Darwen Arkwright and the School of Shadows (4 page)

The man who called himself Lightborne seemed unabashed and merely smiled wider still. “A fair question,” he said, “and one I would expect given our recent dealings. There have, I am very sorry to admit, been some serious miscommunications between us, Darwen. Many things lost, as it were, in translation.”

“You gave in to Greyling,” said Darwen, unable to stop himself. “You would have let him take land, take
children
, if my friends and I hadn't stopped you.”

The old man was still smiling, but it was a sadder, more apologetic smile, and he nodded slowly before answering. “You are quite right,” he said. “I referred to misunderstandings before, but I'm afraid it went rather further than that. We made, I am ashamed to say, some bad decisions, prompted by fear and desperation.” As he said this, he looked around the seated council, and they all looked suitably chastened. Some nodded, others hung their heads.

“But these matters have been resolved,” Lightborne continued. “Albeit with some difficulty and with the aforementioned restructuring of the Guardian Council.”

“Greyling said there was no council,” said Darwen, still defiant in spite of himself. “He said there was a new council with him at its head, that the old council was defeated, gone. . . .”

“And yet,” said Lightborne, smiling again. “Here we are. Greyling, as we have all learned to our cost, tells lies, Darwen. That is his primary talent.” He nodded at the empty chair. “Are you sure you won't have a seat? I don't mind if you would rather stand, but I think you would be more comfortable sitting, and I would feel less like a school principal talking to a student who has been sent to his office.”

He smiled his twinkling smile again, and Darwen was unsettled at how much the old man's manner reminded him of Mr. Peregrine. He sat down. Immediately he felt a surge of relief that was almost physical, as if the weariness of the day was being drained away and new energy pumped into him. Jorge patted his shoulder reassuringly and returned to his seat.

“There now,” said Lightborne. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

Darwen did not know what to say. A part of him wanted to tell them all exactly where they could get off, but another part was desperate to have the council on his side again.

Still, there were things he needed to know, things he needed to hear them admit.

“When I first came to America,” he said at last, “you already knew who I was, didn't you? Mr. Peregrine called me by name the first time I met him. You knew I might be a mirroculist.”

Lightborne's eyes narrowed. He hadn't expected this, and the question seemed to put him on his guard. “One of the tasks of the gatekeepers is to be alert for a new mirroculist,” he said, studying the backs of his hands, “or someone who might become one, particularly if something has happened to the current mirroculist.”

“Like what?” asked Darwen.

Lightborne shrugged, something of his smile returning. “Any number of things,” he said. “No one lives forever, Darwen, but usually the mirroculist simply grows out of his gift.”

“Grows out of it?” Darwen echoed. “What do you mean?”

“All good things come to an end, Darwen,” said Lightborne. “You know that. The mirroculist is on his way to becoming an adult. The gift comes during the transition but fades as that transition completes. You cannot become a mirroculist till you are eleven, but by the time you are sixteen, the gift will have passed to another. This should have been explained to you before. I apologize.”

“I don't understand,” gasped Darwen, hating the words even as he said them. “I could just
lose
it? I could just go back to being . . . what I was, without any warning? One day I'll just be me again?”

“As you say,” said Lightborne. “But you will have had adventures others could never even imagine, and you can do great good for your world and ours so long as you have the gift.”

Darwen felt sick. No more portals, no more Moth, or Weazen, no more forests just beyond his closet, no more adventure, no more of that private, secret sense of home, no more being . . .

Special
.

Anything.

“Sixteen?” he said, and it was like saying the word began a stopwatch in his head, a rapid counting down to the day he would no longer be able to cross over through the mirrors.

“By sixteen, yes,” said Lightborne. “But that's still four years of wonders in store for you, Darwen, isn't it?”

Four years. Four minutes. Darwen's head was spinning. He was glad he was sitting down. He just wished they all weren't looking at him. Darwen stared at Lightborne, saying nothing, blinking as his vision began to swim. Lightborne lowered his eyes, gazing at the eddying currents of the energy pool, and most of the council members did the same. The polite, awkward silence extended to minutes.

“So,” Darwen managed, clearing his throat when the word stuck, “what do you want from me?”

“We want to make amends,” said Lightborne. “Heal our alliance so that we can work together against our common enemy.”

“Greyling,” said Darwen.

“Greyling,” repeated Lightborne. “We see now that what he attempted in Costa Rica was only the beginning. He is gathering forces, taking over areas of Silbrica and—we think—establishing operations bases in your world too. We do not completely understand how he is able to use some of the portals connecting our two worlds, but there is no doubt that he has found a way. And these are no minor incursions. He is preparing for large-scale invasion, and he will not stop until both worlds bow before him. War is coming, and we would like the mirroculist to help us stand against him.”

“I'll bet you would,” said Darwen.

Lightborne shifted in his chair, but his benevolent smile did not stall.

“You need me,” said Darwen. “For now. There are still things only I can do, and I'm guessing that I'm not the only one who isn't too happy about your recent strategies and decisions.”

Jorge shot Lightborne a look, and the whole council seemed tense and watchful, but Lightborne's smile grew wider, and he nodded thoughtfully.

“You are wiser than your years, Darwen Arkwright,” he said. “You are essentially correct. And I will extend your realization further: we are preparing for war, and we need allies. The Guardians are considerably stronger with the mirroculist standing beside them. You have friends in Silbrica who could be of great value to us in the weeks to come, and there are many others you do not yet know who must be persuaded to stand with us against Greyling. You will make a better envoy to them than anyone sitting on the council. So yes, we need you. Will you stand with us, flawed as our behavior has been, for the sake of Silbrica and the ruin Greyling will bring to it?”

Darwen almost said yes right away, but though he was still reeling from what Lightborne had told him about his gift, he managed not to. There were two other essential demands he had to make while his position was still strong.

“What about Mr. Peregrine?” he asked. “Did Jorge tell you about what happened to him?”

“Yes, Jorge has informed us of everything he learned in Costa Rica,” said Lightborne. “Recovering Octavius, whatever his condition, will be our first priority if you agree to join us. We will give you every assistance in finding and rescuing him.”

“With my friends,” said Darwen. “My human friends, I mean. Alex and Rich.”

Lightborne frowned and tipped his head on one side. “We do not think it wise,” he said carefully, “to involve civilians in this enterprise.”

“That's a deal-breaker,” said Darwen, his resolve stiffening. “Everything I do involves Rich and Alex or I don't do it at all.”

There was a long, thoughtful pause and Darwen felt that some form of communication passed wordlessly among the Guardians. Eventually, Lightborne nodded.

“As you wish,” he said. “You will need to assemble them immediately. You will be our ambassador to all in Silbrica who will unite against the threat Greyling presents.”

“And Mr. Peregrine?” Darwen prompted. “You said finding him was your first priority.”

“Indeed it is,” said Lightborne. “We do not know where Mr. Peregrine is being held, but we have found a way to reach a Silbrican forest locus that had previously been sealed off by Greyling. This, in itself, had struck us as suspicious, but when we learned of the creatures inside—dellfeys, Darwen—and heard that one of them was your friend . . .”

“Moth,” said Darwen, the name escaping from his lips.

“Yes, well, it struck us that she might be in possession of information about Mr. Peregrine's abduction. After all, why else would Greyling go through the trouble of sealing off her locus? Unless of course he was simply trying to taunt you.” Lightborne paused. “And frankly, that seemed excessive, even for him.”

Darwen nodded. The same thought had been running through his head for months. “How can I get to her?”

“Well,” Lightborne said tentatively, “all we have is a partial way around the seal.”

“Meaning?”

“We have only some of the necessary informations,” said Jorge. “A friend of yours has the other informations, but he would tell us nothing until you agreed to work with us.” He turned and raised his voice to address the seats, which rose up around the chamber like the stands of a sports arena. High up was a little figure Darwen had not noticed till now, a furry creature munching on what was clearly a slice of delivery pizza. “Are you satisfied, Peace Hunter?”

Weazen rose, though he was so small that didn't make much difference, and nodded. He ambled down toward the center of the chamber, licking cheese off his claws. At the bottom, he belched, grinned his ferrety grin at Darwen, and said simply, “Aye, I'm satisfied.”

“Can he come with me?” Darwen asked, all other concerns forgotten.

“Nah,” said Weazen before the Guardians could say it for him. “This one is on you and your pals. Keeping the peace sometimes entails stopping people from getting what they want. Once,” he added, starting to grin, “I was in a forest locus where this giant slug called Kialblad had taken to eating the eggs of all the Dingle Naiads. Now, Kialblad was
really
fat . . .”

Lightborne coughed discreetly, and Weazen shot him a look.

“Right,” the ferret-like creature conceded. “Not relevant. A tale I'll save for some long winter evening in the future. The point is that not everyone in Silbrica is quite so well disposed to yours truly as you. It's just possible that I could make things worse, if you catch my drift. But I will give you this.”

It was one of his ornate little blasters.

“Ten shots only,” said Weazen. “So make 'em count.”

“And this will help you keep track of time,” said Jorge, not to be outdone, rising from his seat and producing a crystal sphere full of dials and cogs from somewhere inside his robes.

“So we are agreed,” Lightborne said. “The journey will be extremely perilous but with luck . . .”

“Just show me where to go,” said Darwen. His delight at seeing Weazen had turned all his other feelings into determination. He needed to be doing something. Now.

“These are the portal numbers we know,” said Jorge, producing a crisp piece of paper on which numbers had been carefully inscribed in an elaborate copperplate script. “The problem areas are between this gate and this one.”

He showed the list to Weazen, who rubbed his muzzle, then tore the cover off the pizza box, snatched a stub of pencil from his belt, and scribbled the sequence onto the box, filling in the gaps with numbers of his own.

“Good pizza?” Darwen muttered to Weazen, grinning.

“All pizza is good pizza,” said Weazen. “It's finding a broken portal close enough to a restaurant that's the trick. Here,” he said, handing the greasy cardboard panel to Darwen. “That should do it.”

“Very well,” said Lightborne, rising and shooting the pizza box a slightly distasteful look. “Then we will await news of your investigations. And Darwen?”

“Yes?”

“Be sure your friends understand the danger they are stepping into if they go with you. Greyling's power is rising. There is much we do not know about what he is doing, but his plans are clearly beyond ambitious. They are massive. Reckless. You have thwarted him twice and both of you have survived. This time, I fear, defeat will bring greater consequences. For the sake of both our worlds, we—and I suppose I really mean
you
—must win. Do you understand?”

Darwen could think of nothing to say to that, so he just nodded, gave Weazen a half smile, and tried to ignore the cold, hollow feeling in his belly.

Moth's News

A
nd so the
five-minute mission had begun, the culmination of which had been Darwen, Rich, and Alex's finding their way to Moth, who now hovered in front of them, the wings of her flying harness whirring like a mechanical dragonfly.

The forest locus had not fared well since it had been sealed off. Many of its trees were spattered with oil and smoke, or raked with gouges as if great machines had blundered around the woods, stripping bark and snapping off branches. The dellfeys themselves looked sooty, and some of them sat on the ground, the wings of their flying devices bent into uselessness as if swatted by some massive scrobbler fist. Darwen frowned, remembering the way they normally flitted through the forest like glimmering fireflies, their elegant copper wings a hummingbird blur.

He should have guessed it would be like this, he told himself—Greyling never left the habitats of the creatures who stood in his way unharmed—but he was angry all the same. Darwen's eyes swept over the ravaged forest and found Rich kneeling in front of the portals Greyling had disabled, seeing if there was a way to get them back online.

Yet, despite the damage to her locus, Moth was smiling.

“You knew Greyling had taken Mr. Peregrine?” asked Darwen.

“Immediately,” Moth said.

“That's why Greyling blocked the way in.” Alex nodded. “Didn't want you telling us that the Mr. P with us in Costa Rica was really one of those suit things containing the Jenkins insect.”

“And you know where he is now?” Darwen pressed.

Moth shook her head sadly, though she was so small that Darwen could hardly see the gesture in the low light.

“I do not,” she said. “He came here, but the scrobblers followed. We could do nothing to stop them. They took him, ravaged our forest, and sealed us in. I am sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” said Darwen, struggling to keep the deflation out of his voice. He had felt sure that if they could get to Moth, there would be a clear trail to wherever Greyling was holding Mr. Peregrine.

The green light in the middle of Moth's flying apparatus had dimmed somewhat, and sensing her weariness Darwen put out his hand so she could settle on it.

“The Guardians have been good to us, Darwen Arkwright,” she said. “But we are small and unimportant. They need to send their more powerful agents to stop Greyling.”

“Agents?” echoed Rich, looking up from his work on the portals.

“Like secret agents?” tried Alex. “Like black ops and all that?”

“They have the Fixer,” said Moth, as if the name would be familiar.

“Who is that?” asked Darwen, considering her closely.

“No one knows,” said the dellfey, “but in times past he has put things right for the Guardians.”

“How?” said Darwen. Though Moth's tone was approving, she looked uneasy.

“Whatever way he thinks necessary,” she said carefully.

“That doesn't sound good,” said Alex.

“It is!” said Moth. “The Guardians are Silbrica's friends.”

“So what is it about this Fixer that bothers you?” asked Darwen.

The dellfey looked at her hands and shrugged. Then, speaking in a small, halting voice that Darwen had to strain to hear, she said, “Some say the Guardians do not ask enough questions about how the Fixer gets the results they want.”

Darwen peered at her, but she stepped off his hand, her wings buzzing. She clearly wanted to say no more on the matter.

“The point,” said Darwen, closing his eyes for a moment as he pushed these other concerns away, “is that we have to find where Mr. Peregrine is. We figure Greyling kept him alive, that he had to be alive for that flesh-suit thing the Jenkins insect wore to work properly, right? I mean, it's not just a body. That thing moved like Mr. P, even talked like him. We're betting the suits maintain some kind of link to the abducted person.”

“But knowing that doesn't really help us find him,” said Alex. “So what do we do next?”

“Well,” said Rich, standing up and slipping a pair of pliers back into his pocket. “I think I have this portal working again. Should take us directly to the Great Apparatus, so no more sand sharks and scrobbler hangouts on the way back.”

“Nice going, Rich!” said Darwen. “Weazen and the Guardians have been trying to pull that off for weeks.”

“Huh,” said Alex, eyeing him shrewdly. “I knew there was a reason we kept you around.”

Rich flushed and stared at her.

“What?” she said. “I was paying you a compliment, man. You thought I was making a crack about you not being a mirroculist?” She rolled her eyes and sighed theatrically. “Nope. Not this time. I swear: no one gets me.”

Rich shrugged and nodded. “Actually it wasn't that hard,” he said. “Apart from a few snipped wires, all it really needed was the kind of muscle you aren't going to get from a hundred dellfeys.”

He said it unselfconsciously, but blushed when Moth gazed at him, impressed, and Alex rolled her eyes.

“Good,” said Darwen. “But now we have to find Mr. P. We just have no chuffin' idea where to start looking.”

There was a lengthy silence.

“Have you tried his house?” asked Moth.

Darwen, Rich, and Alex stared at the tiny dellfey, speechless.

“His house?” Alex repeated at last.

“We don't know where he lived,” Rich admitted, sounding amazed by his own ignorance. “How do we not know where he lived?”

“I always assumed . . .” Darwen began, but couldn't think of how to end the sentence.

“That he lived in the mirror shop?” Alex completed. “We've been in there. Apart from that little kitchen in the back, there was nothing. He must have had a house somewhere. I can't believe we never asked him where it was.”

“I may know where he lived,” said Moth, “though I do not know how to get there.”

Darwen held his breath.

“It is a curious locus,” she said, “and it is not in Silbrica, but in your world. A structure. How you might find it, I cannot say, but perhaps this code will help.” She screwed her eyes up and recited in a singsong voice, as if the words held no real meaning, “472 West Paces Ferry Road Northwest, Atlanta, Georgia.”

Again, the three humans stared at her, humbled.

“Yeah,” said Darwen, grinning. “That might help.”

• • •

Darwen, Rich, and Alex clambered up the metal chute that led from the Great Apparatus to the oven door in Darwen's bedroom. They had been gone almost an hour. Darwen pressed his ear to the door.

His aunt was clearly on the phone: work.

“Get changed,” said Darwen.

They had all brought overnight bags with extra clothes, which was just as well. Their Silbrican adventure had left them wet and filthy.

“Turn your backs,” Alex commanded.

Moments later, they were ready.

They opened the bedroom door and filed into the kitchen. Honoria was just hanging up the phone and she looked tired. She was wearing a trim black business suit and the silver necklace she always wore at work, but she couldn't hide her irritation and it made her look like someone else entirely.

“Ready to head out?” she asked. “I'll call Eileen.”

Eileen was the teenage babysitter who didn't like kids. They all loathed her.

“You aren't going to drive them?” asked Darwen.

“I just don't have time tonight, Darwen,” his aunt replied, glancing at where her laptop sat, waiting.

“It's fine,” he said. “Eileen. Great.”

His aunt closed her eyes again as if she had a headache. “I'm sorry,” she said. “But look. This arrived today. I ordered it weeks ago. I have no idea why it took so long. . . .” Some of the irritation was creeping back into her voice, and conscious of it, she stopped and pushed the cardboard parcel over to Darwen. “You are always saying how much you miss British candy, so I thought I'd get you some.”

Darwen tore open the box and drank in the contents with his eyes. Bounty bars (both milk chocolate and dark chocolate) and Lion bars with crispy rice, honey sweet Crunchies, and several different kinds of Yorkies.

“Wow!” said Darwen. “Thanks.” Then, without a second's hesitation, he pushed the box toward Rich and Alex. “Here,” he said. “These are the best.”

Rich hesitated, checking Aunt Honoria's face.

“This is special stuff for you,” Alex said. “You don't need to share it.”

“But I want to.” Darwen shrugged. “It's like a bit of where I come from. Try one of these.”

They didn't need much persuading, and for the fifteen minutes it took before Eileen arrived, they sampled the candy, compared notes, and laughed happily while Aunt Honoria tapped out e-mails on her laptop.

Darwen took the elevator down with Rich and Alex, and since Eileen was staring blankly ahead, nodding to the music streaming through her earbuds, he muttered, “We'll talk about getting to Mr. Peregrine's house tomorrow at school, yes?”

Alex shot Eileen a glance, then, used to the teenager ignoring them, nodded.

“I'll Google the address tonight,” she said. “See how easy it will be to get to. Maybe we could take MARTA and walk.”

MARTA was the Atlanta light-rail system.

“We'll need a reason for staying late,” Rich added. “Special archaeology club meeting?”

“What about me?” Alex demanded. “Nothing will rouse suspicion more than announcing I've joined your idiot digging club.”

“We found scrobbler bones!” Rich protested.

Darwen cut him off. “Just say you have a chorus meeting or something,” he said to Alex. “Something that will go late.”

“Deal,” Alex agreed.

When the elevator doors opened and everyone else stepped out, he stayed where he was, and when he started to say that he wasn't going to come with them, Eileen turned before he had managed to get the sentence out.

“Yeah,” she said. “Bye.”