The Changeling (13 page)

On the second day, Owen stepped carefully, digging his spikes in as far as he could, ascending the hazardous ledges. By the end of the day, his breathing labored in the thin air, and his fingers, toes, nose, and ears were numb. He looked for a safe place to sleep. Finding none, he kept climbing, the moon rising over his back, casting shadows on the ice.

When he reached a dense fog and the moon disappeared, he knew he was in trouble. He desperately needed rest. His arms and legs ached, and his stomach rumbled.

He recited from
The Book of the King
, missing Mucker but knowing his little friend could have never survived this cold.

Close to midnight, Owen found a small ledge with two sticks jutting out. He wedged inside, draping jargid skins over his face. He ate a few bites of jargid jerky but found his water frozen. He licked the ice to get a few drops before falling asleep.

* * *

Owen awoke so cold that he couldn't feel his fingers. And when the wind whipped a jargid skin off his face and sent it whirling away, he looked into the sharp teeth of a storm that had come up during the night and bore down on him like a bull. Owen feared he could be sucked from his hiding place by the stinging snow and howling wind.

Owen was terrified by his loss of perspective. He had awakened to a world of white, a world without up or down. He didn't dare move.

Yet he still believed.

Believed the King had sent him here.

Believed the King had a plan.

Believed the Son was alive and would defeat the Dragon.

Believed the two worlds would be united.

And, most importantly, Owen believed that the small life he had led in the Highlands—the one cooped up with books in the back room of a musty old bookstore, afraid of the people around him and even his own shadow—had, in a strange way, prepared him for what he was about to face.

He believed there was something special about him and that the King not only recognized this but also celebrated it. Back at the bookstore, Owen had tried to simply blend in, to not bother anyone. Now he wanted more—not in a selfish way but in a good way, desiring that his life and the lives of those around him would be enhanced. He aspired to something more.

Owen reached with his tongue to catch snow and let it drip down his throat, but that only made him colder. Finally, around noon, he managed to open his backpack with stiff fingers and pull out another strip of jerky. The food warmed his stomach and made him feel like he could go on. But still the storm raged, and he had to stay put.

He knew from
The Book of the King
that no matter what was happening, no matter how bad the situation or the fight or the storm, a follower of the King could enjoy peace of heart and mind that could not be understood.

And so, as Owen lay shivering, lips chapped, body numb, he simply uttered, “Peace. Be still.”

Something about the Scribe energized Watcher's desire to learn. He was a good and patient teacher who rewarded her with smiles and winks.

Still, she couldn't stop thinking of the Wormling. Humphrey found her after each of his romps with the children, but kind and gentle as he was, not even he could replace her friend.

It had been three days since the Wormling had left, and she could see the storm raging on the mountain. Could the Dragon have created it, knowing the Wormling's mission?

Watcher closed her eyes.
Protect him, O King, and bring him back. Not for my sake only nor for the sake of the people only but for the sake of your Son and your plan.

When she looked up, something swirled above her, finally coming to rest on a patch of snow. She loped to it, ice stinging her legs, and reached a jargid pelt, cut just so. Watcher gasped. It was one the Wormling had taken with him.

Power surged through Owen, warming him like hot chocolate. The wind still howled, but the snowfall had mostly abated. And he could see again. A hint of blue worked its way through the fog as he crawled out of his jargid skins and stretched. He pulled himself up by grabbing the sticks behind him. On closer inspection, Owen realized these were not sticks but frozen arms. He brushed snow away and discovered a dead man's bald head.

Owen's mind flashed to the pictures of Drushka and her family. He put a hand on the man's head and grieved.

A gust of wind came from above, and a scream rang out. A man with long, flowing hair hurtled through the air as if borne by some invisible elevator. He seemed to disappear
into
the mountain, though Owen could see no opening.

He set out and focused on each step, every direction jagged and icy, and he could see all the way down to the valley. He secured his pack and chose a steep channel, a small stream cut into the ice. But with his first step, the ice broke with a sickening crack, and Owen plunged to his left, grabbing a chunk of rock jutting from the mountain. He dangled there, a block of ice attached to the spike on his left foot, his right foot stuck in the snow.

Owen tried swinging his leg up, but the ice block weighed it down. He tried to knock it off, but another crack made him wonder if the entire wall might fall away. His hand cramped, his right leg stiffened, and he had no place to anchor his left leg. Each breath became a wheezing gasp.

A wing flapped above, and an icy breeze blew through the channel, engulfing him in snow and mist. A squeak made him brace for sharp talons. Some choice. Be plucked from his perch by a demon flyer or plunge to his death.

Owen was running out of strength, his grip failing. And just when he thought there was nothing more to do but let go, a dark figure floated before him. It couldn't have been a demon flyer or he wouldn't have seen it. Was it some other concoction of the Dragon?

My mind is playing tricks.

Then Owen heard the voice—the same one that had encouraged him in the Highlands. “Free your foot of ice with the sword, Owen, and use it to move up the channel.”

How long had it been since he had heard his real name? It both comforted and energized him. He hoped the figure, whoever it was, would be at the mouth of the cave to tell him which way to go if he made it.

Owen grabbed the sword and dislodged the block of ice, sending it skittering down the channel. He regained his balance and stutter-stepped like a lizard. The sword smoked as it touched the snow, and Owen gained momentum, finally pulling himself up to the entrance of the cave.

“Who
are
you?” Owen whispered. “Help me find the missing chapter.”

But the strange visitor had disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

The cavern branched into two paths, both strewn with human bones, and the ceiling dripped with something difficult to determine. The smell was like a mix of scrumhouses and dirty rags at a gas station.

Owen took the passage to the right, hoping it would lead him to the Great Hall. Rocks vibrated around him, and a deep rumbling swept through the mountain—an explosion? He talked himself out of running back out, and the cavern narrowed into a smaller opening that forked. Owen again stayed to the right.

A dim light flickered like a torch, but he realized the source was not actual flame but emitted by huge fireflies lolling on the cave walls.

The tunnel turned sharply to the right and angled down to where the earth grew softer. Something had left tracks an equal distance apart, and the oily-rags smell grew stronger.

Owen broke through what felt like a thick spiderweb and kept moving. A squeak sent him into the shadows, and when it became louder and more regular, he peeked out and spotted a beast slowly pulling a cart filled with jars. It looked like a donkey, but its head was more apelike with large eyes and teeth.

Owen stepped out of the shadows and said,
“Psst.”

The beast stopped. “Where did you come from?”

“Back there. I'm looking for the Great Hall.”

The beast shook his head. “You are not going to live long, are you?”

“I hope to.”

“You came through the web then. The neodim will find it has been breached.” The eyes of the beast were as white as snow.

“You can't see, can you?”

“It's what they do to you when you enter the White Mountain. Take your sight.”

“The humans too?”

The beast nodded. “All but the ones who fill the pots. They have to see.”

“What's in the pots?”

“Liquid fire from below. It's for the Dragon's preparation for—” His ears shot up. “Under the cart. Quickly.”

Owen scrambled under and held on as the cart began moving. They had gone only a few yards when something enormous rumbled through the tunnel, shaking the walls and causing a cascade of small rocks. Owen closed his eyes against the falling dirt.

The beast stopped and yelped as something savagely hit him. Owen got the idea that he had to move more quickly or face a more severe beating.

A horrible smell hit Owen, and his mouth dropped open as they passed the intruder's scaly feet, which appeared several times Owen's size, as Rachel had warned. Through the slats Owen saw glowing, green eyes and something that dripped on the cart and immediately burned through. Owen had to jerk his head to the side to avoid it.

“He'll be back looking for you as soon as he sees the web disturbed,” the beast whispered. “Run ahead of me. The Great Hall is on the path that leads down.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Owen said. “What is your name?”

The beast kept walking. “We stopped using names the day we were brought here.”

“Please,” Owen said.

“Call me Burden. I bear the awful knowledge that what I bring will eventually destroy all life as I knew it. Who are you?”

“Call me Friend. I'm here to help you.” He stretched his sword to the eyes of Burden, making the beast recoil. But when Owen spoke gently, Burden held still. There was a slight sizzling, and when Owen moved away, the white was gone and in its place were dark pupils.

“I don't believe it! I can see!”

“Don't let anyone know until the time is right,” Owen said.

“And when will that be?”

“When the Day of the Wormling comes and when the Son returns to release the captives and give sight to the blind.”

“But you just—”

A great roar split the air and rushed through, echoing off the walls. Seconds later it was met with the report of another roar, this one deeper and longer.

“The neodim?”

Burden shuddered. “No, just their helpers. Neodim cannot fit into these tunnels. You must hurry.”

“Tell the others that the Day of the Wormling is at hand.”

“What do you seek here?”

“The words to a book buried in the Great Hall.”

“Words that change our destiny?”

“Yes.”

Burden's eyes watered. “Why risk your life for ones whose lives are over?”

Owen placed his hand gently on Burden. “You are worth much more than you can imagine. One day you will fight with us against the Dragon. One day you will see the deliverance promised by the King.”

“Deliverance from this place?”

Owen drew closer. “Every captive will go free. And even the Dragon will one day kneel before the King.”

Burden shook his head and groaned. “Here they come for you. You have given me sight just in time for me to see the death of our one ray of hope.”

“I will not fail.”

“Then hurry!”