The Keepers (21 page)

Chloe's eyes searched his face—concerned at first, and then going bright with mischief. “Okay, okay. I see the grandiose thoughts rolling around in there. But don't let her get you all freaked. She also said the dragonfly was a trinket. Do I seem like a trinket owner?”

Horace laughed. “Not really.”

She stepped close to him. “Here.” She held out a hand toward him, pointer finger extended. “Feel. Go ahead.” Horace lifted the tip of his finger slowly to hers, and just as they were about to touch, the dragonfly stirred in the dark. His finger slipped into the tip of Chloe's, their flesh overlapping
by just a fraction of an inch. In that fraction, a massive pulsing energy coursed, an ocean of new sensation, unfiltered and unnamed. Horace breathed, and she breathed with him. He could feel her heartbeat, thought he could feel even the tiny work of the cells that comprised her, the creeping growth of her bone, and beneath it all the sweet clarion song of the dragonfly itself, as much a part of her as anything else.

“Does that feel like a trinket to you?” Chloe said low.

“Definitely not,” Horace said, his own voice hoarse.

She dropped her hand, breaking the connection and leaving him dazed. “So let's go show her.”

They turned and went after Mrs. Hapsteade. The floor became crunchy, wet gravel. When they reached her, Mrs. Hapsteade surprised Horace by turning to Chloe and making a tiny bow. The glowing black pendant swung. Faint shadows bobbed and weaved around them. “My apologies, Keeper. There's no cause great enough to excuse the handling of another's Tan'ji without permission. I'm embarrassed.” Chloe didn't respond, but Mrs. Hapsteade didn't seem to expect her to. Instead, she turned to Horace. “And my apologies to you, Keeper. I failed to act when I should have. It's not my place to ask that you
prove anything to me. That task belongs to others.”

Horace did not need to look at Chloe to know that she was as surprised by these formal apologies as he was. “It's okay,” he murmured.

But Chloe was not so forgiving. “Why should he have to prove anything to
anyone
?” she insisted.

“The Fel'Daera is dangerous. As dangerous as any weapon. Time is not a trivial matter, you know. It's not a simple force to be tweaked, like gravity or the push and pull of atoms. Time is the very fabric of our existence, our identities. More than any other element of the universe, it connects us all.”

“But Horace is the Keeper of the box. He knows—”

“Maybe he does know best. I hope so. But not everyone agrees that the Fel'Daera should be offered up to new Keepers in the first place. Certainly it was never meant for deeds like the one I just witnessed.”

Horace, listening mutely, perked up. “Then what was it meant for?”

Mrs. Hapsteade ignored him. “We must go see Mr. Meister. He'll need to hear what has happened. Will you walk with me, Keepers? It's not far.” After a moment of awkward hesitation in which Horace wondered what “not far” meant to Mrs. Hapsteade, the three of them set out.

They entered a new tunnel, broader and higher yet, a wide arched passage running perpendicular to the first. Overhead, bits of sunlight streamed through irregular patches in the ceiling, odd rectangles and circles. Noises filtered through as well, rumbles and roars over a hissing river of sound—traffic. The patches of sun were sewer grates and drains in the street above. The ordinary world was still there, just above them.

They walked, footsteps crunching. More than once Horace thought he heard the squeak of a rat. A faint cool breeze and the windows of light above helped keep his head clear. Plus the tunnel, at the moment, was big enough to drive a bus through. He hoped it would stay that way.

“I'm wondering about the Nevren,” Chloe said. “About why it's there.”

“It protects us,” Mrs. Hapsteade replied briskly. “Inside the Nevren, Tanu can't function, because they can't feed on the energies that allow them to be what they are. The golem, for instance—if it attempted to pass into the Nevren, it would crumble to pieces.”

Horace couldn't help himself. “Wait . . . the golem is a Tanu?”

“Of course. Did you think that it was alive?”

Chloe shook her head. “It passed through me. I felt it. It's not alive.”

“That's right. The golem is a device, like all Tanu. And like all Tanu—or almost all, anyway—it can't function in the Nevren.”

“Does the golem have a Keeper, then?” Horace asked. “Were the Riven there, too?”

“The golem has no Keeper, not like you think. The golem is a very powerful Tan'kindi. It does not take the bond like a true Tan'ji, but it does require a controller—someone to hold the leash, if you like.” Mrs. Hapsteade glanced back the way they had come, eyebrows high. “Yes, the Riven were there.
But they can't follow us any better than the golem can.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason we ourselves struggle through the Nevren. Understand that the Riven are highly dependent on their Tanu, in ways big and small. And most of the Riven have their own Tan'ji—sometimes more than one. The Riven bond very tightly with their instruments, to the point where one cannot be separated from the other. The bond is so tight that they can't suffer the Nevren nearly as well as we can. The moment the bond is severed, and their Tanu cease to function, they are incapacitated. Dispossession comes quickly.” She looked heavily at Horace. “But the Nevren can be dangerous for us, too. I should've prepared you better, Horace. Stupid of me not to be more cautious.”

“So, this Nevren thing,” Chloe asked. “It's a Tanu too?”

“The Nevren's not a thing at all. It's an area of influence. A field.”

“Like a magnetic field?” said Horace.

“Yes, much like that.”

“And what creates that field?”

“The Nevren exists wherever we need safety. To reach any of our most intimate sanctuaries, you first have to pass through the Nevren.”

Horace noticed that wasn't exactly an answer, but he didn't push her. “So there's more than one Nevren. But the House of Answers—we didn't pass through one when we came through the front door, or we would have felt it, right?”

“The front door has other safeguards. They aren't perfect, as you saw today when the golem came through, but I still don't know how the Riven found—” Mrs. Hapsteade stopped abruptly. She gestured for them to do the same, tipping her head as if she were listening. Her chest rose and fell, making the ghostly pool of black light around them pulse slightly. After a moment she spoke, her voice thick and low. “Wait here. Don't move.” She slid forward down the tunnel.

Horace realized the passageway had become darker, and a lot narrower, grimy stone walls eight feet apart. He'd been too distracted to notice. Now it grew darker still as Mrs. Hapsteade pulled away swiftly, taking the black light with her. Ten feet, twenty feet, forty. Far away, and with the light in front of her, she looked like a paper doll. Then the light snuffed out, dropping them into total darkness.

“You okay?” Chloe said immediately.

Horace closed his eyes, concentrating on the faint, cool breeze. “What happened?”

“Don't know.” Chloe shuffled impatiently. She called out. “Hello? Seriously?”

“We can't get out of here without her.”

“Don't be dramatic. Of course we can.”

A sharp rustling sound. The black light sprang back to life. Mrs. Hapsteade was returning. But there was someone at her side now, someone tall and lean and dark—not Mr. Meister. “It's all right,” Mrs. Hapsteade called ahead to them. “A friend is here. There's been a change of plans.”

Mrs. Hapsteade and the new arrival spoke to each other in low tones. Horace couldn't make out what they were saying. There was a strange extra beat to the sound of their approach, and as they drew nearer, Horace realized the stranger was walking with a cane. It dug crisply into the gritty floor with each step.

“Who meets people in the sewers?” Chloe mumbled.

The stranger stopped before them and stood ramrod straight, gazing vacantly over their heads. He was a tall black kid, high school age, maybe. He had short-cropped hair and wore dark clothes—long sleeves, long pants. There was something extremely proper about him, calm and reserved.

“No formalities,” Mrs. Hapsteade said sharply, as though they'd been about to launch into handshakes and how-do-you-dos. “Horace, Chloe, Gabriel. I feel safe in saying we can all be trusted.”

The tall boy—Gabriel—bent over his walking stick and made a small, elegant bow. The cane itself gleamed, dark but with a silver foot. Horace couldn't see details in the eerie light—and he couldn't say how he knew it—but it was obvious that the cane was Tan'ji.

“Gabriel will escort you safely home,” Mrs. Hapsteade said briskly.

“But Mr. Meister—” Horace began.

“Certainly he must speak with you, but not today.”

“What's going on?”

Mrs. Hapsteade brushed the question off. “Can you meet
again tomorrow—for the afternoon?”

Tomorrow was the first full day of summer vacation. Horace's parents would be at work. “I guess,” he said. Chloe shrugged as though the question hardly mattered.

“Wait for me at the corner where you catch your usual bus to school, Horace. Twelve o'clock. You'll be home by four.” Horace nodded, not bothering to ask how she knew where his bus stop was. “As for tonight, Chloe must stay with you, Horace. She'll be safest there.”

“How am I supposed to arrange that?” Chloe protested, though from what Horace had seen, she could come and go as she pleased. He was more worried about where she'd sleep.

“Let's not invent problems until we have none,” Mrs. Hapsteade said. She turned as if to go, then looked sharply up at Gabriel. “Remember, don't let the girl use the passkey.”

Chloe let out a huff of indignation. “The what?”

Mrs. Hapsteade ignored her. “Keepers,” she said with a nod, and then she spun and hurried back in the direction of the House of Answers.

“What was that all about?” Chloe said.

“The Kesh'kiri are in the tunnels,” Gabriel replied.

The word, vicious and sharp, sent a chill through Horace. “Who?”

“Sorry—the Riven.”

“Why did you call them that?”

“That's what they call themselves. Come. Mrs. Hapsteade and Mr. Meister will deal with them, but we must go.”
He strode off in the opposite direction, cane swinging, leaving Horace and Chloe hurrying after him. As they drew swiftly farther from Mrs. Hapsteade, the darkness closed its fist around them. Gabriel seemed not to care. Horace found himself hardly able to breathe.

Chloe spoke from the gloom. “Do you always walk in the dark like this?”

Gabriel laughed. “I've been known to. Just stay behind me and follow the sound of my footsteps.”

They walked on—unfamiliar, exhausting work in the dark. Horace closed his eyes to prevent them from straining uselessly at nothing. He kept tripping and veering into the walls, so he took to holding his arms out at his sides. He stumbled again and again. He wondered if the others were having the same difficulties, if they were as worried as he was that the Riven were down there with them somewhere.

“So, the Riven,” Horace said. “They made it through the Nevren?”

“No,” Gabriel replied. “They found another way.”

“What happens if they catch us?” Horace asked.

“They will not catch us.”

“But what if they did?”

Chloe piped up. “They'll try to take our Tan'ji. But good luck with that.”

“They would not simply take your instruments,” Gabriel corrected. “They would take you.”

“Why?” said Horace.

“Without you, your Tan'ji would probably be useless to them. In order to actually wield the powers of your instruments, they would have to find another Keeper with the same talents as you—the same aptitudes and affinities. And the more formidable the instrument, the fewer people there are that have the ability to use it.”

“So what they really want is for us to join them,” Horace said.

“Yes. They want your power.”

“I can't imagine anyone wanting to join them.”

“Do you even know who they are?” Gabriel asked. “Do you know their cause?”

“No,” Chloe said, “but it sounds like you do.”

Gabriel went silent for several seconds. “All I mean to say is, many falter when faced with the choice the Riven offer: join their cause, or have your instrument taken from you by force.”

Horace went cold. He tried to imagine what that would be like—would it be like the Nevren? Or would he be able to sense the Fel'Daera still, even though he no longer possessed it? He wasn't sure which was the worse fate.

“Many falter when faced with the choice, you say,” Chloe said to Gabriel casually. “Would you falter?”

“Never,” Gabriel said, dropping the word with an immediate and unmistakable firmness. “But it seems you've been told very little. Save your questions for Mr. Meister.”

Just then, a brutal
crack!
slapped through the tunnel from
far behind. Horace jumped. A few seconds later, a blast of wind slapped past them.

“The Riven,” Horace muttered.

“No, that was a good thing,” Gabriel said. “But we must keep moving.”

The passageway dipped sharply, leading them through a shallow puddle of foul-smelling water. On the far side, they had to clamber up a low, slick wall. The air grew ever more damp.

Chloe cleared her throat. “So, Gabriel—this stick of yours. What does it do?”

“Something useful. Let us hope it doesn't come to that.”

“Sounds scary. My theory is it's a lightsaber.”

“There's no such thing as a lightsaber.”

“That's not a very convincing argument. I've come face-to-face with a lot of no-such-things lately. Earlier, I ate ginkgo-leaf soup.”