Story's End (4 page)

Una squirmed under the old lady’s gaze. Una’s father was the reason Trix had grown up alone, without a family. “No,” she mumbled. “We were just, um, curious, I guess.”

“All right, then,” Trix said with a brusque nod. “Finish your tea, and then back to work with you, child.” Before Una could say anything else, Trix had disappeared through the swinging kitchen door. A few moments later Una was out of the kitchen and down the front path to where Indy and Peter were waiting.

“Well?” Peter jumped up from his seat on the fence post.

“Trix’s father made the quills,” Una said evenly. “Before he was taken by the Enemy.”

“And?” Indy said.

“And nothing. Trix only kept the quills because they belonged to her father.” Una pushed the pain she had seen in Trix’s eyes out of her mind. “She did say something else interesting, though. Do you know anything about a Silver Quill?”

“It’s from the Tale of Beginnings.” Indy pulled the blade of grass he was chewing out of his mouth. “The reason we use ink, quill, and paper to write the Tales is because the land of Story was written into being with magical Elements: ink made from a dragon’s blood, a silver quill, and paper made all of flames. It’s a child’s Tale, really.”

Una snorted. “Just last week all of Story believed that the King and the Enemy were children’s Tales, too, and look where that got us.” Una thought of what she had seen in Fidelus’s book, how in the last moments before his imprisonment her father had braided the river of ink and swallowed it down. “The Enemy drank ink that day in the forest,” she said. “But why?”

Peter shrugged. “No one even uses ink to write Tales anymore.”

“That’s the point,” Una said. “While the Enemy was bound, it didn’t matter. He was imprisoned in his Muse book before he had a chance to do whatever it was he was planning to do with the ink. But now that he’s back, what if the ink is important?” She paused as one of the Romantic refugees passed by, a borrowed apron of Trix’s tied on over her ruffled lace gown.

“You’re right,” Indy said. “We need to know more about the Tale of Beginnings. While the grown-ups are busy with the broadsides, we can investigate.” He made a face as though he had smelled something rotten. “And, unfortunately, I know who can help us.”

It didn’t take Una long to figure out where Indy was taking them. She recognized the ratty tents full of merchants hawking their wares, but the bustling energy she remembered from when she and Peter had followed Snow and Professor Thornhill here was gone. Now, instead of slinking along the back routes, they climbed the broad road that led straight toward the towering cathedral. Una slipped one of the Resistance’s broadsides onto the nearest merchant’s table. Indy had brought a stack with them to pass out along the way, which made Una feel slightly less guilty for leaving all the others busily working at Bramble Cottage.

A woman dressed in a gray flowing robe began thumping her staff loudly once they reached the ancient stone steps that led up to the cathedral’s iron doors. “It is
The End
,” she called in a loud voice. “All of Story is ending!”

“I hate this place,” Indy said with a groan. “Riddled with Dystopians.”

The woman was waving a paper at Una as she shouted her dire warnings, and Una had to shove hard to get past her and catch up with the boys. She joined them just as they reached the landing outside the doors, where a whole cluster of people stood waving signs.
The End Is Nigh
flashed in front of Una’s face, and then she was inside, her eyes adjusting to the dimly lit interior. The spicy smell of incense floated toward them, and the heavy door thumped shut behind them. Robed figures sat slumped against the anteroom’s walls, staring into the distance and humming softly to themselves.

Indy whispered something to a young-looking Dystopian, who eyed them all with an unsettling gleam in his eye and then disappeared down a corridor.

While they waited, Peter unfolded a piece of paper. Apparently, he hadn’t successfully avoided the pushy woman with the staff. Una peeked over his shoulder.
Join the Chosen
was written across the top in bold letters.
Before it’s too late
.

Una snorted. The Dystopians mustn’t have heard the latest news from Heart’s Place. It already was too late. The Enemy was back.

Peter began reading the paper out loud. “Let’s see. ‘Did you know that Very Dark Days are coming. . . . We should abandon all hope,’ blah, blah, blah. . . .” He held the paper closer to the candles mounted on the wall nearest them so he could read it. “‘The final pages of Story are turning even as we speak. Bad news for everybody but the Chosen’—lucky for them.”

“You should talk more quietly, Peter,” Indy said as he grabbed the paper from Peter and crumpled it into a ball. “At least in this place.”

“Don’t tell me you believe them, Indy,” Peter said. “Everyone knows the Dystopians are cheats. All this nonsense about Story’s End is a way for them to fill their pockets with gold marks.”

Indy didn’t have a chance to respond, because a hidden door near them opened, and a gaunt-looking man appeared, bowing his head for an uncomfortable moment.

“Welcome,” the man said in a smooth voice.

Una didn’t like the crawly feeling his fevered gaze gave her. His face was scrubbed clean, and his eyes were unnaturally shiny. “Dark days are coming, friends,” he said as he led them past a stained glass window that framed a fiery scene.

Una nodded solemnly and fought down an absurd desire to giggle. He didn’t know how right he was. “Okay,” she said.

“Brother”—he was talking to Peter now—“we must prepare for The End. Those who do not choose the right path now will not survive the coming trial. For five marks I will read you today’s prophecy. It’s very—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter cut the man off. “I’ve heard your prophecies before. What is it today? Aliens coming to take us out of Story? Or maybe that you’ve found the bridge to the Readers’ World?”

“I see you are familiar with our noble calling,” the man said, and his yellow teeth glistened as he smiled at them. “Some question our intentions, but I assure you”—he reached out and touched Peter on the shoulder—“that we mean to help Story. For only a month’s wages, you can join the Chosen, and you need not fear the dark days that are coming.” He guided them to a grouping of hard wooden benches.

“Nobody needs you to tell us that Story’s a mess.” Peter shrugged the man’s hand off.

Indy cleared his throat and stomped his boot squarely on Peter’s foot. “Ah, yes. These are bitter times. And we are mere”—he shot a dark look at Peter—“questers.” Indy pressed his palms together for a moment. “We heard the rumors. The chaos at the Tale station. The ruin of Heart’s Place. The hints of the Muses’ return. Some say the Lost Elements have been found.”

The Dystopian nodded sagely. “It is as the prophets have foretold. The End of Story has come. All the evils of the Unbinding will return upon us tenfold.” His lips quivered. “The terror of the Unbinding was nothing compared to what is to come. The prophecies have been right so far. Increasing unrest. More and more sightings of the Taleless. Why, the very land of Story is failing!” He gave them a thin laugh. “This”—a pale fingertip emerged from the edge of his sleeve and pointed toward the front of the cathedral—“unrest is just the beginning, and then—”

“
The End
will come, right?” Peter gave him a polite little clap.

Indy clenched his jaw. “We mean no insult, Brother.” It seemed to Una that he was forcing the words out.

The man nodded. “No offense taken. I know it is not me he insults, but my mission.”

Una hoped Peter wouldn’t say anything else. She could tell Indy didn’t like the slimy Dystopians any more than Peter did, but how was she supposed to find anything out if Peter kept insulting them?

Indy’s voice was smooth, but Una could hear a note of impatience in it. “Right. Your mission. Doesn’t it have something to do with the Tale of Beginnings?”

“Oh, yes, the Lost Elements. Many go on pilgrimage to seek them, and Brother Geryon has even claimed to have found the Silver Quill.” He made a funny little gesture with his fingers as he said the name. “When the three Elements used in creation are found once again, all of Story will be undone. It’s very clear in the sacred legends.”

“So the Elements are real,” Una said. “We can actually find them somewhere in Story.” Her thumbs were pricking with the kind of knowing that made her sure they were on the right trail. But there was no time for mistakes. They couldn’t wander around Story looking for Elements that were just some moneymaking riddle for the Dystopians.

The Dystopian’s feverish gaze turned on her. “Come, I will show you.” He went a few paces and then paused. “Two gold marks,” he said, palm held out, and, when Indy had found the required amount, added, “Each. Six total.” She could hear Peter mumbling under his breath as Indy dropped the money into the man’s open palm. When the Dystopian had counted it, he led Una and the boys out of the chapel and up a twisting stair to a landing. Before them, a giant round window filtered in light through its colored panels.

The Dystopian cleared his throat. “Once upon a time, before the first Tale was written, there was a character who had no name. The character felt all the stories in the world flowing inside of him, but there was nothing for him to write them down with. He looked out over the wide world, and what did he see but the mighty griffin hunting his breakfast. He spoke to the griffin, and the griffin flew to him. The man slew the beast and took the best of his feathers.” He pointed up to the first panel of the window, where a half-lion, half-bird bent before a man with a bow and arrow. “The character again looked out over the wide world, and what did he see but the fiercest of dragons crouched upon the highest mountain. He spoke to the dragon, and the dragon flew to him. The man slew the beast and collected his lifeblood, black as ink.”

Whoever had fashioned the window had made the dragon out of opaque glass, and its blood looked like a dark river rushing through the green forest. “The character again looked out over the wide world”—the Dystopian pointed at the final pane—“and what did he see but a fiery phoenix rising from the ashes. He spoke to the phoenix, and the phoenix flew to him. The man slew the beast and collected her skin.” The Dystopian’s pale fingers hovered over the stained glass. “From the lives of these three magical beasts, willingly offered at the character’s word, came the legendary Elements of Story. The character took the Silver Quill from the griffin, dipped it in the Dragon’s Ink, and began to write on the Scroll of Fire. And so the land of Story was born.” He clasped his hands in front of his waist. “When the three Elements are once again used, The End will be written and the old Story will be complete. Our scholars disagree on what the new Story will be like, but on this everyone is clear.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “We hasten The End by hunting for the Lost Elements. Brother Geryon taught us this, and many pilgrims obey his instructions to seek out the Elements.”

Una gave him a jerky little nod. “And if
we
wanted to go on—um—a pilgrimage?” she asked in what she hoped was a devout voice.

The man reached a pale hand out to clasp her on the shoulder. “Such a sensitive girl. Converted already by the signs of the times.”

“Ah . . . yes,” Una said. “Um. Your words have persuaded me.”

The man flashed his yellow teeth at her. “We have maps for zealous pilgrims. They outline paths trod by weary feet longing for the peace of Story’s End. Shops where the finest quills were once made. Possible locations of the river of ink. Sightings of the last living phoenix.” In one swift movement he reached behind him and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He pressed it into Una’s hand. “For just five gold marks.”

Peter snorted, but Indy fished the coins out of his pocket.

The Dystopian pressed his palms together and gave them a deep bow. “Happy endings to all of you.”

Chapter 5

T
he moon was high when Snow, her mother, and their guide finally squeezed out of the hole. Snow ran her fingers through her hair, but the fine granules of dirt stayed stubbornly put. She wanted to shake off the filth of the tunnels so she wouldn’t have to remember the tickly sensation of insect legs racing across her hands or the plop of unknown creatures falling on her as she burrowed after the man. But nothing she did made her feel cleaner.
No wonder this guy looks gross
.

The strange man had moved surprisingly quickly for his emaciated form, scraping along the earthen floor on his hands and knees. At one point, the ceiling had been so low, Snow had to scrunch forward on her belly. She worried for her mother and wondered how her wounded feet were faring. But one glance at her mother’s face showed that sympathy wouldn’t be appreciated. She wore a determined look, and the only signs that anything was out of the ordinary were her dirty skin and the gray circles under her eyes.

“Well, we’re out,” their odd guide said. “Which is what you wanted. Hope you’re happy.”

They stood in the shadow of the prison wall. In front of them, pale hills of sand lay quiet in the moonlight. The air was still, but very cold.

“It’s a desert,” Snow said.

“Very good! Very clever!” The man nodded and gave a polite little clap. “A desert that is impossible to cross.”

Snow gave him a withering smile.
Great
. She wanted to grab the man and hold him in one place until he told them something useful. The complete silence made Snow feel like the guards were going to pop out at any moment and snatch them.

“Do the tunnels go anywhere else?” her mother asked.

“Aye,” he said. “There are many cells.”

“Other prisoners?”

“But of course.” The man swept his head from side to side. “There’s my own person. Me. And I, of course.” He looked very pleased with himself. “They meant to kill me, you know, but I’m alive. Tricky, tricky me. And I.”

Snow ignored him. “There has to be a way through the desert or something at the end of this wall,” she said, slapping her hand against it.