Curse of the Spider King (33 page)

With a stern look at Sean, Mr. Borman ushered the kids into the school. Tommy did his best to avoid everyone as he headed to homeroom, but it was nearly impossible. It seemed everyone thought they'd heard something about Aaron, but no one knew for sure. After frantically grabbing books and such from his locker, Tommy hurried to his homeroom.

“Tommy?” called Ms. Willging. “Here's your pass.”

“My pass—?” Surprised, Tommy looked at his homeroom teacher questioningly.

“You've got GT testing in the library's media center,” she said, without looking up from her seating chart. She held out the blue pass. “Here ya go.”

The media center was humming as usual during homeroom. Seventh and eighth graders hustled back and forth from the TV studio, getting ready to broadcast the school's morning announcement program: Falcon News Live. A steady stream of children lined up at the circulation desk. Mrs. Goetz was doing her best to check books out and in, collect fines, and give suggestions. But Mrs. Galdarro was nowhere to be seen.

Tommy heard the jingle of keys, and Mr. Charlie walked out of the media office. He glanced once at Tommy and started whistling. The tune was cheery, as usual, but Mr. Charlie's expression seemed pained. He interrupted his tune to tell Tommy, “She's in there.” He pointed to the media office.

Tommy went inside and found Mrs. Galdarro at her desk. She did not immediately look up but was intent on her writing. She used a quill pen the color of blue flame and dipped it into a squat jar of ink. Tommy thought he saw tiny wisps of smoke rise each time she put the pen tip to the paper.

“Cool pen,” said Tommy.

Mrs. Galdarro looked up and smiled briefly. “Uh . . . yes, it was a gift.” She put the pen back in the bottle of ink and then hurriedly rolled up the piece of paper. With a practiced flip of the wrist, she tied it up with a fancy red and purple ribbon. Then she said, “Tommy, I am very glad you've come. If you had been absent today, I don't know what I would have done.”

Tommy held up the pass and looked at her quizzically. “Um, so when do I start the test?”

Mrs. Galdarro laughed. “You've already passed the test, Tommy. You are most definitely gifted and talented, the likes of which this school might never grasp.”

Tommy smiled.
GT, who'd have thought?
He looked down at the pass and asked, “If I'm already in . . . then . . . why did you send this pass?”

“Are you quite sure you don't know?”

“You mean the book?”

“Yes, Tommy, the book.” She studied him a moment. “You have read it, haven't you?”

Tommy rocked on his heels. “I read a lot of it.”

“Uh, excuse me, Mrs. Galdarro?” A tall eighth grader peeked around the door frame behind Tommy.

“Yes, Max, what can I do for you?”

“I did a poster for my book report on
The Vanishing Sculptor
. May I hang it up in the media center?”

“Absolutely, Max. Just ask Mrs. Goetz for some tape.”

“Cool.” And Max was gone.

Mrs. Galdarro turned back to Tommy. “You did start at the beginning of the book, didn't you?”

“Not exactly—”

“Where then?”

“‘Red Dusk.'”

“Well, that was foolish. Gave you quite a scare, did it?”

Tommy nodded repeatedly. “Mrs. Galdarro, how can . . . how can a book do that?”

“Did you ask your parents?”

“Yes, but when I told them the book came to life, they thought I was using a figure of speech. They look right at the book, and they don't see it like I do.”

“Well, of course not, Tommy,” said Mrs. Galdarro. She sighed. “They aren't Elves.”

Tommy's eyebrows knotted over the bridge of his nose. “What?”

30

Identity Crisis

MRS. GALDARRO reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a large, suede-covered book. Then she stood and closed the door to her office. “There,” she said, “we ought to have a bit of peace in here.”

She held the book up for Tommy to see. “
The Chronicles of the Elf
Lords and Their Kin
. . .” she began. “This is my copy, one of ten in existence. It is a history book of sorts . . . my history . . . and yours.”

“You said something like that before,” said Tommy. “What do you mean?”

Mrs. Galdarro took a deep breath. “Tommy, the reason you can read this book as it was intended, the reason the memories recorded here come to life when you touch them, the reason its contents are your history, is that you are not human . . . you are not of this world.”

Tommy scratched his ear beneath a few curly locks. He blinked and asked, “What am I then?”

“Did you not hear me a moment ago?” She smiled. “You are an Elf.”

“An Elf, for real?”

She nodded.

“Cool.” Tommy grinned.

“You're taking this better than I thought,” said Mrs. Galdarro.

Tommy bobbed his head left and right as if searching the room. “Look, Mrs. Galdarro, I don't know how you got my parents in on this, and I have no idea how you got the book to do all the special effects, but it's all very cool. I'm glad you picked me. So what is this, anyway, some reality–TV show? Where are the cameras?”

Mrs. Galdarro's smile vanished.

She seemed suddenly taller, and the fluorescent lights flickered overheard. Then she opened the book. “Tommy, you are the highborn son of Velaril Silvertree, one of the Seven Elven Lords of Berinfell.”

She placed the tip of her finger on the page. The black servers and white cinder-block walls faded. In their place rose pillars of smooth stone, great burgundy banners, and seven marble seats. In them sat four men and three women. Behind the throne of each man stood a woman. Behind the throne of each woman stood a man.

No, Tommy realized, they were not human men and women, but merely male and female. Their skin, light and dark, was without crease or wrinkle, as flawless as cream. And their ears tapered to an angled point. Tommy felt a warm breeze flow over his shoulder. He saw Mrs. Galdarro's finger still touching the page of the book, but also hovering like a ghostly projection over the Elf in the center throne. “This is Velaril Silvertree,” said Mrs. Galdarro, and her voice was rich and amplified with the resonance of a great hall. “Behind him is his wife, Tarin Silvertree. They are your parents, Tommy. Your
real
parents.”

Tommy stared at the Elf Lord. Velaril's ears were partially hidden by long chains of curly hair. Curly hair just like Tommy's. “I don't believe this,” Tommy said. “Close the book.”

“I will not,” said Mrs. Galdarro.

“Close the book!” Tommy commanded. He stepped forward. “I don't know how you knew I was adopted, but putting me through this . . . I mean, this isn't funny.”

“No, Tommy, it is not funny at all.”

Mrs. Galdarro turned a few pages. The room around them, the thrones, the lords and their spouses all looked the same as before, except that each lord held a small, bundled child. Mrs. Galdarro pointed to Velaril's child. “That is you, Tommy. You know, they let me hold you once. It was just a few days before this ceremony.”

Tommy shook his head slowly but continued to watch and listen.

“I was there that night,” she continued, “when the Spider King's forces attacked.”

Tommy watched with horror as the tall, stained glass window to the left of the thrones shattered. He held up his arms to cover his face from the falling glass; it all seemed so real. A huge spider shape crawled through the opening. Armored warriors leaped down from the creature as even more spiders entered the hall.

Fire leaped forth from one of the thrones. A female Elf Lord stood with her hand outstretched, and a stream of white flame blazed into the oncoming enemy. Soon the vast and beautiful hall became a chaotic den of war. Barrel-chested Gwar soldiers and their monstrous Warspiders collided with the Elves. It was brute force versus skill, but the Elves were outnumbered.

“They fought valiantly, Tommy, on your—and the other children's—behalf,” said Mrs. Galdarro. “But at last, they were overcome. And you . . . all of the children . . . were taken.”

Tommy watched the children loaded like sacks of grain into satchels on the sides of the huge spiders.

Mrs. Galdarro turned the page, and the quiet of the room returned. Tommy's face was a wreck of emotion.

“I . . . I can't be an Elf. I mean . . . I just can't be. I don't even have—”

“Haven't you ever wondered about those scars on top of your ears?”

Tommy reached up and felt the rugged tissue on the top of each ear. He blinked and looked up at Mrs. Galdarro.

“Your captors, the Drefids, disfigured your beautiful ears,” she said. “They should look like mine.” She picked at a flesh-colored seam on each ear and peeled away the normal-looking section to reveal ears as pointed as the Elves in the throne room picture. “We've learned to use prosthetics,” she said.

“We?”

“There are many of us—Sentinel Elves sent to look for you. We've become librarians, teachers, shopkeepers in this world—any profession where we can discreetly search for all the young lords. We've been searching here for a long time, hoping to find you before the Spider King's forces do.”

“I don't know if I get any of this,” Tommy said, rubbing his temples, “but didn't the . . . the Spider King . . . didn't he already have us?”

“Yes, but capturing you was never part of his plan.” She paused. “The Spider King wanted you dead . . . all of you. The Seven Elf Lords are the most powerful warriors in Berinfell. They are also a link to untold years of tradition, a living testimony to the power of Ellos.

“Think of it, Tommy. The Spider King had you all in one place at the same time. He could break the spine of all the Elves in one vicious attack. That was his plan, but it went wrong.

“The bloodline of the Elven Lords—your bloodline—has been kept pure and unbroken for tens of thousands of years. Your royal bloodline is protected by the oldest and most feared curse in Allyrian history. The Spider King knew if he himself killed you—or any one of the seven child lords—before you reached the Age of Reckoning, he would have been doomed to disaster and misery for three generations.

“The Spider King is aggressive and calculating. He's driven by an unquenchable thirst for vengeance, but even he is not so foolish as to challenge the Curse of the Firstborn.”

“Vengeance?” Tommy frowned. “What's he got against Elves? Aren't they good?”

“Good? Yes . . . but not perfect,” Mrs. Galdarro replied, her expression distant and somehow very weary. “Our history, like the human history you've been learning during your lifetime here, is dotted with events we regret.”

“Wait”—Tommy tilted his head and scratched in the whirls of hair near his ear—“there was something in the table of contents . . . a gap in the years. I wondered about that.”

“You are very clever, Tommy,” she replied. “There are few Elves in all of Allyra who know the full tale of those missing ages, and I dare not tell you what I know . . . not yet. Suffice it to say that the Spider King and the Gwar have reason to resent Elves, but not a license to make war against us or extinguish our race.”

She allowed this to sink in and then said, “In his quest for our destruction, the Spider King wanted you dead, but he would not do it himself and risk the curse. Instead, he turned to the Drefids, his dark assassins, to do the dirty work for him.”

Mrs. Galdarro opened the book to a new section. Up from the pages surged a very different scene: a catacomb lit in wavering angry oranges and reds. In this desolate place seven hooded figures stood, and the seven infant lords lay at their feet.

“I remember this,” said Tommy. “I read about this. The Drefids knew of the curse, too, right?”

“They knew . . . and they found themselves in a merciless place: suffer the consequences of the Curse of the Firstborn or the Curse of the Spider King. In the end, the Drefids found an escape. The Drefids deceived the Spider King, telling him they had slain the infants, when actually they had abandoned them here in this world. You and the other six Elven Lords would grow up here, never knowing your true lineage. Their plan might have succeeded, but by the grace of Ellos, one of the Drefid commanders changed.”

“Changed?”

“One day, Sarron Froth was a brutal and bloodthirsty assassin; the next, he was changed. He simply could not continue as he was. We found him half-starved and near death in the ruins of Berinfell. If not for Froth, we would not have found you.” Mrs. Galdarro closed the book once more, and her office reappeared.

Fingering the top of his left ear, Tommy whispered, “I'm an Elf.”

“And not just any Elf,” said Mrs. Galdarro. “You are an Elven Lord, endowed with spectacular power. Wait until you try your hand at the bows we make in Allyra.”