Secret of the Giants' Staircase (12 page)

When Jesse woke up without Owen beside him, he groaned, immediately coming up with a list of the trouble Owen could be getting into without him.
Maybe the Westlunders took him to the prison. Or maybe he went back to Lidia and is hiding in some suit of armor in the palace. Or he's in the crypt, drawing pictures on the walls.

The last place he expected him to be was sitting in Castor's front room, talking animatedly with the giant. But that's exactly what he was doing, although he stopped as soon as he saw Jesse.

“What are you doing?” Jesse demanded. Something about Owen's upturned nose and bright smile made him always look mischievous, but he could tell Owen was struggling to hold back a laugh.

“Having Amarian lessons,” Owen said cheerfully. “Listen!”

“Jesse look ugly this morning!” Castor said politely.

“Does he know what that means?” Jesse asked Owen, who just shrugged.

Castor looked from Jesse to Owen. Despite Owen's innocent smile, he seemed to understand exactly what had happened. “Owen says means hello,” he said. “But no?”

“See,” Jesse said to Owen. “Castor's just met you, and he can already see through your innocent act.”

Owen made a face at him. “At least we saved you some breakfast.”

Even the mention of the word made Jesse realize how empty his stomach was. A day with nothing but fruit to eat had taken its toll. “Where is it?”

“No,” Castor said, shaking his head. “First, water. Jesse is—.”

“Ugly,” Owen insisted.

Castor ignored him, waiting for Jesse to give him the word.

“Dirty,” Jesse said.

Castor nodded. “Jesse, please wash in water.” He presented Jesse with a basin of warm water. There was a large sponge floating in it. Jesse soaked it and wiped at his arm. The water in the basin soon turned a dingy brown, but flecks of tar still stuck stubbornly to Jesse's arms.

He pointed to them and asked, “Can I have…something else?” Castor inspected the tar and nodded, disappearing into the bedroom and returning with a coarse bristled brush. Jesse gritted his teeth and scrubbed, managing to get most of the caked tar off of his face, neck, and arms.

When he set the brush down and turned around, Castor frowned. “Jesse, you are….” Again the word seemed to escape him. He pointed to Jesse's skin, glowing pink after the scrubbing.

“It's called clean,” Owen said. “Something Jesse hasn't been in a long time.”

Castor shrugged, dismissing whatever had bothered him. “Breakfeast,” he said, pointing to a bowl on the table. Jesse didn't correct the mispronunciation, although the sticky, gray-brown contents of the bowl didn't look like any kind of feast.
At least Owen managed to teach Castor one useful word
.

He took a cautious spoonful, and the food burnt his tongue so much he wasn't sure how he felt about it. The second spoonful was better, and he could tell it was a kind of porridge that would have been tasteless except for the bits of yellow fruit mixed in. Jesse recognized the fruit from the vineyard outside the palace.
So that's who harvested the fruit
.
And who kept the rope in the well in good repair, and created the smoke, and left a hundred other small signs of life in the abandoned ruins. The Watchers.

“Owen teach me more Amarian words,” Castor said.

“Good,” Jesse said, giving Owen a stern look. “I hope the rest of them were defined correctly.”

“Most of them,” Owen said. He grinned. “Well, some of them. I taught him a few phrases on my own. But the rest were just words he pointed to from some book.”

That made Jesse pause, a spoonful of porridge halfway to his mouth. “A book in Amarian?”

“This book,” Castor said, setting a heavy book on the table next to Jesse.

Jesse's spoon clanked to the table. It was the Forbidden Book. He would recognize it anywhere. “Where did you get this?” Jesse demanded. He opened the cover and fingered the wax seal of the red dragon.

“From Amarian boy in prison,” Castor said.

Silas
. Jesse wondered how much of a fight he had put up before Castor got the book away from him.

“What say the book?” Castor asked. It was a thick, heavy volume, but he held it easily in one hand.

Jesse hesitated. “Do you understand the word evil, Castor?”

He nodded. “Right, wrong. Night, morning. Good, evil.” Gideon had clearly spent a day teaching Castor opposites.

“The people who wrote this book were evil,” Jesse said. “They tried to kill us and many others like us.”

“Wait,” Owen said, “it's that book you were talking about?” He reached for it, nearly spilling what was left of Jesse's porridge. “Let me see my picture!”

His hand froze halfway there when a loud voice in Westlundish stopped him. He and Jesse both looked up. There, in the doorway, was an unsmiling Westlunder, with a small silver hatchet strapped to his side.

“Head Watcher,” Castor muttered to them. “He is….” Words failed him again. “Not evil, but….” He shrugged.

It struck Jesse that the contrast between good and evil was very clear, at least in the bare definition of the words. In real life, though, things became more complicated. It was much harder to describe people who were thoughtlessly careless, or who were friendly but discriminated against a group of people, or who were simply lazy and selfish.
Maybe all of us are a mixture of evil and good
, Jesse thought.
Some just choose evil more often than good
.

The Head Watcher seemed to be one of those people. Jesse could see a hardness in his eyes, and though he could not understand the words the man barked out at Castor, he could recognize the superior tone of his voice.

“Head Watcher says we come with him to Gathering,” Castor translated. “Gathering is every circle moon, before we change with other Watchers from Westlund.”

So it's a kind of shift schedule
, Jesse realized.
Some of the Watchers stay underground in Lidia for a month, and then the other half comes from Westlund to replace them
.

The Head Watcher left without waiting for them to agree to come. Jesse was sure they had no choice.

To his surprise, Castor led them to the prison, where Parvel, Rae, Silas and Barnaby were still chained to the wall. There were eleven other giants waiting, crowded in groups against the wall, as if trying to stay as far away from the prisoners as possible.

The instant the Head Watcher entered, all talk ceased. He strode to the middle of the room, turned to face them and began a speech in Westlundish, barely pausing for Castor to translate.

“He says that in past days, there is much rain. Below-Lidia has much water come up,” Castor said, struggling to keep up with the Head Watcher. “And man alone in city kill two Watchers in week past.”

The Guard Rider. It had to be.

“We need do something before more happens wrong,” Castor continued.

It was superstitious, Jesse knew, to believe that some kind of ritual will stop the rain from coming into the tunnels.
It's much more likely there's a leak somewhere that needs to be fixed.

“He says also of the words on the wall, of the Lidian treasure. We Watchers look and wait for the treasure many years.” Castor paused, his eyes focused and hands tense at his side. “We all are sons of Westlund. In past days, Watchers find many sons of Amarias. But now we find first son of Lidia.”

Jesse didn't think now was the time to tell him that he wasn't Lidian. Castor was struggling so much that Jesse thought he might start to sweat from the effort of translating.

Then the Head Watcher looked straight at Jesse and Owen, still speaking. Jesse didn't like the look in his eyes as he put his hand firmly on the axe at his side.

“What is he saying?” Jesse hissed at Castor, who was staring at the Head Watcher in horror. Castor didn't answer.

Even Owen could tell something was wrong. “Castor,” he said, and the stern voice coming from the mischievous eleven-year-old would have made Jesse laugh at any other time.

Castor looked straight at them. He had recovered his composure. “Head Watcher say to find the treasure, words say we kill three sons this next night.”

“What!” Owen yelped. All of the Westlunders looked over at him.

“Castor, tell them that won't work. It doesn't make any sense,” Jesse said, fighting to keep his voice calm.

“They no will listen,” Castor said. His eyes, so warm and friendly just moments before, were now distant and helpless.

“You have to stop them,” Owen said. “You can't just let them kill us!”

“No,” Castor said. “No, I go with you.” He straightened up. “I am chosen son of Westlund. ‘To give my all for Lidia's call.'”

Dimly, Jesse recognized he was quoting the inscription. True, the words “their sacrifice of greatest price” did sound like death was needed to reveal the treasure.

Then he remembered. “I'm not a son of Lidia,” Jesse said. “Barnaby is.”

Castor pointed at the bird around Jesse's neck. “Token,” he said, pointing. “All Lidians have token, like in past days.”

The Head Watcher asked Castor a question, and Castor timidly answered, bowing his head. The Head Watcher jerked Jesse to the center of the room and examined him, then pronounced something with a voice of authority.

“He say you look like Hyram of Lidia,” Castor translated. “Small, with….” He pointed to Jesse's leg.

A limp. Jesse recalled from the statue that Hyram had been portrayed stooping over. “I happen to share a trait with a founder of Lidia,” Jesse said. “That doesn't make me a Lidian.”

One of the other giants stepped forward and grabbed his arm, but with all of his strength, Jesse pushed him away, standing to face the Head Watcher. “I am not a son of Lidia,” he repeated, but it didn't look like anyone in the room believed him. Some of them began to mutter amongst themselves.

Jesse looked over at Barnaby, waiting for Barnaby to speak up, to say, “He's telling the truth. He's not a Lidian, and that's not his token. It's mine.”

But he never did. He didn't even look away, just stared straight at Jesse with hard black eyes. Even Zora, perched on his shoulder, didn't move.

Jesse tried to pull himself back into the room as the giant hauled him away. “Tomas was right,” he said, struggling against the giant's firm grasp. “You don't care about anyone except yourself.”

Before Jesse was dragged out of the prison, he saw a flash of recognition on Barnaby's face. He hoped the mention of his brother stung—he deserved it for letting them take Jesse away.

Suddenly, the dark water flooding the tunnels seemed sinister, foreboding, like it would suck him down. Jesse leaned heavily on his staff, because his legs were weak. Then, he felt a small hand in his. It was Owen. “I don't want to die,” he said.

He had never looked younger or more afraid. And Jesse had never felt more helpless. He wanted more than anything to say, “You won't. I know a way to escape,” or “We'll be rescued. I'm sure of it.”

Going into the swamps, Jesse had been confident he could do anything. He had been so sure of himself, now he wasn't sure of anything. He didn't want to make a promise he couldn't keep, but Owen was counting on him. Jesse tried to think of something brave, but he didn't feel brave, not any more.

Jesse remembered what Parvel once had told him, the words of Jesus, “I will never leave you or forsake you.”
Parros deGuardi called these swamps “godforsaken.” But it's not true. God is here.
Even though that didn't change the fact that the giants were going to kill them, Jesse felt better, stronger.

Suddenly, Jesse knew what to tell Owen. “I won't leave you,” he said. “I promise. Whatever happens next, it'll happen to both of us together.”

When they reached Castor's home, one of the giants stood straight and tall next to the door, posted as a guard. Jesse and Owen were shoved inside.

Before stalking away, the Head Watcher gave one last pronouncement. Jesse didn't know what he said but knew it couldn't be good.

Castor, still looking stiff and distant, translated. “The Head Watcher says, ‘Three sons of the treasure, we wait for the circle moon.'”

It had been nearly an hour, and Castor hadn't said a word, no matter how much Jesse and Owen pleaded and reasoned with him. He just moved back and forth across the room—which took only a few steps with his long stride—and muttered to himself in Westlundish. Every now and then, the guard at the door would poke his head in to make sure all was well.

What is the guard expecting us to do?
Jesse wondered.
Burrow through the ceiling?
Leaks or no, Vincent the shipbuilder had done an excellent job. Even after hundreds of years, the tunnels were still sturdy.

Finally, Castor spoke, sitting heavily on the bench. “It is honor to die for Westlund.” He didn't sound very sure of himself.

“I'll skip that honor, thank you,” Owen said.

“You're welcome,” Castor said dully.

“Castor,” Jesse said, sitting down next to him, “you have to understand. This is not an honor. This is a disgrace. This is
wrong
.”

Castor shook his head. “Jesse do not understand. In Westlund, every man is needed to…to do something—”

“Something great,” Owen finished, in a small voice. Jesse looked at him, and shrugged. “Why do you think I joined the Guard?”

Castor seemed to accept Owen's translation. “I am small. Not strong.” Jesse could hear the shame behind his simple words. Castor had turned red, not from anger, but from embarrassment. “All I have is words. Words and history. That is no great.” Then he straightened. “But I am son of Westlund. Now, I do what I need for my people. It is honor.”

“That's what the Council said to me when I joined the Youth Guard,” Owen said. “No matter how good their words sounded, they were still evil. They wanted me to die.”

“They want all of us to die,” Jesse said. “I just never thought it would be like this.” He looked up at Castor, tapping the Forbidden Book, which was still lying on the table. “You asked earlier what this was about. It was written by people like your Head Watcher. Evil people.”

“Don't bother,” Owen said, crossing his arms. “He can't understand you. Or he doesn't want to listen.”

“Yes, he can,” Jesse said, never looking away from Castor. “Castor, you have to hear me. This sacrifice is not right, just like what is written in this book is not right.”

Castor looked at him for a few seconds. Obviously, Castor's mind was full of conflicting beliefs and inner struggles that he couldn't express in his limited Amarian. Maybe no one could express it, not even the greatest of scholars.

Then Castor opened the Forbidden Book. His finger moved over the text, his mouth silently forming words.

“What's he doing?” Owen demanded. “
Feeling
the words?”

“It must be easier for him to understand written Amarian than spoken,” Jesse explained. “To him, we probably have an accent.”

After a few pages, which Castor flipped through quickly—probably looking at the maps and pictures, Jesse decided—he abruptly stopped, an expression of deep surprise on his face.

He held the book up. “Leisel,” he said, pointing to a sketch of a beautiful young woman with dark hair and piercing eyes. She was wearing a silver butterfly necklace.
The girl in the crypt
.

Clearly, Castor knew the Amarian word written underneath the portrait, Leisel, was her name. For a moment he just stared at the book, which looked small in his thick hands.

Then he did the last thing that Jesse would have expected. He began to cry. His shoulders shook, and though no tears came out of his eyes, he rocked back and forth, staring at the book and moaning quietly.

“Great. What do you do with a crying giant?” Owen asked, backing away.

“Just what you would do with an Amarian or a Lidian or anyone else,” Jesse said, walking over to Castor. “You mourn with him.”

They couldn't speak, at least not much. Jesse couldn't tell him the reason Leisel had died or about the hope of heaven if she believed in God. But he could stand with Castor and feel the same pain he felt.

Jesse stared at Leisel's face, realizing for the first time that every one of the hundreds of young people in the Forbidden Book had a name, a face, a story. And most of them, like Leisel's, ended tragically.

The realization made him want to tear the pages from the Forbidden Book without looking at the faces or reading their stories. It made him want to storm out of the tunnels and go to King Selen's castle in District One, raving about injustice and evil. It made him want to curl up in the corner and cry, cold and wet and confused.

Most of all, though, it made him want to ask God questions he hadn't had the courage to pray before.
How could you let them die? Are the Guard Riders stronger than you? Or do you even care?
He had felt the same sensation when he was in the tar pit, struggling and sinking deeper and deeper.

It's so senseless…hundreds of innocents dying. If I were God, I wouldn't have let them die.

If I were God.

I am not God.

The thought came to Jesse as clearly as if someone had said it out loud. He thought of Jardos, tall and proud, with his arrogant inscription, almost equated him with God.
And look what happened to him, to his great city
.

What if, somehow, all of the senseless tragedy in the Forbidden Book wasn't senseless at all? Jesse knew that's what Parvel would say. That we are limited, but God is eternal, limitlessly wise and perfectly good—that He has a plan no amount of evil can limit.

I am not God
.

It wasn't an answer, not really. Jesse still didn't know why Leisel and the others had to die. It was hard, admitting that he didn't know why—that maybe only God knew, but as soon as he accepted that he felt like he'd landed on solid ground.

“It's going to be all right,” Jesse said to Castor, and he really meant it.

“No,” Castor said, more forcefully than Jesse had ever heard him speak. “No, not right. Wrong. Watchers watch and kill for years, waiting for sons. We kill Leisel for
treasure
.”

The way he said the word, it was as if he had said the Watchers killed for dust or garbage.
And, in the end
, Jesse realized,
that's what it is. All cities fall. All treasures are lost.

Castor stood and crossed the room in three long strides. Suddenly, he truly looked like a giant. He spoke to the guard in Westlundish. That started a long conversation, full of gestures and exclamations. Jesse heard his own name and Owen's several times.

Finally, Castor turned around, a fierce expression on his face. He slammed the door. “They give us time to go to Lidia. Find new way. Find treasure without kill.”

“So once we go up to the ruins, we can escape,” Owen cheered. “You're brilliant, Castor!”

“Escape?” Castor asked, turning to Jesse.

He shrugged. “Leave Lidia. Run away from the Watchers.”

“No,” Castor said, and his tone was more powerful and commanding than Nero's. “We escape, the Watchers find others. No more die. No more Leisels die.”

“I don't care,” Owen said, his voice rising in panic. “I just want to get out of here.” He ran into the other room, probably to bury himself in Castor's huge blanket.

“Watchers go out with us,” Castor said to Jesse. “We run, they kill us.”

That was a bit of a problem. “Then what will we do?” Jesse asked.

“Find right way,” Castor said firmly. And, in that moment, he looked so confident Jesse would have followed him anywhere, on any treasure hunt, no matter how crazy.

Jesse started for the doorway. “I'll get Owen.”

“Owen come?” Castor asked doubtfully.

“I promised I wouldn't leave him,” Jesse said firmly. “Do you know what a promise means?”

Castor nodded, then clamped his lips together, struggling. “East, south, west, north.”

“I think you're a little confused,” Jesse said. “Those are directions.”

“No,” Castor said. “They…always same. Always….”

“True,” Jesse supplied. “Directions on a compass always tell the truth and never change.”

Castor nodded again. “Promise means I always will, or I never will. Promise means the truth.”

Then he picked up the lantern from the desk. “Owen!” he called into the other room. “Come, please. We go from here.”

Six of the Watchers—Jesse noticed the Head Watcher was not among them—escorted them to the tunnel entrance. Once there, Castor gave them an order in Westlundish. Surprisingly, they nodded and went up the stairs.

“They leave to guard Lidia. They watch us.” Castor said.

Just then, something shrieking darted past Jesse in the near-darkness. Jesse ducked, shielding his face with his hands.
I didn't know there were bats down here
.

But, when he peeked out from under his arms, he saw that his assailant was not a bat. There, perched on an outcropping of rock, was Zora. “So, you finally left Barnaby,” Owen said. “Good choice. We'll take you out of here.” He reached for her. She scrabbled away, eyeing him warily.

“She certainly doesn't like you,” Jesse said, shaking his head.

“It might have something to do with a certain incident at a tar pit outside the swamp,” Owen admitted.

Jesse made a mental note to ask him for that story later. It sounded entertaining.

Castor didn't seem to care much about Zora. He pointed to the faded carving on the wall, holding the lantern close to it. “Wrong,” he said. “Must be wrong. Have to say why to Watchers. Please, find what to say, Jesse?”

Jesse was struck again with how expressive Castor's eyes were, saying more than his limited words ever could. This time, they were pleading with him to find something wrong with the inscription, something that would mean the three of them wouldn't have to die. He knew it was the only way to convince the Watchers.

“If only I had Parros deGuardi's paper,” Jesse muttered. He briefly considered going back to get it, but that would waste the short amount of time they had.

“Amarian deGuardi,” Castor said, clearly remembering the name from his book. “Wrote words from stones.”

“What a job,” Owen said. “Sounds fascinating.”

Jesse shot him a look. “We need to compare deGuardi's translation, his words, with this.”

“To find wrong,” Castor said. “Careful look at words. I know words.”

“But we don't know the words,” Jesse said, pointing to the chipped paint. “See? Especially at the bottom, there are so many missing that deGuardi could have easily made a mistake.”

“Not this words,” Castor said. “Words of Amarian deGuardi.” Then he began reciting the translation, slowly and carefully.

Three give their all

For Lidia's call.

Son of Amarias,

Lidia's son,

Son of Westlund

Join as one.

Their sacrifice

Of greatest price

Reveals the key

To Lidia's wealth

And destiny.

These are the words of Parros deGaurdi, unfortunate explorer from District Two, now among the Vanished, along with….”

“That's enough,” Jesse said, still slightly stunned.
He memorized the entire thing, even when he didn't know what most of the words meant
. “Thank you.”

As usual, Castor was ready with a quick, “You're welcome.”

“That deGuardi got us into a lot of trouble,” Owen grumbled. “The Head Watcher is sure he meant all three of us would have to die. Even if that's what he was saying, how could he be sure he wrote everything down right? Some words are almost all gone.”

He had a point. Jesse looked at the original inscription.

Thre g v the r all

For Li ia's cal

S n of Ama as

Lidi son

Son of Wes l d

J in as o

Th r sa if ce

O gr es pr

eals t e key.

To L a' we l

nd t y

As Jesse stared at the old, faded words, an idea came to him.

“What if deGuardi was close, but not exact in the translation?” Jesse said, more to himself than Castor or Owen. He pointed to the middle line. “There's a space after ‘Join,” but deGuardi translated it as a full word. What if the line actually reads, ‘Joined as one'? And what if this,” he pointed to the first line, “is really ‘Three
gave
their all'?”

“So?” Owen said.

Jesse stepped as close as he could to the wall, carefully rubbing a layer of ash away. “‘Conceals the key,'” he said, his voice rising in excitement. “Not ‘reveals.'”

“Conceals?” Castor asked.

Owen made a motion like he was hiding the words, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. “Conceal,” he said. Castor nodded, although Jesse wasn't sure if he understood exactly.

“The ritual won't reveal the key,” Jesse said slowly. “The key is concealed.”

“Where?” For once, Castor's Amarian was enough for the task at hand.

“With the three who
gave
their all,” Jesse said, using his new translation. “A son of Lidia, Amarias, and Westlund. One from each of the ancient people groups surrounding Lidia. History.”

“History,” Castor said, his eyes lighting up. “Three. Jardos, Hyram, and Vincent.”

Again, Jesse felt ashamed that he was surprised Castor could figure out the riddle so quickly. Even without a strong grasp of Amarian, he was capable of very advanced thinking. Jesse got the sense that in his own language and among his own people, Castor was far more intelligent than he was.