Chapter 45

  Day 26

  Acarnus was the first to arrive. He and Jeronimy exchanged faint nods as he entered the observation deck, which Jeronimy had chosen as the meeting point because of the dramatic vista it afforded of Ardia and the sweeping arc of varied moons around it. A patchy red haze of smoke enveloped the nearest moon, the one made of paper. Apparently, even the clouds were flammable. Jeronimy thought that his earlier estimate of ‘weeks’ for the moon to turn to ash had been overly generous.

  Acarnus, in his plain dark suit, utilitarian and sober, matched the aesthetic of Jeronimy’s cruiser. He positioned himself against one of the viewing windows and zoned out, doing whatever it was he did behind those goggles. He could be observing almost anything anywhere in the Narrative, even Jeronimy through the solitary drone that wandered silently around the room gathering data.

  Zayana and Fiora came together. The princess wore an elegant dress—sleek and filmy like a clingy lavender mist. Her blindfold, now with a mysterious silver script scrawled across the front, covered the scarred remains of her eyes. It did not cover the six glinting crystals on her forehead, which seemed to stare watchfully. Her bow/harp rose from her back; its strings glimmered in the dimness of the observation deck. She seemed composed. If Jeronimy hadn’t already known she was deeply distressed by the death of Jacob Hollow, he would never have been able to tell.

  Fiora, who had not yet set foot on this vessel, the G.T.F.A. Refuge, class-3 void cruiser, gazed about in wide-eyed astonishment. She wore little apart from her big green coat, materialized from mist against the cold of space. Her angel, an eyeless white frog, peeked out from a pocket of the coat and occasionally offered an inscrutable croak for comment.

  Derxis came next, wandering in from an obscure side door as though he’d simply stumbled across this gathering by accident. His turban gleamed with colors like a bundled rainbow and jingled with little knick-knacks in imitation of Lord Fool. He had come by tapestry; his magic allowed it to traverse even the void of space, and he now carried it under one arm like a lost picnicker. His mask looked on with bemusement, his saffron cloak swirled mysteriously as he walked, and he held a large knotted bundle of assorted tape in one hand, the ends of which trailed on the floor a dozen feet behind him. Jeronimy, seeing the tape, made a note to run a thorough diagnostic of his ship as soon as Derxis left.

  Anthea and Rasmus arrived together. Anthea wore dirty white robes which contrasted with her radiant crystalline plumage. She passed under a beam of light as she entered the observation deck; her wings caught the light and scattered it into a confetti of shattered rainbows. But she appeared grim as always, nervous, sunken in the depths of her own bleak fatalism. The atmosphere on the deck took a sharp turn to the gloomy as soon as she set foot inside, and nobody could help but think how different this was from the old days.

  Rasmus somehow seemed bigger than ever, stronger than ever, though Jeronimy couldn’t have said why. He looked the same as always except for the scars, those unsettling spiky letters burned all over his back and arms in deep magenta. He still wore plain leather overalls, his only ornament the ten-sided medallion that hung comically small against his yellow-veined chest. He had always favored simplicity and had embraced more than any of them the convenience of the ability to manufacture almost any object at will.

  These seven milled about for a while in disorder. Reunions were had, greetings exchanged. Some of them had not seen one another for weeks, which seemed a long time in this place. A lot could happen in a couple weeks. Some meetings were awkward, especially any involving Anthea.

  It transpired that Akkama would not be joining them, nor Rosma, nor Emmius. Rosma had simply elected not to come. Fiora voiced concerns about her deteriorating health, but no one had any answer except perhaps opening the white door. Akkama had gone off with Jeronimy’s angel, of all things, in an effort to hunt down Abraham Black. Emmius, in a surprising fit of initiative, had descended to the Paper Moon to go after her.

  Jeronimy told them what had happened: that Akkama’s plan to get the key from Black had backfired. None present were much surprised. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. But at least, Zayana noted, they now knew who exactly had the key. And thanks to Akkama, they possessed a thorough knowledge of his nature and abilities. All this was more than they’d had before. Perhaps this turn of events would work in their favor after all. Now all they had to do was defeat Abraham Black, albeit one with new and unknown powers.

  Discussion followed, sprinkled with laughter from Derxis.

  It happened when they were assembled into a rough semicircle, each of them standing, sitting on the floor, or seated on a mist-made chair according to their wont, arranged so they could see each other and also look out the window at Ardia and the burning moon of Tengami.

  Everyone saw Derxis flash with orange light, though most of them paid that little heed. Derxis was always up to something, always fiddling about in his imaginary mindspace. Everyone sensed, on some deep subconscious level, that something had changed. The world flickered, as though the constant unchanging flow of reality had, for just a brief second, stuttered. Only Zayana really noticed, but even she paid it little heed. No one did.

  Except, of course, Derxis.

  *

  Derxis gazed blankly at his hands. He was sitting cross-legged on a cold, hard surface. His body felt strange. He didn’t hurt.

  And he had hands.

  And next to his hands, resting on his left knee, was a creature he had not seen in a long time. A chameleon, milk-white, looking a bit silly without any eyes. Clicker, that was the name. Lil’ Click.

  Hands. Angel. Things he had lost. Things he had known he would never see again.

  And what was that noise? In his ears, in his head. A swirl of colors. Emotions. Feelings. Chattering, murmuring, muttering. Thoughts, ideas, young and passionate and excited.

  Hesitant, trembling, he turned his gaze up and saw six other things he had lost.

  Acarnus, trying to explain something to Fiora, making rational appeals that he knew full well would be lost on one driven by emotion. Fiora, a fierce flowering blossom of compassion, suppressed in embarrassment by the presence of Jeronimy. Despicable Jeronimy, the betrayer, willfully ignoring Fiora, uncomfortable with the proximity of Anthea toward whom he bore complex emotions unrealized, unexamined. Anthea, considering Rasmus even while her dead gaze drifted over the others, thinking that Rasmus would be leader in her stead when she was gone. Rasmus, full of raw conviction and boundless determination, he who could batter reality into submission, too strong for his own good, much too strong. And Zayana, looking at Derxis even without eyes, her gaze somehow sharper than ever, wondering why: why was Derxis shaking? Why was he drinking in their thoughts and emotions like a heady cocktail of poison and honey? Why did he have tears in his eyes?

  She could see him reading her mind, so she asked him privately in her thoughts: Derxis, what is wrong?

  But nothing was wrong.

  He lost control with a sob, suddenly aware that his throat hurt, his hands (hands!) hurt because he was crushing them together to stop himself from falling apart, and he wasn’t dying, and that this was real. Real—yes, for real, D-man. He had to believe it, sanity or no sanity. That was always how it had been. Do not doubt. Act.

  Orange light washed out from him with that sob, and it carried a tide of emotion that drenched the others. Relief. Happiness. Joy. Assuagement at a deliverance profound, if unsought. But no disbelief, none at all.

  And now everyone was looking at him, their mouths stilled and their minds stunned by the sudden influx of secondhand exultation.

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  He began to laugh. He wept. Hells, why not both at once? He turned away, because he couldn’t bear to see them. So young, all of them. So innocent. How had it all gone so wrong? But no matter. Now…

  He stood and stumbled away, barely able to stand from laughter. He trailed a long strand of tape stuck to one sandaled foot. What had he been doing here, seven years ago, with the tape? He couldn’t remember. He sent a quick message to Anthea as he staggered away: we need to talk. Now.

  He made a right turn down into a dark hallway and wobbled half a dozen steps before collapsing in a languid pile of rainbows and giggles. He felt his face, found a mask on it, and peeled it off.

  “I remember this,” he said to Anthea, who had stepped silent as a breath into the hall behind him. “Not even…” He paused to collect himself. “Not even a month.”

  She waited, her confusion and curiosity not outweighing her apathy.

  Derxis adjusted himself to sit more comfortably on the floor. “You all look…great. So…” He grinned. “So alive.” He stifled the resulting outburst of laughter. “Black just took the key.”

  “We know,” said Anthea.

  “He’s bonded to Jeronimy’s angel,” Derxis continued. Anthea said nothing, but he read the surprise in her mind. And she knew he could read it there; thus, her silence.

  Derxis nodded. “This is where it begins to go bad. I’m from the future, Anthea.”

  In her mind: surprise again, but not doubt.

  “You were right,” he said. “We are doomed. Black will kill almost everyone; he doesn’t care about opening the door. You will eventually get rid of Black and die yourself, but it will be too late. He flung the key out into the void. No one wins. There are worse monsters than Black out there in the dark, and only the stars are holding them back. Seven years from now, it’s all over.” He winked at her. “But now…I’ve come back. And I’m going to fix everything.”

  Anthea stared at him. Deep within her, something called hope flickered. Like a tiny animal poking its head through the ash of a desolate wasteland, a tiny part of her thought that maybe it was not all over, not just yet.

  “If that is so,” said Anthea, “what next?”

  Derxis considered. He hadn’t had time to plan, to peel back seven years of memories and remember what was going on. “I need to think,” he said finally. “By which I mean, I need Acarnus.” He shook his head. “So stupid. You know how long it took me to think of using my powers to fix his memory problem?” Laughter, irrepressible. “You know, except for the Arcadelt thing, we really would have done great if we all just listened to Acarnus.”

  Anthea waited, silently asking, what else? What should I do?

  “I need to go to the Bright World,” said Derxis. “We need a mind spike to deal with Black. You need to talk to Anzu. Ask him about Icarus and its hero.” She did not understand, but she accepted.

  Anthea understood that this was all for the moment. She turned to depart, then hesitated. “Can we overcome fate, Derxis?”

  He shook his head; his turban jingled. “It’s not fate we need overcome,” he giggled. “It’s ourselves. It’s always been that way. And I…I’m a lot older than you are, now. I know what every one of you is going to do, because I’ve seen you do it. I know your motives, your dreams, your fears. I can see your minds laid out in front of me like maps, and I know exactly where we’re going.”

  Anthea wondered about this, but she nodded and left.

  She was replaced by Rasmus and Fiora, who both waited for Anthea to conclude her private word with Derxis so that they could check on him. Derxis could not help but reflexively flinch away from Rasmus, even though this was young Rasmus. Good Rasmus. He remembered. Still…

  He couldn’t reveal the truth to these two, not yet. Derxis’s words to Anthea had not been exaggeration or bravado; he could see exactly how Rasmus and Fiora would react to anything he said, just as though he was reading ahead in a book.

  Derxis had nothing to say to Rasmus, but Fiora was another matter. He took her aside for a quick word. Since it was half-deaf Rasmus, this only meant that they had to step a few paces away and speak in a low voice.

  “Are you okay, Derxis?” Fiora whispered. She gave him a look of focused concern. Her bright emerald eyes searched his face.

  Derxis had prepared a response. He knew what to say. But the presence of Fiora, so close, so alive, so bright and lively and warm, froze his tongue. His heartbeat seemed to stumble for a moment before regaining a proper rhythm. She was beautiful. Had he really forgotten this? Had he, Derxis, the mind guy, forgotten this feeling?

  Had he made himself forget?

  “You are not okay,” Fiora concluded firmly. “What is wrong?”

  “Uh…” He coughed. He giggled. Tears on his face. He cleared his throat. He wanted to hear her sing. He wanted to sing with her. He wanted to laugh with her, cry with her, be with her. The thought crawled through the back of his mind that things with Fiora could go differently this time. In fact, given his ability to know, to predict, to steer the minds of others, they could go pretty much any way that he wanted. Derxis located this thought, seized it, and tore it to pieces like a badger dispatching a centipede with extreme prejudice. (That metaphor sucks, D-man.) (It was a simile, Derxis.) (Oh, my bad.)

  “Listen,” he said as he struggled with his emotions. His arda shivered and rang, happy, happy that she was alive and okay and here beside him. But he had a job to do. Save us, man. So he said to Fiora, “You need to complete your moon quest. You’re close, right?”

  “What?” The sudden appearance of this topic surprised her. “I…I guess.”

  “I know you don’t like it,” said Derxis, “But it’s the truth. Sometimes you have to let people suffer. Sometimes the right choice is to not help, even when you can.”

  Fiora unconsciously brought a hand up so that she could bite the wrist. Derxis reached out and stopped her arm from rising. He regretted this at once. He wanted to see her do that. When she had stopped doing it, about two years in, that had been the sign that she had changed. That was when she had stopped caring.

  “Listen,” he said; he pulsed faintly with arda so that she really would listen. “When you become a Champion, you will be able to bring us back to life.” She began to exclaim in surprise and disbelief, but he overrode her. “Each of us. Only once. Within a fairly short timeframe. Also, you’ll need the body. Intact.”

  She wanted to know how he knew that. She was afraid of what it might mean. But if he explained everything now, she wouldn’t finish her quest. Not soon enough.

  But she trusted him. She believed in him. And that was the best feeling yet. It filled him with light and fire. It put the starlight back in his bones. He straightened, adjusted his turban, scooped up his mask from the floor. He dared to look Rasmus in the eyes. Those golden tiger’s eyes, for the first time in years, were open and friendly. Not the eyes of a murderer, of a tyrant. The eyes of one who had told Derxis, not long ago, that small and weak things like Fiora were the source of his strength.

  Derxis understood. Fiora gave him hope, which he had long since given up on. His Song thrummed out through the corridor, and by the gods, the corridor needed a new paint job. He marched away, laughing. First: Acarnus. Then: grab his rug. Then: prank Zayana. And then: on to the Bright World, to do something drastic.