The Drowned Vault (10 page)

Finally, Cyrus got out his two new patches and sat in the armchair while Antigone and Arachne talked and planned and sorted through the books Arachne had selected.

Cyrus studied his patches. The basic circle patch of Ashtown with the black boat in the center—that hadn’t cost him anything. But the crest of the Smiths, well, he’d made big promises before Old Donald had let him have it. Donald had said that he didn’t think another Smith patch that old existed—at some point they’d all been burned. Some modern Smiths had worked up variations—all without the heads—but none of them had stuck around. The old Smith crest was too memorable, too rooted in the stories of grandmothers and thus in the imaginations of kids. Or so said Old Donald …

Sic Semper Draconis

Cyrus traced the motto, and then studied the three heads. Beard, mustache, and clean-shaven.
Thus to all
dragons. Thus always to dragons
—that was the better translation, wasn’t it? But he wasn’t exactly sure what it meant. All dragons should be beheaded? But they weren’t dragon heads. They were men.

Cyrus rubbed the red silky-smooth shield with his thumb. He wanted it on his jacket already.

His stomach rumbled, and he closed his eyes.

For a while, he was simply walking along the Northern California cliffs, listening to the seals bark, watching the white lines of surf roll in. For a while, he wandered the pastures of Wisconsin, searching for tires in the irrigation ditches. For a while, he walked along a country road looking for the Archer Motel. Cars would slow down with lowered windows and drivers would ask if he needed a ride. He told them he was heading to a place called Waffle.

And then it was night and he was sitting on a boulder on the side of a mountain. Beneath him, a thick pine forest rustled like the sea sucking at sand. Across from him, on another peak, there was a fortress. A needle-sharp crescent moon was rising behind it.

But the fortress didn’t matter. Three men strode out of the pine forest and climbed up to his boulder. The oldest and heaviest man had a thick black beard, and he carried a long slender ax with a blade as thin and vicious as the moon. The second man was taller, with broad shoulders and long, lean arms. He had a mustache that
dangled past his sharp chin, and in one hand he carried a long, slightly curved sword, like something between a saber and the weapon of a samurai. The moonlight danced across its blade, and Cyrus saw the long, twining image of a dragon etched into the steel. In his other hand, the man carried a long, sharpened wooden pole. The third man was the youngest and the slightest. His face was clean-shaven, and he carried only a bow, with arrows in a quiver on his belt. All three men wore thick silver chains around their necks, and thin silver crowns were nestled into their dark hair.

The man with the sword stepped forward.

“Vos volo?”
His growling voice sounded distant, like he was speaking from a cave.

“Sorry,” said Cyrus. “I need to sew your heads on my jacket.”

The man lunged forward, slashing with his sword.

“Cy!”

Cyrus jerked awake as Antigone kicked him in the leg. Arachne was standing behind her.

“Tigs!” He grabbed at his shin. Both of his patches slid to the floor.

“Sorry,” Antigone said. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

Arachne bent and picked up the patches. She tossed the Ashtown patch back onto Cyrus’s lap, but she studied the Smith patch.

“A vivid dream,” she said simply. “A wandering mind
can be a strength.” She looked up from the patch at Cyrus. “The embroidery is good. I never understood the trouble about Smiths—apart from the treachery of your greatest grandfather. These three”—she tapped the heads—“earned their ends, though most of my kind will deny it.”

“Who were they?” Cyrus asked. “Or are we not allowed to know?”

Arachne inhaled slowly. “It’s on my list. Rupert said to tell you as much as I know. They were men that I—and the world—feared. The heart of
Ordo Draconis
. The Tri-Dracul. Sorcerers of a rare and bestial breed.” Starting with the bearded one, she tapped all three. “Vlad the Second, Vlad the Third, Vlad the Fourth—each beheaded by Captain John Smith with their family’s own heirloom sword.” She handed back the patch.

Cyrus stared at her, waiting for more. But more wasn’t coming. “Come on,” he said. “You know more than that. Tell the whole story.”

Arachne’s blue eyes laughed, and she shook her head. “Train hard and I will tell you later.” She looked at Antigone. “If you train harder, we may paint later.”

Antigone smiled. Cyrus looked at the patch in his hands. “Will you help me sew this on my jacket?”

“Cy, no.” Antigone crossed her arms. “Now that you have it, you should keep it somewhere safe.”

Cyrus grinned at his sister. “Somewhere no one can see it, maybe?”

“Preferably, yeah,” Antigone said.

Arachne looked from sister to brother. Then she nodded. “I may sew it on later. But now, both of you lie on the floor.” She waved at the rug. “Facedown, please. You must learn to bend.”

“Any chance of lunch soon?” Cyrus asked. His stomach roared at him as he slid out of his chair and onto his knees.

“No chance,” Arachne said. “Not for a while. You need an empty stomach for this. Now flatten out on your face, arms at your sides, hands palms up.”

Cyrus eased himself down. The rough wool rug scratched at his forehead and nose.

“What are we doing?” he asked. “What’s the point?”

Arachne’s cool hands closed around his right ankle. “Deep breath in,” she said, and a second later, Cyrus’s leg folded up into the small of his back. His toes splayed, his tendons screamed, and his mouth opened, but he couldn’t even yell. His tongue clawed at the dirty rug, and in some other world, he could hear his sister laughing.

“Exhale,” Arachne said, and electric ice shot through Cyrus’s leg and rattled through his body. Pain and tension disappeared as he felt his leg bend farther and farther up into his back.

“What are you doing?” he heard Antigone ask. “You’re going to break him! Cy, are you okay?”

Arachne pried Cyrus’s other leg up into his back. His
face compressed into the rug, and an involuntary groan slid out of him as his lungs collapsed.

“I’m a weaver,” Arachne said, and her voice was cheerful. She was enjoying herself. “To some, I am
the
weaver—the first and true spinster. And the human body is—like many things—woven. Rupert has asked me to rework and rearrange a few things in the two of you.”

“y?” Cyrus licked the rug as he tried to speak. His teeth would have chattered if there weren’t floor wedged in between them. The cold electrical current in his body was growing stronger. Even his eyelids were beginning to twitch.

“You could achieve this flexibility on your own over years—with the right training, of course. But Rupert cannot wait for years, and I am here now. He asks, and I comply. This will greatly improve your recovery after strain.” Cyrus’s legs dropped to the floor as limp as two sacks of liquid. Then his arms crossed behind his back.

“Oh, gosh …,” Antigone blurted.

Arachne continued talking, but Cyrus’s brain was drifting away.

“Some muscle fibers will not change or be rewoven without dramatic assistance. Yours are strong already, but they need more endurance and more quickness. That means, well, you might call it braiding rather than weaving.”

Cyrus’s arms flopped back out to his sides.

“Lie down, Antigone. You’ll catch up in a minute. Cyrus, this part is … uncomfortable,” Arachne said. Her hand slid up to the back of Cyrus’s head. “If you were awake, it would mean hours of prolonged cramping followed by the most intense itching and tickling you’ve ever felt. Like stinging ants beneath the skin.” Cyrus tried to sputter an objection, but Arachne held his head still. “Which is why you’ll be uncon—”

Darkness landed on Cyrus like a pile of quilts.

He looked around. There was nothing. No floor beneath him. No
him
to have a floor beneath. He’d been kicked out of his body and into … nowhere.

“Cyrus?” The voice was low and surprised and a little worried. It was a woman’s voice, sweet and mellow, grown in tropical sun and tropical soil. It plucked thick unused strings in Cyrus’s soul, playing a chord he’d forgotten. Shocked emotion roared through him.

“Mom?” He couldn’t look for her. He couldn’t search. He could only listen. Hours passed. Or years. And still he waited in the nowhere silence for his mother’s voice.

“You should not be here, Cyrus. The sleep is long here. Go back. Stay with your sister.”

“Mom?” Antigone’s voice was louder, closer than their mother’s. But Cyrus couldn’t see her, either.

“Antigone? Take your brother and go. Before you are lost in the in-between.”

“Mom, I want to see you,” Antigone said. “Where are you?”

“You do see me,” she said. “You braid my hair. You sit with me and sing to me and read to me. I listen and I feel. And, in my own way, I have seen you. I watch you run and sleep and study. I watched Cyrus race the bigger boy and sink beneath the plane. Cyrus has grown tall, like my lost brothers. And you, Antigone, your hair, your eyes, your face, they make me sing. Care for your brother. Cyrus, keep your sweet sister safe. Now go. Both of you. This is not a place for wandering.”

“Wait,” said Cyrus. “Mom, wait—”

They were being pushed, sliding away through the darkness. Antigone was gone. Cyrus was alone, alone without time, without thought, until even the darkness faded away. And then … he was incredibly hungry.

Cyrus opened his eyes. He was staring into the rug. He could taste thrown-up stale crackers in his mouth, and his body was shaking from somewhere deep inside. Sharp-bladed pain had sliced the inside of his gut, his smashed nose was running, and he could feel tears in his eyebrows.

He could hear Antigone crying.

“All right,” Arachne said. “Antigone? Cyrus? You can stand up. Can you stand up?”

Cyrus didn’t move. Beside him, he heard Antigone sob. He turned his head and looked at his sister. She sat
up slowly beside him, and then wiped tears off the side of her nose. Cyrus could see the questions in her eyes.
Were you there? Was that real?

Cyrus nodded slightly, feeling the wet rug grind against his cheek.

“Cy,” Antigone said. “We were both there. But I woke up first. Cy, it was like you were dead.”

“How long?” Cyrus mumbled.

“You both slept overnight,” Arachne said.

That meant this was day three. Cyrus shut his eyes and tried to think. In that empty nothingness, he could have been gone for a year for all he knew. He was hungry enough.

Arachne’s voice was low. “But, Cyrus, when the morning came, you fought with me as I tried to pull you back. You’ve been gone most of the day. My thread almost broke. What was in that place for you?”

Cyrus opened his eyes and stared at his sister. She knew. But he hadn’t known that he was fighting. Antigone was wiping her face quickly on both shoulders. What had been there for him? His mother’s voice had been there. And she’d know what Cyrus had been doing. Or maybe Cyrus had simply dreamed it all. He looked at Antigone. It couldn’t be a dream if his sister had been there, too. Antigone shook her head at Cyrus, just a little. She didn’t want him to tell Arachne. Not yet. Cyrus nodded, and his sister turned to their trainer.

“What now?” Antigone asked.

Cyrus sniffed hard, climbed to his knees, and wiped his nose on the hem of his T-shirt before he looked back at Arachne’s curious face. He felt empty, and loose and taut at the same time. He felt like running. Alone. Until he dropped. Right after he ate something gigantic—like Leon, the car-size snapping turtle in the Crypto wing.

He wobbled, dizzy on his feet.

Arachne jumped forward and grabbed his arm, and her hand was midnight-cool. “You need to eat, Cyrus. And drink. Then we work.”

Arachne didn’t ask any more questions. It was obvious that whatever had happened, the Smiths weren’t going to tell her. Cyrus ate a loaf of toast and a slab of cheese, and then he drained a quart jar full of room-temperature water and collapsed into the armchair, sweating like he’d spent an afternoon fencing in the sun. He dozed, and then he slept.

This was real sleep. Normal sleep. Sleep with dreams.

Cyrus dreamed of the three heads—the dark-haired men, bearded, mustached, and clean-shaven. They sat motionless in a cold stone room, and Cyrus stood before them, and the one with the long mustache had a sharp sword resting across his knees. He’d seen that sword in his first dream. The samurai-style blade had a long twining dragon etched into the steel.

Cyrus was pleading with the men. No, he was trying
to bully them. He was threatening them, promising their destruction. And then he was offering them protection, an alliance—but his voice wasn’t really his. And he was speaking in Latin.

His dream jumped. The three men were standing, and they had ripped open their shirts. A circular bloodred dragon stood out on each of their chests, nestled in hair. Not tattoos, something more, something real, and alive, and trapped. Each man touched the tip of the sword to the dragon on his chest, and each dragon shivered and squirmed beneath the skin as a drop of blood ran down the blade.

And then the man with the long mustache handed the sword to him, and Cyrus realized that his own chest was bare. He was supposed to do the same. But as his hand closed around the hilt of the sword, he knew that he wouldn’t. He knew that he would break his own Latin vows.

He knew that the dragon men in front of him were as good as dead.

The dream jumped again. He was back in Skelton’s old rooms, and the place smelled of paint. The men were there, painting everything yellow with fat rollers … but they had forgotten their heads.

Cyrus stretched and opened his eyes.

Arachne and Antigone stood in front of him with arms crossed. They were both flecked with yellow paint.
The room behind them was completely yellow. Buckets and rollers were propped in the corner.

“You’ve had a harder time of it, but you’ve stopped sweating,” Arachne said. “Stand up. If you don’t throw up or pass out, it’s time to test my weaving.”