The Warlock's Gambit (6 page)

A
rthur rushed over to the elevator, with Lexi right behind him muttering, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear …”

He shifted impatiently as it rose to the next floor, and darted off before it had completely stopped. As he neared the bathroom, he tripped over Vassalus and landed in a heap near the bathroom doorway.

“Ouch!”

“Good sir, watch where you are going, please. This is a most delicate situation.”

“Is Morgan all right?” Arthur asked, scrambling to his feet. “Why aren’t you checking on her?”

“I was told, Master Paladin, to stay out of there, and so out here is where I shall most definitely stay.”

The bathroom door swung open, and Maid fled from the room as if chased by a wraith. Arthur and Lexi rushed to the door. Morgan was standing right beyond the threshold, her face twisted up and bright scarlet in fury.

“Get
out
! And don't come back, you perv!”

Morgan started to say something else, but fell silent as she noticed Arthur. She hiked up the towel she had wrapped around her and narrowed her eyes. He turned his head, held up a hand, and started backing away, with a quick “I'm sorry” thrown in for good measure.

“Arthur, go
away
!” Morgan fumed.

“He didn't do anything wrong,” Lexi told her as Arthur retreated further. “We were just trying to check on you.”

“Well, he needs to watch where he's looking!”

“I wasn’t trying to look at anything,” he replied. “What on earth is going on anyway?”

“I got out of the bath and that servitor came in.
While I was naked.
” Morgan said that as if it were a terrible crime, as if it were the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Maybe her nerves were fried; they had been through a lot.

“Morgan, they're just constructs. They aren't real people. You know … they're sort of like robots.”

“I told her to leave before I got in the bath. She had no right. I don't care what they are, I don't like them seeing me naked.”

“Well, I’m sure they won't do it again.”

“They had better not!” Morgan yelled out so everyone could hear her, throughout the entire Multiverse. Then she slammed the door shut.

“Wow, touchy bundles of nerves, aren’t we?” Lexi said.

“It has been a long day,” Vassalus said, “and the poor dear has been crying in the tub. I could hear her from in here. We should expect her to be a bit overwhelmed, I think.”

“Aren’t we all …” Lexi commented.

“Morgan’s super weird about her personal space anyway,” Arthur said.

When Morgan came down, Arthur didn’t say a word about what had happened, and she didn’t bring it up. She was wearing
her
uniform, as always, but it was sparkling clean and —

“Hey! They got the rips and stains out for you!”

Morgan shook her head. “This is brand new.” She ran her hands over her skirt. “The fabric is different, which I wasn’t sure about, but I actually like this better … if you can believe that.”

“I can’t,” Arthur replied. “You’d think they could have made the skirt longer, though.”

She clenched her fists. “Arthur!”

“I’m just kidding. Calm down.”

She sat on the couch as far away from him as possible and glared at him.

“Seriously though, I bet if you get cold they can make you some tights like you wear in the winter. It’s kind of cool in the Manse, like the thermostat’s turned down too low.”

Her glare changed to a look he couldn't identify. “I'm fine. I don’t mind the cold.”

Arthur shrugged “So, dinner?”

“I’m only a little hungry.” She looked at her iPhone. “But it is nearly seven now.”

“I wonder if Cook feels up to pizza. I’d kill for a cheese pizza with peppers and mushrooms.”

“Mm. That does sound good.” Morgan nodded. “Extra mushrooms, though. But only if we can eat in here again. I’m too tired to walk down to the Dining Hall.”

Valet, who had been hanging around near the back of the room, stepped forward, nodded demonstrably, and departed.

“We like the same kind of pizza?” Arthur asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “What are the chances of that?”

“Pretty good, actually. We’re obviously a lot alike.”

“Um … sure.” Obviously? Not.

“Arthur,” Morgan said, “you noticed I wear tights in the winter?”

He shrugged. “Since you wear the same thing every day, it’s kind of easy to tell when something’s suddenly different.”

“Huh.”

Arthur didn’t understand why, but Morgan seemed pleased and a little more relaxed now. He really wasn’t sure which was stranger: the Manse and the whole Multiversal Paladin thing, or Morgan.

Valet returned bearing a tray of sandwiches, freshly-baked potato chips and cookies, and strawberry milkshakes. Clearly, Cook was starting to feel better. They tucked into the food.

“What should we watch?” Arthur asked.

“Oh, I do so love Betty Davis movies,” Lexi purred.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Arthur said. “How about
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
?”

Morgan groaned as the movie started playing. Arthur settled back, content to watch a movie he’d seen a few dozen times already. As soon as Matthew Broderick appeared on the screen, the tension melted out of Arthur.

“At least the picture and surround sound are amazing,” Morgan said. “It’s just wasted on this film.”

“Take that back,” Arthur said.

“Or?”

“Or I’ll sit closer to you. Just close enough that our shoulders are touching and then I’ll —”

“Okay, okay, okay — it’s a good movie — one of my favorites — I’m glad we’re watching it.” She scowled, and he smiled. “Just promise me if we survive and get a proper chance we can watch the extended edition of
Lord of the Rings
…”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

As the movie ended, Morgan said, “Do you think it was a mistake not to see more of the house today?”

“I don’t think we could’ve done much more today. We were still exhausted.”

“But if Lady Ylliara can’t hold out …”

“We’ll know if things get desperate, because the lights will start flickering.”

“I guess so. Tomorrow we cover everything except the Inner Sanctum, okay?”

“I agree,” Arthur said. “What time is it?”

“Late. Another movie or bed?”

“Bed, I guess.”

“Arthur, do you mind if I sleep on the couch?”

“You really don’t want to see your room, do you?”

“Not … not yet, okay?”

“If you’re scared, you’ll have Vassalus with you. I can send Lexi and Arms in, too.”

“It’s not that.”

He let it go. “You take the bed, then. I’ll take the couch.”

“Thanks, but that’s not fair.”

Arthur sighed. Nothing was ever easy with her. “Why don’t we just share the bed?”

“Yeah, right,” she harrumphed.

“Seriously, it’s even bigger than a king-size bed, and it’s piled with pillows. We can put the extra pillows and blankets down the middle and split it in half. That way it’s like two beds.”

Morgan cringed. “I have never slept that close to someone before.”

“You’d be at least five feet away if you slept on the edge. It’d be a lot like sleeping on the couches in the Smoking Lounge, except way more comfortable.”

Morgan chewed at her lip and fiddled with her hair. She looked dubious.

“Vassalus and I can pile up in the middle,” Lexi said.

“I hardly think that is proper, either,” said Vassalus.

“Scared of a little kitty fur?” Lexi said.

Vassalus looked away and shook his head.

Morgan picked at the fabric of the couch. “I’ll think about it.”

After a few minutes of silence, Arthur said, “I wish I had Ferris’s parents. They’re awesome.”

“I’m pretty sure your folks were way awesome.”

“But I barely remember mine — I was so young when they died. The funny thing is that I
want
to miss them, but it’s hard to because I really never knew them. Even though I know now that it couldn’t have been their fault, I still feel like they just abandoned me.”

“It's … it’s all right to feel hurt. That’s what my counselor says.” Morgan sighed. “I’m honestly the perfect person to be your companion. And not just because I’m a lot smarter and prettier than you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I’ve been through a lot of the same stuff you’ve been through. And … and I'm an orphan too.” She took a deep breath and straightened the pleats of her skirt against her leg. “When I was six, my mom died with cancer. It was long and terrible. All my memories of her, she was sick and frail. When she died, my dad … he didn't take it well. He remarried two years later, started drinking and got involved in some bad stuff …” Her voice trailed off, and she looked misty-eyed.

“What happened to him?” Arthur asked, though he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say. This was Morgan, after all. He was certain she’d never before voluntarily talked to someone this much about something so private and sensitive.

“Died in prison three years ago. They said he fell and hit his head.” She shrugged. “I didn't see him. My stepmom, she got remarried. He's a nice guy. They adopted me. They're good people. They don't love me, but they do care about me, and it’s enough, you know? I've got everything I need … more, really. I can't complain.”

“I'm sure they must love you.”

She shook her head. “No, I've seen how they look at my little brother and sister. That's real love. If I wasn’t so weird, or if I didn’t remind my stepmom of my dad, I think it’d be different. I think then they’d love me just as much, adopted or not. But hey, I've got no complaints. Given what happened to my parents, I got lucky. A lot of kids would've ended up screwed in that situation.”

“Yeah. I got my Grandma Nelson, so I understand. Hard to complain.”

“We can pile the pillows and cushions,” she announced suddenly, as if she had made a momentous decision. “But we pile them wide and the numina sleep between us. You do not cross over for any reason.”

“Not even if my life depends on it?” he said with a grin.

“You cross over, and your life will be over.”

They took the elevator up, and piled pillows and cushions until Morgan was content. Lying down, they wouldn’t even be able to see each other over the top.

Arthur turned to Valet. “I’m going to need pajamas.” Valet inclined his head. “I’m betting Morgan will need some, too.”

Morgan made a little grunt, staring at the bed.

“What now?” Arthur asked.

She shivered as if something were crawling up her back. “Maybe this was a bad idea …”

“You want to go check out your room and sleep there?”

“No.”

“Well then, what’s the problem?”

“I have special pajamas I sleep in.”

“Of course you do,” Arthur sighed. “Just wear your uniform to bed. It’s just for one night. We slept in filthy clothes the last two nights. I think you’ll be fine tonight in clean ones.”

She relaxed. “Good idea.”

“For a moron?”

“Yes, doof. Sorry, I just kind of freaked out. It’s one thing to sleep in your clothes on the couch, but it’s another to do it in a bed, you know. Just seems wrong.”

“Of course,” Arthur replied, though he didn’t understand at all.

Valet returned with two sets of pajamas. He held one bundle of pale blue pajamas out toward Morgan. She gasped in surprise and yanked them out of his hand. Arthur wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw pale pink ponies on them. She rushed into the bathroom to change.

Stifling a laugh, Arthur changed into black pajamas with sunbursts on them and crawled into bed. Lexi curled up near his legs. Morgan settled in on her side. Vassalus slept between them on top of the Great Wall of Pillow. Valet clapped, and the room fell dark, except a bit of orange glow coming from a night light near the bathroom entrance.

Arthur didn't think a softer bed existed anywhere in the Multiverse. The sound of crashing waves began to play throughout the room, overpowering the sound of the crystal waterfall.

“That’s soothing,” Arthur said.

“I prefer rain,” Morgan said.

“Me too.”

The waves ceased and were replaced by a distant roll of thunder and the soft sound of rain pattering a rooftop.

“Brilliant,” Arthur said.

“Arthur … about what I told you earlier … my family and all … I’ve never … I’ve never told that to anyone before — except my counselor and Doctor Edelman.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know you won’t. Thanks … thanks for listening.”

“Anytime.”

“It’s really hard for me to talk so much.”

“Don’t have much choice, do we?”

“When we’re done clearing out the house, I’m not going to talk for two weeks. Don’t be offended.”

He was certain she meant it. “I won’t be. Goodnight, Morgan.”

A
rthur realized almost immediately that the dream was actually another memory. It had a quality to it that he couldn't have explained, almost like he was living it and watching it happen to someone else at the same time. And even his most realistic dreams never had this much detail to them or stayed so focused. His dreams always jumped off the rails and become wacky after a few moments.

The real question this time was: whose memory was this?

Because it wasn’t his. Arthur could not have been here when he was younger, and certainly not like this. He was hovering in the rafters of what looked, in many ways, like a gothic cathedral. He’d never been in one before, but he’d seen loads of them in Grandma Nelson’s travel brochures, and in several movies.

There were significant differences, though. The building didn’t form a cross in the center like a medieval church did. Instead, it was a giant oval. The windows were arched, but the glass was red. Either that or the sky outside was a deep crimson. There were no pews or seats for an audience. On the raised platform where an altar should have been, eight high-backed chairs formed a semi-circle. Instead of a crucifix above them, there hung a symbol like a triskelion, only the center was an oval, and rather than three arms, this thing had eight. The symbol glowed with the same purple as the dark-hearts.

A man-shaped figure shrouded in a flowing, black cloak knelt before the raised chairs. There was something strange and unnatural about that cloak. It didn’t reflect light at all, like the bodies of the shades, and it was blurry around the edges. Arthur narrowed his eyes to focus, and recoiled once he realized what was causing the blur. The cloak was moving along its edges, constantly expanding and contracting a few inches — as if it were breathing, as if it were alive. Maybe it was; he’d seen stranger things since he’d arrived at the Manse.

Was this a warlock he was seeing? It wasn’t a shade or a wraith; he could tell that much for sure. Arthur tried to will himself to drift down so he could get a better view, but he had no control over the dream. He was rooted to this vantage point.

Arthur looked out the nearest window. Wherever this place was, on whatever planet, it was in the middle of nowhere. He could see a group of tall buildings in the distance, across a barren plain of rock and sand. Above them, what might be airplanes of some kind, or maybe spaceships, glimmered. When Arthur looked back down, eight black-robed, hooded figures were standing on the platform. Where had they come from so quickly? Like the other figure, they seemed to be humans and not shades, and their robes seemed to breathe as well. From their necks hung glowing amulets that matched the eight-armed symbol on the wall above them. Their faces were hidden within their deep hoods, and even their hands remained out of sight, tucked within their sleeves.

“The Eight are gathered,” one of the figures (Arthur couldn’t tell which) said in a sinuous voice.

A bell boomed overhead. Dust drifted down from the rafters. Even in the dream, Arthur could feel the reverberations.

The kneeling figure bowed once, then threw back his hood. It was a man — a man somehow wearing a cloak of shade-stuff without getting burned to a crisp! A man with slate blue skin, a bald head, and a distinctive lack of ears — that explained Arthur’s connection to the dream. But he still didn’t understand why he was seeing this.

The Eight took their seats, then one (Arthur again couldn’t tell which) said in a deep tone, “Rise, Kjor of Skrimanta.”

“Honored Hosts,” Kjor said as he stood. Arthur now noticed that Kjor had dark purple lines that wove a pattern on his head and ran down his neck.

“Kjor of Skrimanta, you have requested to join the Order of the Guardians of the Endless Archives, is this correct?” asked another in a high-pitched, feminine voice.

“Yes, Honored Hosts, that is my desire.”

The Hosts bowed their heads. When they spoke at last, they took turns. Arthur knew this only because their voices were distinctive. None of them moved when they spoke.

“Kjor of Skrimanta,” said one, “graduated the College of Shadows with perfect marks, achieving the highest scores ever recorded in Summoning.”

“He endured the Rites of Pain,” said a second.

“He is Skrimantan,” said a third, “and therefore has the ability to communicate telepathically.”

“He has an exemplary record as a warlock,” added a fourth.

“Three times already, he has been battle-tested off-world,” said a fifth.

“And he more then held his own in those engagements,” said a sixth.

“In no way,” said a seventh, “is his devotion to Entropy in doubt.”

The Hosts all looked up, and the eighth said, “For these reasons, Kjor of Skrimanta, we have denied your request to join the Order of the Guardians of the Endless Archives.”

Kjor flinched in surprise, and stammered, “You — you wish me to remain a warlock in the Off-World Service — for a second tour?”

The Hosts, as one, shook their heads.

“No, Kjor of Skrimanta,” said one. “We think that would be a waste of your talents. You are rising quickly in the ranks, and soon your fame will skyrocket. We wish to assign you to a different order before you are too well-known.”

“Kjor of Skrimanta,” said a second, “you are hereby accepted into the Order of Infiltration.”

“Thank you, Honored Hosts,” Kjor replied with surprise, and if Arthur wasn’t mistaken, a hint of disappointment.

“And though you are young,” said a third, “we are assigning you a mission of the highest importance.”

“You are to find the Multiversal Paladin, gain his confidence, and infiltrate the Manse,” said a fourth.

“Become,” said a fifth, “a companion even, if you must.”

Kjor staggered backward a step.

“Your mission, which you shall not divulge to anyone,” said a sixth, “is to discover who or what is assassinating the members of the Paladin family. Assess the threat and determine whether this entity also poses a direct threat to Entropy or to our allies and interests abroad.”

“If it does not pose a threat to us,” said a seventh, “then aid their cause and eliminate the Multiversal Paladin. If it does pose a threat to us, report back, and then aid the Multiversal Paladin in stopping them if you can. If possible, we will divert resources to aid you in any such fight, so long as the Aetherians or Paladins don’t know that we are helping.”

Arthur could tell, even from up in the rafters and without seeing his face, that Kjor was stunned. The Hosts were obviously asking a lot from him, if not the impossible.

“Honored Hosts, we — we do not know the identity of the assassins?”

“None of our spies or contacts knows who or what is doing this,” said the eighth. “If anyone knows, the Paladins do. And it is possible that they do not know, either. Obviously, a mission involving deep cover like this may take you some time to complete.”

“I — I have a family …”

“While on this mission, you will receive ten times the normal pay for your rank. And you will be well rewarded should you succeed. Your family shall never want for anything. And afterward, you may choose any post in any order that you desire.”

“But … Honored Hosts, the Multiversal Paladin will never be fooled by a warlock wishing to join his ranks. He will easily detect my mantle of shadow.”

“Not if you have this,” said one of the Hosts. A withered gray hand emerged from his sleeve, clutching a baseball-sized, clear crystal. “A recently discovered device of the Ancients: the Stone of Unbecoming. You need only touch the stone; it will do the rest on its own. Keep it hidden and safe.”

The stone floated across to Kjor who reached toward it hesitantly. As soon as he grasped it, the shadowy cloak and the purplish lines flowed like ink away from him and filled the crystal. But there was more than that inside of him; shadows continued to pour out of Kjor until at last he collapsed to his knees, panting. He now looked identical to how Arthur had seen him in the first dream.

Kjor tossed the stone on the ground as if it were a snake, and it rolled away from him. “This cannot be.”

“The Ancients,” said one of the Hosts, “were masters of Entropy and Aetheria. That is why the search for their devices is so important. That single stone can absorb the Entropic essence of two, perhaps three, warlocks. Be careful not to let it fall into the enemy’s hands.”

“How do I get my mantle back?” Kjor asked.

“What is unwillingly taken can be willingly regained,” said one of the hosts. “You have only to touch the device again and
will
it to return what is yours.”

“However, each time you use the crystal,” said another host, “the test of will to win it back shall become more difficult.”

A Host waved a hand, and the stone flew back to Kjor, who took it once again. “Be forewarned, Kjor of Skrimanta. If, for some reason, you must use the Stone of Unbecoming against the Multiversal Paladin, we have no idea what it will do. Against an Aetherian, it will not take their power as it does with ours; it will instead take their memories and erase their identity.”

Kjor focused his gaze on the Stone of Unbecoming, and after a few moments, the shadows and ink of his Mantle flowed out of the crystal and back onto him. He sighed with relief, and then stood.

“Though I fear success is unlikely, I will do, Honored Hosts, as you command, to the fullest of my abilities.”