Unwritten, page 22
The words escaped before Beatrix realized. “How did they destroy the Eisid?”
Dyøt looked away. “Nobody knows the details. I have been researching them for years. I came to the Zweeshen and studied history just to get access to the right information.”
“For what?”
Dyøt, the bright, joking Dyøt, sneered. “At some point, I dreamt of revenge. I know better now. I want to protect the Zweeshen from them.”
His statement touched her with frost. Cold with the revelation that Dyøt was nothing like he seemed. “You said they used the Soul of Rephait to kill. How?”
“There are theories,” Dyøt said, frustration vibrating in his voice. “The Pioneers found a way to exploit the winged dagger to unleash high magic somehow. And it went wrong. No one in that world’s uncorrupted. No taelimn who crosses in remains untouched by the evil the Pioneers released. It’s like a poison. Or something in the air.” He shook his head. “That’s why the council sealed the place.”
Beatrix shivered, as if an iced hand had pressed a fingertip to her temple. Everyone who crosses in…
And then she watched Dyøt. She narrowed her eyes.
“You know how to contact them, don’t you?”
Dyøt shook his head. “Let it go.”
But Beatrix couldn’t. Not when she had less than a week left in the Zweeshen. “Dyøt, I understand what you’re saying. But I need to find Mary Brandt. You saw the letter. If you could reunite with your mom, wouldn’t you risk it?”
Dyøt’s face lost some of its belligerence, and a different kind of determination set his jaw. “You have to be cleverer about it if you really want to reach them. You can’t stomp around and advertise what you’re doing.” He paused as if weighing a choice. “Back when I craved revenge, I found a way to get messages to them. I dreamt of confronting them. You have to be very sure. Once you open this Pandora’s box, it’s their game. You’ll have no way of controlling or even guessing what they’ll do.”
“Thank you,” Beatrix said, and following an impulse, she hugged him.
Dyøt’s eyes shone a bit when he stepped back. “Kargev’s Tavern in the Dust. Leave a note with the bartender.”
24
PIONEERS
Early the next morning, Beatrix and Emma skipped breakfast to hurry to Kargev’s Tavern in the Dust, apparently one of the shadiest parts of Læsting.
Beatrix hadn’t planned to share with anyone, aware that her friends might try to stop her. But Emma picked the information off her brain much in the same way a little sister might plunder secrets.
The young girl was spooked by the conversation with Dyøt.
“Are you sure we should reach out to them if they’re so dangerous?” she said, her hair tight in a black chignon.
“I have no choice,” Beatrix said. “I’m running out of time in the Zweeshen. I’ve got the travel summons. Five days left. Even Cassandra agrees it’s a bad idea to show up in the Eisid Naraid without Mary Brandt. We’re almost sure she’s a Pioneer, so this might be the best chance to find her.”
And so, determined to create a message enticing enough to raise the curiosity of the Pioneers, they spent an hour agonizing about the wording.
Eventually, they settled on something simple.
Looking for Mary Brandt.
Reward for information.
The one-armed man behind the tavern’s bar snatched the folded napkin without a word, set two drinks in front of them, charged them five dekums—the lowest coin denomination available—and ignored them. The ease of the transaction stunned them.
They left on high spirits, chatting about the options for dresses Emma and Lucy had suggested for the Monsters Ball—so far all too frilly—and until the tip of a knife pushed against her throat, Beatrix didn’t see the three figures that surrounded them.
They had Emma by the hair, and as the girl fought and kicked, one of the assailants squeezed a piece of cloth against her face. Soon limp, she dropped to the pavement.
“Emma!” Beatrix shouted. “Let her be. She didn’t do anything.”
“You did,” said the man who held the knife. A bead of blood dripped down Beatrix’s neck, its warmth waking her nerve endings, and his arm snaked around her, constricting her stomach. “You made it easy to catch you, coming here,” her captor said into her ear. “If only you’d release her, we’d let you be. But you won’t.”
Dragging Beatrix at knifepoint, they began to make their way to a vehicle that looked like an old phaeton with helicopter blades.
This time, she didn’t hesitate.
The Furie rose to her hands with confidence, and when she let it go, the release was tinged with joy. A first since the monster had awakened, she felt eager and looked forward to the lesson it would teach these men who’d dared to hurt Emma and take Beatrix.
What came was unexpected and unknown. An explosive tornado, a turbulent wave. Blurred by smoke and mist, the Furie like never before. No red tongues, no lashing whip, but a maelstrom that slashed and tore and crashed as it turned with the speed of a tsunami—with Beatrix in the eye of the storm. It lifted each of the attackers, throwing them a hundred feet down the road. It devoured façades and hoisted vehicles. It uprooted signs and lanterns. It demolished and cracked stone.
And when it calmed down, and Beatrix collapsed, it left behind scorch marks shaped like black vines.
Beatrix swore Emma to secrecy about the episode in the Dust. The girl hadn’t seen much, unconscious during most of the altercation. She awoke when Beatrix tried to carry her away, desperate to get out of this place of dilapidated houses and sewage smell. Curious that Beatrix hadn’t noticed either before.
William found them ten minutes later.
“What happened?” he said, and while Beatrix searched for a believable explanation, he added, “Don’t lie to me. I felt a huge sword stuck between my shoulder blades. That’s the oath telling me you were in mortal danger.”
“Nothing happened,” Beatrix said, too depleted to be annoyed. Or linger on the idea that this oath might connect them in some magical way. “We were attacked.”
“What did they look like?” William scanned his surroundings, as if just then realizing their location. “What were you doing here anyway? Did no one warn you about the Dust?”
“I’m tired. I’m struggling to find my way to the pods. If you won’t direct me, I will ask someone else.”
“Dammit, Beatrix,” William said. “You keep using magic and draining your Inaechar. You won’t last long enough to get to the Eisid if you don’t stop.”
“What did you want me to do? Let them take me?”
“They wanted to kidnap you?” The gears inside William’s head were almost loud enough to be heard.
She nodded. “It makes no sense. Do you think they were Pioneers?”
“Most definitely,” he said. “From the way you described their choice of transportation, there’s no other conclusion. But I don’t have any clue why they would abduct you.” He turned to her, studying every angle and curve of her face with that gaze of his that missed little. “Do you?”
“I’m tired,” Beatrix said.
And, probably noticing the way she swayed, he dropped it. “Let’s get out of here.”
Beatrix gritted her teeth and called on every drop of willpower to endure the trip back to the guesthouse. Once there, she collapsed on the bed and slept for five hours.
Only after she’d bathed and changed did she confront the damage. Beatrix didn’t need William’s reminder to know she’d lost too much Inaechar. She struggled to stand. Her stomach hurt, and her head was stuck in a vise. Black marks stained her legs all the way to her knees.
They had yet to fade by dinnertime.
25
DYØT
The sound froze Beatrix’s blood. Part growl, part scream, it was the howl of a beast in pain. Impossible to ignore.
She found him on her way back from the library, in the middle of the courtyard.
Dyøt.
Even with his head bent, she recognized him, at first from his clothes, his orange and electric-blue scarf—which lay crumpled on the ground like a garbage bag—and his boldly patterned jacket stained with dirt.
Dyøt knelt. His shirt hung torn, and his cheeks were marred with streaks of mud. Chunks of hair and dried-up blood clung to his semibare chest.
The agony in his screams was so disturbing everyone in the courtyard stood frozen. So it took Beatrix a lifetime to react. An eternity passed before she ran to his side. Before she unearthed her voice.
“What is it? Dyøt, what’s wrong?” Anguish closed her airways, a fist in her throat, and the Furie paced in her cage, tearing long scratches across her stomach. “What can I do? Tell me!”
Dyøt focused on her huge eyes. His dried lips parted in his contorted face. “It burns.”
The words smelled of char. When he lifted his hands, Beatrix yelped too at the sight of the boils and blisters. Desperate, useless tears sprang out. The edge of Dyøt’s wrist was exposed, the remnants of his wristband fused into what was left of his skin. Knots of muscle rubbed against the fabric of his sleeve. His legs were scorched. And in between the tears in his pants, seared tissue and white bone showed.
“It’s him,” a voice said. “The Charmancer. He’s burning his book.”
Someone else gasped. Beatrix didn’t know who. Didn’t care. Because in front of her, after turning silent, Dyøt’s face began to melt. Like runny wax, the skin pulled away from his cheekbones, an invisible fire eating him away.
“We have to do something,” Beatrix cried. “Someone help him. Please!”
Like never before, she wished she had a different power. Because there was nothing her Furie could do. It only knew how to destroy, not to heal.
By now, a small group had congregated around them, and she looked up at them, pleading. But everyone stood there, helpless, their combined presence oppressive with the fear of death. Her heart attacked her ribcage, her mind raced, searching for an answer.
“I’ll go get help,” she said, frantic. “Neradola. I’ll be back.”
“No, Bea. There’s no helping me,” Dyøt said through his raspy throat; he tugged on her forearm. “Stay with me. My world’s almost gone.” His eyes began to hollow, the edges of his skull protruding.
Beatrix’s soul collapsed onto the cobblestone. For a second, her lids hid the terrifying sight. Then she leaned in and pulled Dyøt into her arms, holding him like a child.
“I was wrong,” he whispered, the words thin like smoke. “To obsess about the Pioneers. Only my parents mattered.” Dyøt shifted, reached out. His fingers were as brittle as twigs and his voice so hoarse it gurgled. “I see him now. He wants you. Find your mom, Bea.”
Dyøt inhaled deeply, perhaps to fight the pain or perhaps to sigh.
But he never exhaled. He turned to dust.
In her bedroom, Beatrix cried as if someone had exploded all pipes in her body and collected every tear she’d ever refused to shed.
The horror wouldn’t leave her mind.
She lay on her fully made bed, shaking and sobbing. Wishing to disappear, she squeezed into a ball, scrunched in, curled up, the smallest she could make herself. Her clothes shed dust onto her chinoiserie comforter. She knew it wasn’t dirt; it was the remains of a friend who’d been alive and well just yesterday.
“Beatrix,” she heard him say, the whining of the door betraying his entrance.
“Why?” she asked in a strangled voice.
William padded in, as if intruding wore on him. She imagined the agony in his features reflected hers.
“The council’s known for a while this Charmancer’s gaining strength. You’ve heard the rumors. The bells… I’m sorry you had to—”
“Dyøt hadn’t done anything! He was good.” Beatrix screamed because the senselessness left no other options.
William sat on the edge of her bed. “Death is rarely fair.”
“It was murder,” she said. “And you’re not very good at comfort.” Although her tears began to ease.
“I’m not. Sorry.” With a gesture that in any other moment would have meant something else, William caressed her messed-up hair. “Worth was the one who always made me feel better about it. He’s dead too. Elizabeth’s contacts have confirmed it. The Charmancer killed him as well. Not like Dyøt, but after being taken prisoner and tortured.”
Her tear-stained face looked up, her puffy eyes meeting his and holding them. “My uncle?”
“I wish you’d known him,” he said, sadness swamping his features.
“I was hoping to. But why?”
“I don’t know. We have no clue what he wants.”
He wants you. Dyøt’s words were a litany.
“What was my uncle like?”
William let out a bitter laugh. “Unstoppable. Brave. A liar in the end. But he was my friend.”
“I’m so sorry.” Beatrix must not be great at consoling either because she couldn’t fathom what else to offer. Then an idea pushed through to the forefront of her mind. “Does that mean you’re free of your oath?”
William shook his head. “It means the Charmancer is closer than we thought. And no, the oath is intact. This kind transcends death.”
“You should have never promised.”
“I don’t regret it,” he said and dropped his hand away from her head. Beatrix wished she could say something meaningful but nothing came to mind.
So they sat in silence, sharing the pain that hung in the air like an oppressive shroud.
“Do you want me to light your Fogges candle?” he asked. “For Dyøt?”
She watched him, puzzled through her still blurry vision. “Why would—?”
“That’s where some believe taelimns go, back to the Fogges of Unformed Thoughts where we came from. They think the candle can light our passage.” He offered her a tired half smile. “Or maybe it just makes the ones left behind feel better.”
William stood, and after collecting the candle, he placed it in her hand. The tiny spot where he brushed her skin became seared with longing. William pulled his lighter from his pocket, and Beatrix had a feeling of déjà vu, certain the flame to pop out would be bright green.
Her sense of place and time teetered as the wick burst into flame. A swaying that brought along a wisp of vertigo. May the words light your journey, Dyøt, she thought, unclear where the phrase had come from. But it felt right. The only thing about all this that did. With care, she set the candle in the silver holder, placed it on the side table. Watched it burn.
The memory of Dyøt melting away clenched her heart in a fist, a bitter, poisonous tightness in her chest. When her voice came out, it sounded a lot lower and more violent than she’d planned. “I don’t even know this Charmancer, and I’ve never hated anyone so much in my life.”
William stared at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. “That makes me sad. He’s not worth it.”
He hugged her then, and she held on, new tears cascading down her cheeks. Unreliable Zweeshen minutes stretched and folded, leaving them suspended, perhaps outside of time, so that she lost all track of anything but William and her tears.
Eventually, she quieted. Maybe no one could cry forever, no matter how deep the horror.
26
NERADOLA
That night, Beatrix went to bed early. Like many others in the Zweeshen, she struggled to shut off her mind. She tossed, kicked, and fought her bedsheets, until she managed to trick her body into a light sleep. Only to be startled awake what seemed like five minutes later.
A blue haze bathed her room, a brighter spotlight pooling over her dresser table, where Tome V on the Essential Knowledge & History of the Zweeshen lay wide open, its pages gleaming in the dark.
Her lids slow to unglue, she rubbed her eyes, wondering if she slept still. But the blue didn’t dim, and the air smelled like wild sage. Aestrer, she thought, untangling her legs and tossing the blanket aside.
Beatrix hadn’t forgotten about the unicorn, had wondered why she’d heard nothing from him. In stories, guides and mentors were a constant presence, providing a steady direction. But it seemed now Aestrer had decided to send her a message of sorts. She could use the help. Dyøt’s death had brought forth a sense of finality. Of fragility. This wasn’t a novel, Beatrix realized, where things would turn out well in the end no matter what. This was life. Unfair, unpredictable, and heartbreaking. And nothing felt guaranteed.
Time scurried away from her, capricious as always. In four more days, she’d be forced to leave the Zweeshen for the Eisid Naraid. Whether she’d be able to find Mom without Mary Brandt was a question that haunted her.
Dragging the blanket with her, Beatrix padded toward the dresser. The mirror above it reflected her face, distorted in the eerie shadows.
She looked down at the book page and the paragraph the blue beam highlighted.
A most precious of gifts, the Alicorn is as rare as it is powerful. It will glow in the presence of danger. Drinking from the hollowed horn will open one’s eyes to magic. And its shavings heal many ailments, even those for which a cure is unavailable.
The light shone brighter around the last words. Aestrer must have little faith in my deductive abilities, Beatrix thought with a smile.
“I got it, Aestrer,” she said aloud.
The blue light dimmed. Then died.
“Thank you,” Beatrix whispered before it disappeared altogether.
She felt grateful the unicorn had come to her aid. Just in time too, because on the next breath, her stomach and her chest contracted in pain—and she collapsed.
“How hard will it be to make a potion using the Alicorn?” Beatrix asked Neradola around midmorning the following day. She struggled to get the words out. The attack last night—longer and worse than any so far—had left her sapped and discouraged. And marked. The black lines on her calves hadn’t faded this time.
