Waybound (32 page)

My mind is a vortex. Can't tell what I have done from what I've imagined. A torrent of images. Bodies melting under my fingers. Death cries pouring out of them, purple as wine. Eyes turning dull. The hours are wax, dripping, distorting around me.

Was it me that did those things? I believe it was.

Thirst. How did I not notice? A startling new pain, wrestling with the bullet wounds. If Mr. Goodwin were here, he would bring me water to drink. Would hold it to my lips, rid me of this torment.

I tense my muscles, contract every fiber of my body. I have gone mad, I know that. Cannot take all these tortures at once.

Warmth trickles from the holes in my chest. See thick ooze coming out, dull gray. Can it be?

The lead bullet casings. Melted.

Pressure in my chest lessens. Yes, the rounds are leaking out of me. I have expelled the objects, driven them from my body.

I clutch at my wounds and discover something new. My flesh is like putty. Smears at the touch, clay between my fingers. I push the edges of the lesions together and they fuse. Flesh becomes one. No trace of the holes in my not-skin. Whole again. Healed.

I am the Dyad. Darkness made flesh.

Shuffle toward my destination, grateful for the pain.

The wind howls in this empty hell. Clumps of razor wire skitter by. Hunger yawns inside. There are white growths like cactus made of salt. I try to eat them, cannot. Find squeaking creatures scuttling about, little ball things made of wheels and gears.

No man has ever eaten the metal vermin of this world.

But I am not a man.

Fast as they are, I am faster. Burst in my mouth like tomatoes, drink their sour juices. They quench my thirst. Feed my hunger.

My strength drips back.

I climb to my destination, a raised basin surrounded by leaning cliff walls. Cool and dark.

Nestle into a shallow fissure, feel the ore soften against my corrosive touch. Burrow into it like a molten womb.

Here I will wait.

I did everything you asked, Mr. Goodwin. All the instructions on your Scrollbar, followed them to the letter. You loosened my restraint in the lab, released me to do your bidding. Then I sat with the secret, waited for the perfect time.

Laid waste to your enemies for you. You must be proud.

Now I have found the meeting place on your map.

I need you—your guidance and wisdom.

Please, Mr. Goodwin.

Come for me.

I
t was so cold when Phoebe awoke that she thought her cheeks might be frostbitten. The previous night, she and Micah had huddled together under a foil thermal blanket he had found in the Med-i-Pak. The metal sheet was icy on the outside, but their body heat made it so toasty underneath that the kids had removed their coveralls and slept in their dingy old clothes.

Between nightmares of the fiendish Uaxtu and worries about how to reach beyond the Shroud without the whist, Phoebe had barely slept all night. Now she needed to find somewhere quiet, a private place where she could concentrate.

Somehow, she would find a way to talk to her father again.

Wan light seeped from the gap in the Emberhome mosaic. Phoebe got dressed, then climbed though it and into the shattered cemetery. The cold wind had died away, leaving the world calm and still. Piles of rubble, toppled monuments, and spindly needle trees glimmered in the light of dawn. She wiped a gloved finger across a shining, silvery mound—everything was covered in a shell of icy flux.

Breath fogging from her mouth, Phoebe climbed the slope and looked out upon the placid Mirroring Sea. The Broken had filled the mass grave with ore, and around its perimeter they had etched mehkan runes to consecrate the grounds.

Beyond the site, she spied a semicircular gate embedded in the partially toppled surrounding wall. It hung askew, battered by the recent attack. Phoebe was curious what lay beyond, so she poked her head through.

A shady arbor of rivet-gnarled roots formed a winding tunnel, soot blackened and warped by the recent fires. But as she walked deeper through it, the damage faded away, until she found herself in a secret garden that seemed to have gone unnoticed by the Foundry. It was an unexpected wonderland encased in a shimmering crystal skin. Florid clumps of purple blooms grew alongside lush, bronze needle trees, and yellow, fork-shaped petals drooped from spiraling boughs. Everything was dusted in silvery frost. The only signs of the attack were fissures in the flagstone paths and a few overturned planters.

Phoebe strolled through the garden, feeling its icy silence embrace her like the whist. She looked around the peaceful grove for a comfortable seat while she readied herself for prayer.

A ratcheting trill cut through the quiet. It came from farther down the winding path, behind a wall of purple blossoms. As she followed the trail, the sound multiplied. She rounded the corner to find the way blocked by a curtain of lacy vines. The air was jumbled with chirps and hoots.

She passed through the jingling veil and into an enclosure surrounded by woven copper vine. Blurred violet fluttered past, followed by a twirl of blue and a flap of opal. Fifty or sixty flying creatures flitted about, perching on branches and roosting in foil bushes. Some flew using propellers, others with stacked wings like jittering biplanes. Phoebe saw hydraulic necks and corkscrew beaks, wiry prehensile tendrils and flat paddle feet. They honked like rusty horns, warbled, and sang tinny songs in a delightful musical interplay.

It was a mehkan aviary.

Phoebe realized she was not alone. Tik and a few other tchurbs were here, surrounded by fluttering creatures that swarmed the buckets in their hands. It was feeding time.

“Loaii!” Tik called out in surprise as a small bird with three striped wings alighted on his shoulder. “You well? You safe?”

The other tchurbs put down their buckets and bowed.

“I'm fine. Please, don't mind me,” she reassured. “They're beautiful. What are they?”

“Garvhan, tielr, bonji—all kind,” Tik said as he fed the birds handfuls of gray kernels. “Only two escape during attack. Others hide, like the Broken. We very lucky.”

“Are they your pets?” she asked.

“Not us,” Tik said. “Axials keep. Us duty now.”

Phoebe approached the fluttery fray.

“Old tradition, you understand?” explained Tik. “Said ‘be surrounded by wings, fans the ember.' You want?”

Tik offered some kernels to her, and she accepted. She held her hand out to the flock, but they cast wary eyes at her, not trusting the look or smell of a human. Phoebe didn't blame them, seeing as how she recognized the parts of a Dish Wand, a Hair-streamer, and other Foundry products within their anatomies.

But one of the birds felt bold. It was the size of a robin, with a vise-like beak and bright yellow eyes. Spiky stiletto feathers splayed at wild angles from its compact form. It flashed a curious lemon-drop eye at her and hopped closer. Then closer.

In a flash, it pecked at her hand and leapt back. Phoebe watched with surprise as its body inflated, revealing a hole in its center like the inner tube of a tire. In a hiss of wind, the feathered ring twirled away with a sound like playing cards rippling through the spokes of a Bike wheel.

She grabbed another handful of kernels from Tik and followed after the ring bird. It wobbled and spun to a tree on the other side of the enclosure. Gathered in a bronze needle nest atop one of the boughs was a family of similar birds. Some were pea green with orange eyes, some ivory white with purple plumes. A few fluttered away as Phoebe got close. Others formed rings around the branches and swung from them playfully.

A golden head poked out of a hole bored into the pale tree trunk. It blinked, then hopped onto a limb in full display.

All became clear in a breathless instant.

These birds looked like the halos above the Ona's hands in the Emberhome mosaic. Phoebe almost laughed at the realization—she and Micah had gotten it backward.

She piled kernels on her shaking arm and held it out to the golden bird. Less antsy than the others, it hopped onto her open hand and sidestepped up to her elbow to nibble at the seed.

This was her chance. She glanced at the tchurbs, certain that they would be upset if they saw what she was doing. As carefully as she could, Phoebe took measured steps out of the aviary, parted the ivy curtain, and stepped into the open garden.

Could this be it, or was she totally out of her mind?

Before she could decide what to do next, the bird dove off her arm, transformed into a feathered ring, and spun away. The creature twirled past the tops of the trees and out of sight.

She winced. What had she been thinking? The cold cut into her again. Phoebe hesitated, trying to figure out how she was going to explain her foolish behavior to Tik.

And then the ratcheting trill sounded out.

The ring bird was back.

It hopped down a couple of branches, trying to get her attention. Phoebe stared at the brilliant bird in wonder. The creature was anxious—it had a job to do.

They both did.

In the mosaic, the rings weren't coming
out
of the Ona's hands, they were flying
into
her hands. This bird would lead them to Emberhome. She had known it the instant she saw its coloring—shiny gold with a crimson splotch on its chest.

Rhom's riddle was devious.

Only your father can show you the way.

T
he courtyard of the Housing was far less grim with the bodies gone and laid to rest. To Phoebe, it seemed as if there was now even a spark of hope in the eyes of the Broken, but that might have just been the warmth of morning.

With Tik's blessing and a sack of gray kernels, Phoebe and Micah released the gold-and-red ring bird, then set out after it. Their guide led them up the peninsula and toward the mainland. In the distance, the sky was strangled with low, pitch-black clouds that poxed the landscape like ravenous fungus.

Toxic remnants of CHAR were everywhere.

The blights were crowded so closely together that Phoebe wondered whether their mehkan guide could safely enter the corrosive region. Beyond the bleak miasma, they saw the shadows of the looming mountain range. Cutting across it was the Shroud, stretching as far as the eye could see. Everywhere the kids looked, they saw a hellish vista.

And yet onward they went—bound for Emberhome.

The scraggly ghosts of needle trees thinned out, the last bastion of life clinging to this ravaged land. With nothing left to perch on, the ring bird was forced to either hover in midair or land on the ground while it waited for them to catch up. The faceted ore beneath their feet was white from the cold and broken into angled slabs. As the kids ascended the foothills, finding traction on the uneven planes became more difficult.

Ahead, something was sticking out of the ground. It was hard to tell what it was at first—a curled lip here, a folded ripple there. But soon they could see that dark gray sheets of metal had burst up through the ore. As the kids continued, the protrusions grew in size, haphazardly piled like messy heaps of fabric. The crumpled metal waves rose, extending far and wide into a natural formation that blocked their path.

“Wild guess,” Micah said, scanning his naval map. “But I'm gonna say these are the Coiling Furrows.”

“We're getting close,” muttered Phoebe. “I can feel it.”

The ring bird landed atop a narrow slit at the base of the maze—an entrance. The kids looked at each other for a moment, neither wanting to go first. At last, Micah steeled his jaw and went in. Phoebe followed close behind.

The Furrows were cold and shady, with sunlight coming down in odd streaks. The walls bent and bulged in unnerving ways with occasional gaps opening to expose the sky. The path dipped and twisted, and within minutes they were completely disoriented. If it weren't for the ring bird, they would be hopelessly lost.