The Keepers (39 page)

“Behold the crucible,” said Mr. Meister, laying a hand on the object. “Each nest—and there may be dozens in the city—is kept hidden by an instrument like this one. The crucible keeps the nest secret and protects the Riven who dwell there.”

Horace was intrigued, despite his dismay. “So it's a leestone.”

“A crucible works somewhat like a leestone, except that it
asks for allegiance. Crucibles are old and dangerous Tanu—they are Tan'ji, in fact. Each crucible has a Keeper, who roams the nest, bearing the crucible. The crucible emits a powerful attractive force. Other residents of the nest, enthralled, willingly devote themselves to the crucible. With that devotion they earn a kind of sanctuary, but they are chained to the crucible—figuratively speaking, of course.”

“So the Riven are under the control of these crucibles, then,” Horace said.

“The Riven do not think of it that way. And the crucible does not enslave the willing. Nor does it control minds or give orders. You might say the crucible itself defines the nest. When wielded by a Keeper and followed by its devotees, the crucible is merely a physical manifestation of a bond, a pact of secrecy, a kind of fraternity.”

Chloe stirred. “It doesn't enslave the willing, you said. But what if you're not willing? What if you're a prisoner?”

Mr. Meister said, “In the presence of the crucible, the undevoted will be lost.”

Chloe's face grew cloudy, but Mrs. Hapsteade suddenly spoke. “The crucible won't harm your father, Chloe, but he won't be himself in the presence of the crucible. He will forget who he is, forget his purpose. He'll be helpless until he surrenders. If he surrenders, he'll regain himself, but he will be beholden to the crucible.”

“My father wouldn't . . . ,” Chloe began, but then she trailed off miserably.

Horace fidgeted in his seat, remembering the little black cricket they'd taken from Chloe's father. “This reminds me of the malkund.”

“Very good. Malkunds are forged in the presence of a crucible. In fact, they are tied to a specific crucible at a specific nest. And because we can assume it was Dr. Jericho who gave the malkund to Chloe's father, we can also assume that Mr. Oliver will be found in whatever nest the Mordin is currently calling home. Very likely you will find him close to the crucible, transfixed.”

“But,” Chloe said, “if the crucible is like the malkund, how are we supposed to rescue my dad from it? Even if we can get him out of the nest—away from the crucible—will he be okay?”

Mr. Meister glanced at Mrs. Hapsteade. He shrugged. “In time, perhaps. Certainly we hope so.”

“But you don't
know
so.”

Mr. Meister gave a frustrated sigh. “No. Indeed, we know little of what transpires inside a nest at all. Few Wardens have ever been inside one. Certainly it will be thick with Riven—Mordin, the Keeper of the crucible, and others.” He gestured at the gnarled sphere. “In an ideal world, you would find the crucible tonight and destroy it, but we do not even know if that is possible. We do not know how to snuff out the light of the crucible.”

“The light,” Horace murmured. “What do you mean?”

“A working crucible emits a powerful flame or light, the
manifestation of its power. The exact mechanism is unclear, but it's this burning light that—for lack of a better word—bewitches you. The sight, the sound, even the smell perhaps. It emits a strong odor. You've smelled it yourself, on Dr. Jericho.”

The scent came to life in Horace's nose. “Sulfur.”

“Brimstone,” said Neptune.

“Yes,” said Mr. Meister. “When lit, the crucible is dangerous indeed—both foul and irresistible. But once the light is extinguished . . .” He poked the crucible, making it rock. “It becomes nothing. An ugly decoration. The Riven who have devoted themselves to it would scatter, homeless and exposed. And anyone else who also happened to be under its thrall would be set free.”

“Like my dad,” Chloe said.

“Yes. As I said, if you could find a way to destroy the crucible, that would be most impressive.” Mr. Meister shrugged again, as if it hardly mattered. “But I do not see how. We are not even sure if the source of the crucible's light truly is a flame. Gabriel is the only one among us who has ever encountered a lit crucible.”

All eyes turned to Gabriel. He nodded as though he could feel their gazes. “Yes, and I could not actually lay my senses on the source itself. It had a presence, but it was . . . untouchable.”

Chloe threw her hands up. “So if it's untouchable, how do we destroy it?”

“As I said, very likely you do not,” Mr. Meister said. “Perhaps it is best to put the notion out of your mind and concentrate instead on simply getting your father away.”

But then an idea came to Horace. “No, no. We can meld it,” he said. He turned to Chloe. “
You
can meld it.”

Chloe studied his face, and then the crucible. “It's awfully big. I've never made anything that big go thin.”

“I'm sorry,” Neptune asked. “Meld?”

Horace explained how Chloe could make one thing become incorporeal, and then put it inside another. The other Wardens watched him keenly. Mr. Meister's great left eye seemed as sharp as a hawk's. Chloe, meanwhile, kept her head down, as if she was afraid she was going to be asked to demonstrate like the others had. “Chloe can meld the crucible into the floor, or the wall,” Horace said. “Surely that would destroy it.”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “An intriguing idea,” he said, “but unless Chloe can do this to objects much larger than herself—
much
larger—it will not work.”

“Why not?” Horace asked, not liking the way Gabriel emphasized
much
.

“The crucible and its Keeper are . . . joined. I could not feel where one ended and the other began. I don't believe Chloe could separate a lit crucible from its living Keeper.”

But Horace pressed on. “You don't know what Chloe is capable—”

“Enough,” Mr. Meister said, cutting him off. “It is one
thing to dream up a plan. It is quite another to see it through. Let us stay within our limits. All I ask is that you find the nest. Get Chloe's father out.”

Horace sank into silence, frustrated.
“Stay within our limits.”
The very phrase almost made him want to hunt down and destroy the crucible himself. He was sure Chloe would press the issue, but she didn't. Instead she reached into her pocket and pulled out a mint, popped it into her mouth, began crushing it loudly and deliberately. “So we sneak into the nest,” she said. “We find my dad. Maybe I destroy the crucible, or maybe I don't. Either way, we get my dad out. And we do all this under cover of the wonder staff.”

Mr. Meister nodded. “The humour of Obro will protect you from the pull of the crucible, yes. And the Alvalaithen, of course, will protect you from almost every other danger.”

“But what if I don't want him to come?” she said, pointing at Gabriel. “What if I only want Horace?”

Mrs. Hapsteade spoke, her voice low but full of steel. “Horace would be defenseless. You and Gabriel are the only ones who have a hope of getting safely in and out of the nest.”

“Then let me go alone.”

Mr. Meister gave two firm shakes of the head. “We cannot do that. Only with Gabriel's help do you have a chance of resisting the crucible.”

“I wonder if that's true.”

Mrs. Hapsteade's eyes flashed. “Go ahead and wonder. Add your wondering to the pile of everything we freely admit
we don't know. Compound our uncertainties, multiply the risks. Ask yourself if that's the best way to help your father now.”

Chloe went on chewing, her jaw jutting stubbornly.

Gabriel spoke, his strange gaze sweeping over them. “I know my Tan'ji can make me seem fearsome—”

“I'm not afraid of you,” Chloe said.

“That is a lie. Everyone is afraid of me.” He said this with such simplicity, with neither pride nor self-pity, that it could not be taken for anything but the plain truth. Even Neptune just gave him those sad, wide eyes. Again Horace felt an unwanted surge of sympathy for the boy. Chloe, mint gone, licked her teeth and worked her lips. She turned her icy stare to the crucible, sitting there like a carcass.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Okay then. But that staff of yours—I tell you when.”

Mrs. Hapsteade started to speak, but Gabriel only nodded at Chloe. “You may tell me when. But if I see that you are losing yourself to the crucible, I will intervene.”

Another long pause, then a curt nod from Chloe.

“Very good,” said Mr. Meister. “We are in agreement.” He leaned back and laid his eyes on Horace. “But now you may be asking yourself, Keeper, what role you have to play in all this, if you will not be entering the nest.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“A very important role indeed. Without you, we stand very little chance of locating the nest in the first place.”

“Wait,” Chloe said, “you don't even know where the nest is?”

“Nests are highly secret, all but impossible for an outsider to locate. Neptune's abilities have proven useful in tracking the Riven, but finding the nest is another matter entirely. Just as the Riven disguise themselves, so too is the nest disguised.”

“That's why you need the Fel'Daera,” Horace said, remembering the night at the park and the many-headed Dr. Jericho. “I can see what others can't.”

“Yes. But there is another reason we will have need of the Fel'Daera tonight.” Mr. Meister glanced at Mrs. Hapsteade, and Horace thought she gave him the faintest of nods.

“And what reason is that?” Horace asked slowly.

The old man looked almost guilty as he spoke. “We need it for bait.”

A
N HOUR LATER
, H
ORACE STOOD IN THE BURNED WRECKAGE
of Chloe's house, feeling like a fool. It was 1:27. For the last seventeen minutes he'd been holding the box open, raising it every ten seconds or so, scanning the scene. It was Mr. Meister's idea that Dr. Jericho would sense the open box from the future and would come looking for the source, allowing Horace to follow him back to the nest through time. But the whole idea was starting to look like a fail. There had been nothing to see: the dark yard, the rubble of Chloe's ruined home, the neighbor's house looking naked with Chloe's house gone. No Dr. Jericho. No Riven. No anyone.

Except Horace wasn't really alone, of course. There was always the chance that while he tried to lure Dr. Jericho in the future, the Mordin might also be drawn here in the present. And therefore the other Wardens stood guard. Somewhere
overhead in the cloudy night sky, Neptune hovered unseen. Gabriel stood in the shadows of the buckthorn trees along the property line, staff at the ready. Across the street, Chloe kept watch from atop a freight car in the train yard. But Horace was beginning to think the plan was a waste of time. He wasn't sure Dr. Jericho would be able to sense the box from the house—he didn't even know how far away Dr. Jericho was, although it stood to reason that the nest might be somewhere near Chloe's house.

Horace waited. Through his shirt, he fussed with the strange new pendant that now hung from his neck, a gift from the Wardens. It was a jithandra, one of the crystals all the Wardens wore. He and Chloe had each received one before leaving the Warren. Horace's jithandra was dark now, but if he were to pull it out, it would glow a brilliant cobalt blue. Chloe's, meanwhile, was bloodred.

The colors, of course, were the same colors as the ink when they'd written with the Vora, back at the House of Answers. Mr. Meister hadn't explained that, but he did explain that although a jithandra wasn't truly Tan'ji, it would work only for its owner and no one else. It was, in effect, their entry key into the Warren. In time, the old man promised, Horace and Chloe would learn to use theirs to cross the waters of Vithra's Eye, just as they'd seen Mrs. Hapsteade do.

And the jithandras weren't the only gifts they'd received. Mr. Meister had spoken to them each in turn, talking in low, private tones. He spoke quietly to Gabriel at length—almost
seeming to try and convince him of something—and then reached up and clasped the tall boy's shoulder. He gave Chloe a ghostly white sphere on a chain—one of those little balls that created a dumin when crushed. He made her put it around her neck. He then bent close and they exchanged a few words that Horace couldn't hear. The talk ended, predictably, with a fierce scowl from Chloe.

Finally Mr. Meister had come to Horace and surprised him by leading him away from the group. “I wonder, Keeper, if you could tell me the time. Your most precise estimate.”

“Twelve forty-one,” Horace said reflexively.

Mr. Meister peeked into his own hand. “Very good. It is always so with the Keeper of the Fel'Daera. But now tell me this: twelve forty-one . . . and how many seconds?”