letter—the last bit of information about James Sarsin that the Seekers retrieved. It was addressed to an acquaintance in London, but there was no return address, and no way to know from where the letter had been sent.”

Deirdre searched through the folder, then pulled out a crisp, yellowed sheet. She read in a low voice.

Travis went rigid. “Clouded Brow? But that’s the Ute name for Castle Peak.”

“Yes,” Deirdre said. “It is.”

At last Travis understood. “It was Jack. He was James Sarsin. That’s why you came to Castle City, isn’t it?”

“You saw the photo,” Deirdre said. “Jack Graystone lived in Castle City for more than a century, and he didn’t age a day. I think you know the answer as well as we do.”

“Would you like to sit down, Mr. Wilder?” Farr gestured to a chair by the table.

Travis nodded and sank into the chair. He gripped his right hand. He knew that Jack was—had been—a wizard from Eldh, but would he ever really understand who Jack was? And what Jack had done to him?

Deirdre laid her hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Travis shook with silent laughter. Why were people always asking him that just after they’d pulled the rug out from under him?

Farr sat on the edge of the table. “Once we knew of Jack Graystone, we suspected it was not chance that Grace Beckett came to Castle City just prior to her disappearance. Deirdre knew that you were friends with Graystone. And, as we began investigating, we learned that you yourself had vanished the same
night as Dr. Beckett. So I think you can understand why we wished to speak to you.”

Travis only stared at the folder on the table.

“You are an amazing man, Mr. Wilder,” Farr said, his brown eyes intent. “You realize that, don’t you? James Sarsin and Grace Beckett are two of the Seekers’ most important cases. Both are without doubt otherworldly travelers. And you are connected to both. In fact, I would hazard that you are an otherworldly traveler yourself.”

“Why?” Travis said. “Why do you care so much about other worlds?”

Farr’s voice was low. “What is life without new discoveries, new knowledge, new experiences? We are scholars, Mr. Wilder. What motivation do we need beyond wonder itself?”