The Drowned Vault (2 page)

Now it was worse. Now they were the Smiths who had lost the Dragon’s Tooth. At best, they were failures.
At worst, they were traitors. No matter what, they were the reason Phoenix had the tooth—the cause of Ashtown’s fear.

Cyrus blinked sticky eyelids, lost in uncomfortable memory. He looked up into the maple branches and watched a red-winged blackbird hop along a twig. The bird was always there, always nearby. It chirped at him and he whistled back at her—
her
, even though he knew the bright splashes of red on the wings meant it was a
he
. But to him, it was a
she
. He didn’t know why.

Stretched out on a bed of moss, Antigone groaned and stretched. The whistle had wakened her.

“Cy.” Antigone stood slowly and leaned against a tree trunk. Cyrus ignored her; he knew she could not be ignored for long.

“Yoo-hoo. Cyrus. Rus-Rus!” Antigone’s black hair was as long as it had been in years, actually reaching past her jaw. She tucked it back behind her ears, knuckled her eyes, and crossed her arms. Her skin was almost as dark as Cyrus’s, and in the shade, her eyes glistened blackness. “You don’t have to do this. And you know Rupe isn’t going to like it one bit.”

Cyrus squinted through the trees. In the distance, down a long, slow hill, he could just see the stone buildings of Ashtown. Beyond them, the glistering lake. A two-mile run to the shore. Two-mile swim to the buoy. Two-mile swim back from the buoy. Two-mile run back
up the hill to the starting line. He could do it. Even in the heat. Maybe.

“Cyrus …”

Cyrus looked at his sister. She had leaf rubble clinging to her hair. “Rupe can tell me how much he doesn’t like it when he gets back. It’s not like he’s been training us.”

Antigone sighed and wiped her damp head with a forearm. “I don’t get the hurry. We made Journeyman on time. We can go for more whenever. Or not. Who says you have to make Explorer at all? Rupe says it can take years. We don’t have to rush.”

Cyrus didn’t answer. He could hear an old engine through the trees behind him. He turned as a rusted-out Jeep emerged between the trunks and stopped, weeds rustling against its bumper. Rupert Greeves was behind the wheel.

Cyrus held his breath and let his cheeks inflate. Rupert pushed scratched sunglasses up into a scruff of short hair on his head and locked eyes with Cyrus. Then the big black man slid out of his seat and moved slowly toward Cyrus. A lean and freckled passenger hopped out on the other side, but Cyrus didn’t pay him any attention. He was waiting for a sign of Rupert’s mood—a flicker of anger, a twinkle of approval. But the Order of Brendan’s Avengel gave him nothing. The man’s dark face was stone, if stone could have a swollen cheek beneath a small butterfly bandage. He was wearing tall
canvas safari boots and worn shorts with bulging pockets. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a tangled nest of scars on his chest, and his sleeves were rolled short, snug around his biceps. A short beard strengthened his already strong jaw.

Rupert stopped beside Cyrus and stared down toward Ashtown. Then he nudged the rope on the ground with his boot. Cyrus inhaled and waited. He could feel the big man’s heat next to him.

“Hey, Rupe,” Antigone said. “Welcome back.”

“Hello, Antigone.” He didn’t sound angry. At least not at her.

“Any news about Phoenix?” Antigone asked.

Rupert shook his head. Cyrus clawed at the earth with his toes. The tall freckled kid—more of a man, actually—was stretching on the ground beside the Jeep. He hopped up and moved to the rope beside Cyrus.

Antigone pushed off her tree trunk and straightened. “Just in case you were wondering, this wasn’t my idea.”

Rupert waved her quiet. Then he thumped a heavy hand on Cyrus’s back.

He looked down at Cyrus and raised his eyebrows. “No work on Cartography? Mazecraft? Navigation? Greek?” He sounded more amused than disappointed. Cyrus almost smiled. Rupert continued. “Sleep-fasting? Reliquary? No? Nothing?”

Cyrus raised his hands, relieved that he wasn’t in
real trouble. “Rupe, you know I need someone to help me with that stuff. I hate being inside, and all the books Antigone reads make my head hurt.”

“How could they make your head hurt?” Antigone asked. “I don’t hit you with them.”

Cyrus plowed on. “How am I supposed to study stuff on my own? I don’t know how to do that. I’m supposed to have a Keeper. I mean, I do have one, but he’s always gone.”

Rupert’s eyes sagged, suddenly tired. He raised a scabbed hand and scratched his short beard. “You want a new Keeper?”

“No!” Antigone jumped, shaking her head at her brother. “No, we don’t! We’re fine with you. We like you.”

Cyrus shrugged. “I just want to come with you. At least sometimes. To, you know, help fix things. With Phoenix …” He looked up at Rupert. “We’re always stuck here. But when I’m an Explorer, I can go where I want. So I train.”

Laughter flashed across Rupert’s face. “You train? Is that what this is called?” Rupert sighed and nodded at the man with the freckles. “Cy, Tigs, this is Jeb Boone. His first time back to Ashtown in two years. He’s going to run with you, Cyrus.”

“Boone?” Cyrus turned. “You’re Diana’s brother?”

Jeb grinned. He was a lot taller than Cyrus. His hair was even more strawberry than his sister Diana’s, and
his bare shoulders—as broad as Rupert’s, though not as powerful—were swarming with an ant colony of freckles. “Yeah, Diana’s my sis, and she’s told me stories. I like what you’re doing, little man, testing at the 1914 levels. It’s gutsy. Hope you don’t mind me joining you.”

Cyrus was confused. “Aren’t you already an Explorer? How old are you?”

Jeb glanced at Rupert, and then back at Cyrus, blue eyes sparkling. “I’m nineteen. And yeah, I’ve ranked up. So call this a retest. Curiosity, I guess.”

Rupert laughed. “He’s doing me a favor. I’ve asked him to pull you out if you drown.”

“You know, Cyrus.” Jeb cocked his head. “You
are
only thirteen. There’s not much point in trying for this stuff until your body’s ready.”

“Don’t bother yourself, Jeb.” Rupert slapped Cyrus’s shoulders. “The boy’s a Smith. He’d walk on glass if you told him not to. He only learns one way—crash and burn, yeah? Now get loose … I don’t have all day to sweat out here.”

Cyrus watched Jeb bounce and stretch his legs.

Antigone glared at him. “Stretch, Cy.”

“It’s hot. I’m ready.”

Jeb laughed and puffed a drop of sweat off his nose. “I know what you mean.” He nodded at Rupert. “Anytime.”

Rupert Greeves pulled a stopwatch out of one of his deep pockets.

Cyrus worked the ball of his left foot into the ground. He bent his knees and leaned forward, coiled, ready to spring. His limbs were long, and they loved to cover ground. Beside him, Jeb bounced in place.

Next to any thirteen-year-old in Ashtown—or in his old school in his old life—Cyrus would have been confident. But next to a nineteen-year-old named Boone? His nerves were tingling.

Breathing slowly, he looked down the hill between the trees and tried to focus on the distant water. He didn’t have to beat him. Just beat the clock. It wasn’t a race.

Cyrus tried to relax.
But if I do beat him …

Just the thought, the mere possibility of triumph, tightened every muscle fiber in his legs. Somehow, Rupert knew.

“Your own pace, Cyrus Smith. Not his. Run your own pace.”

Right
.

“Marked in three,” Rupert said. “Two … one … off!”

Cyrus sprang forward, legs straining, splayed toes grabbing at the ground. His long strides settled quickly into pace. Fast. Really fast for the distance. He tried to even out his breathing and relax his shoulders. He could hold it. He knew he could.

On his left, Jeb Boone swooped past.

Cyrus didn’t have to tell his legs what to do. He was
already accelerating, fighting to match the faster pace. Grass and leaves flew up behind Jeb, and Cyrus sputtered and spat in the older boy’s wake.

Antigone Smith winced. Her brother was nuts, and always had been. He was practically sprinting. He was going to kill himself. Beside her, Rupert Greeves, Avengel to the Ashtown Estate of the Order of Brendan, Keeper to Cyrus and Antigone Smith, sent a burst of laughter rattling through the trees.

“You know,” Antigone said, “that was really mean.”

Rupert looked at her, widening his eyes in innocence. “Mean? Antigone, I’m only doing what’s best for him.”

Antigone crossed her arms. “And you just had to get Diana’s brother?”

Rupert grinned. “Cyrus wants to be trained? Today, I have arranged for him to run faster than he has ever run.” He turned and watched the two shrinking shapes. “He’ll find a new speed. I’m giving him that. And when he finally collapses in failure, he’ll have found a little more wisdom. I’m giving him that as well.”

Antigone watched for a moment. “He’s going to die.”

“He’ll try to,” Rupert said. He turned to the Jeep, knocking his sunglasses down over his eyes. “But Jeb won’t let him. Come on. In this heat, the wise ones drive.”

Antigone followed him, eyeing his battered cheek.
“What happened to your face? You had to have gotten close to Phoenix if you were getting your face smacked.”

Rupert grunted as he slid back behind the wheel and fired the engine. He only fit because the Jeep had no doors and his left knee was jutting out the side. Antigone grabbed the roll bar and hopped in next to him. The Jeep was ancient. She could see grass through holes in the floor.

“Come on, Rupe.” She smiled at the big man. “You’ll feel way better if you tell someone. Was it animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

Rupert looked at her. “I approached a somewhat irritable transmortal who was yammering about a pair of kids named Smith and what he thinks they gave to a villain named Phoenix.” He ground the Jeep into gear. Antigone’s smile disappeared.

The red-winged blackbird watched the Jeep go. After a moment of indecision, she dropped out of the tree, wove her way around trunks beneath the canopy, and flew down the hill after Cyrus.

Cyrus’s splitting ribs were breathing for him. His legs were on fire as they churned, and his shoulders were clenched as tight as wire knots. His throat was closing, his tongue swollen and dry, and still he needed to spit. And spit. And spit again. The heat was too much, the pace was too much, and the streaming sweat-salt in his eyes was too much to blink away.

Cyrus had switched off Time. It didn’t matter how long he’d been going. It didn’t matter how much longer he must go. There was only now—only these steps, and these, and these, and these, and no others. He set his mind to
ignore all pain
and struggled to keep it there. His body’s screams grew distant and muffled, like nightmare residue after waking.

Somehow Jeb was only five strides in front of him, moving easily—shoulders gliding level with the ground, knotted calves driving feet that were casually chewing up yards at a time.

Ashtown was closer now—off to his right. Hulking buildings and statues and rooflines mounded out of the green lawns like a hand-carved mountain range. The sight no longer surprised Cyrus any more than watching planes drop onto the grassy airstrip outside the kitchen windows.

Running erased Cyrus’s frustrations. The exertion overwhelmed thoughts of pale-faced Nolan and his ancient-language drills, along with all of Antigone’s books and worries. The comments in the halls. The blank faces. The complete absence of tutors willing to work with anyone named Smith. Dennis Gilly—a porter—taught them sailing and navigation. Gunner—a driver—had started training them in marksmanship, but he had gone home to Texas months ago.

It should have been Rupert. It should all have been
Rupert. But he kept disappearing. And when he was at Ashtown, he just looked at Cyrus like he was hopeless.

A whimper from his side snapped Cyrus’s mind back. He’d been running for at least … no, don’t think about it. Too long.

He could see Rupert’s Jeep a few hundred yards ahead, waiting by the lake. Antigone was standing on the hood, hands shielding her eyes, watching the runners come. Beside her, taller than she was, stood Diana, strawberry hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

Darn it.

Cyrus looked away from the spectators, focusing only on Jeb, on his pace, on the rhythm his bare feet pounded out on the ground.

Jeb was accelerating.

How? Why? Cyrus didn’t understand. He tried to push, to dig, to find another gear inside him. Mistake. His legs suddenly deadened. Acid surged through his veins, and his knees clipped against each other mid-stride. He was falling.

Cyrus threw up his hands and tucked his head to roll. He flipped too quickly, slammed onto his back, bounced up onto his knees, and fell forward onto his face.

Jackhammers thumped against his temples. His arms wobbled as he pushed himself up. He tried to find his feet, suddenly threw up in the grass, and then stepped in it as he managed to stand. He ignored the wetness
between his toes, the foul taste, and the stringy cling on his chin.

He couldn’t stop. Not now. He had to get to the water. Swimming was easy. It would be like resting. Cool water. He’d be fine.

At first, he couldn’t control his direction. His legs carried him sideways. But the slope helped him steady his pace, and he accelerated slowly.

Jeb had reached the water. Cyrus heard Diana whoop and whistle and clap for her brother. He saw her ponytail swing. Jeb waved to her, bounced in a comic stride, and plunged in.

Two lifetimes later, Cyrus reached the Jeep. He saw Rupert check his stopwatch. Antigone was worried. Diana was smiling.

“Cy?” Antigone asked.

“Go, go, go!” Diana said.

Cyrus hit the water. High knees through the shallows. One foot worked; the other didn’t. He collapsed forward, and his knees and toes and fingers banged against silty-skinned rocks on the bottom. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel the pain. He sank and felt the coolness surround him. He felt the relief of weightlessness. And then he needed to breathe.

On the shore, Antigone bit off her thumbnail while her brother splashed away. Diana watched next to her.