The Palace of Glass (9 page)

She dug in her pouch for her acorns. Her fingers were stiff and shaking, but she managed to extract one, and with all the strength she had left she rammed it into one of the holes Spike's horns had left in the bluechill's hide. A moment later, the bluechill righted itself, and Alice slumped to the stone, curled up against the cold as the monster turned away from her and toward Flicker's hiding spot.

Grow,
Alice urged the acorn.
Grow as fast as you can.

The ice-creature paused. Alice could see something spreading
inside
the bluechill's translucent carapace, a dark network worming through the cracks Spike had left, pressing through the ice with the strength that sends a tree root burrowing through concrete.

The bluechill screeched, body flexing as it tried to contain the vegetable invader. Then, all at once, it exploded, with a
crack
like the shattering of a mountain. Fragments of ice blew across the room and
pinged
off the walls, raining down around Alice like a strange, dense snow.

Alice closed her eyes, knees pressed against her chest. Her whole body shuddered with the cold, but she couldn't feel it anymore, as though it were a far-off thing that didn't really concern her. She'd wrapped herself in the Swarm thread, hoping their toughness extended to
poisons, but it didn't seem to have helped. Each breath felt like it was going to freeze in her throat.

Her heartbeat roared in her ears, and she could barely make out Flicker's voice. “Reader? What happened?”

Alice tried to force words out, but it was no use. Her jaw was clenched so tight, it felt like her teeth would crack.

“Are you all right?” Flicker said. “Reader? Alice?”

Then the fire-sprite's voice vanished entirely into a cold, dark void.

PYROS

A
RE YOU SURE
?”

“I'm sure. Humans aren't like us.”

“My grandspark always swore the cure for bluechill venom was to soak in oil and then let it burn off. Drives out the cold, he said.”

“I told you, it doesn't work that way for humans.”

“We could at least try to get her to eat something.”

“I'm giving her water.”

“How is
that
supposed to help? She needs flame, the hotter the better!”

“For the last time, Actinia, you can't set humans on fire! It never helps.”

“I think she's waking up!”

Alice opened her eyes. She lay on a stone bench, padded with a lumpy strip of leather. Pyros stood on one side of her, the blazing colors from the crown of his head reaching only a few inches down the long, ashy gray of his hair. Actinia, his flame tinged with blue, waited by her feet. A fire crackled and spat in a stone bowl by her side, hot enough to make sweat stand out on her brow; her skin had gone red, but the memory of deep chill made her want to huddle closer to the flame.

“Can you hear me?” Pyros said. “Are you all right?”

“And do you think setting you on fire would help?” Actinia said.

The old fire-sprite glared. Alice took a deep breath, coughed, and found her voice.

“I . . . think I'm all right.” She felt surprisingly free of pain, though her palms were stinging. When she lifted her hands, she found she'd clenched her fingers so tightly, her fingernails had dug bloody half-moons into her skin. “And setting me on fire won't help, I'm afraid.”

Actinia sighed, and Pyros scowled at him.

“I could use some food,” Alice said. Remembering that the fire-sprites likely had nothing she could safely eat, she added, “There should be some in my pack.”

“Go and get the Reader's things,” Pyros told the boy. “And another pitcher of water.”

Actinia made a face, but he turned and left the room, the beaded curtain clattering behind him. Pyros settled himself onto a stone beside Alice, moving with an old man's caution.

“Is Flicker all right?” she said.

The fire-sprite nodded. “He was the one who brought you back here, with a bit of help from Ishi.” Pyros paused. “He told me you killed the bluechill.”

“It came close to killing us both,” Alice said. “My wards didn't hold it. I had to . . . improvise.”

Alice sat up cautiously, feeling herself for injuries. There still wasn't much pain, but she felt a strange tickle at the back of her mind. When she reached for her threads, it took real effort to grasp them.

Power,
she thought. She'd exhausted herself, not physically but magically—something in the ward had gone badly wrong, and it had siphoned off far more of her energy than it had been supposed to. The last time she'd felt like this had been in Esau's fortress, after hours of fighting, and then the depletion in her magic had been matched by her aching muscles. She'd need to rest before her powers would come easily again.

“Regardless,” Pyros said, watching her closely, “my people owe you a great debt. In truth I did not expect assistance from Geryon at all, let alone so promptly. Your master . . . surprises me.”

“My master is away,” Alice admitted. “I came here of my own accord.” It was not
quite
a lie—she
had
come here on her own, just not to answer any request from the fire-sprites.
But if he wants to believe that, all the better.

“Ah. I thought as much.” Pyros cocked his head. “In the past, Geryon has seemed interested in our tribute, and little else.”

Alice said nothing. She felt as though the sprite were sounding her out, testing the extent of her loyalty to Geryon, and she wasn't sure how far she could trust him. After a moment's pause, he sat back, white hair rippling.

“Well,” he said. “We are saved, and that is all that matters. They are feasting already, down in the hall, and drinking toasts to you and young Flicker.”

“I'm glad you'll be safe,” Alice said.

“You said you had something to request of us,” Pyros said. “Might I know what?”

He looked worried. Alice frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“If it is additional tribute you seek, some of my people
may react . . . poorly.” Pyros schooled his face to a smooth mask. “Of course, we are obligated to you and Master Geryon, and I will arrange it as best I can, but—”

“I don't understand,” Alice said. “What sort of tribute?”

She'd wondered about that since he'd first mentioned it. She couldn't imagine what Geryon could possibly want from the fire-sprites—certainly gold or gems, or even intricately carved glass, held no appeal for the old Reader.

Pyros cleared his throat with a crackle. “By the terms of our agreement with Master Geryon, he grants us permission to live here, safe from other Readers. In return, we provide him one of our own, every two years, as tribute.”

“One of your own?” Alice blinked. “You mean one of your
people
?”

Pyros nodded. “To be written into a prison-book. I understand he trades the books to the other Readers. Our . . . services . . . are quite valuable.”

Alice just stared.

Ending had warned her, months ago.
Geryon is a Reader
.
His magic is based on cruelty and death.
She'd known that the creatures in the prison-books had to come from
somewhere,
and although he'd only asked her to fight mindless beasts, she knew there were intelligent
beings in his collection. Since returning from Esau's, however, she'd been too wrapped up in her revenge to worry about them.

He keeps them here as a . . . a
commodity
. Like Father's business might warehouse bricks or pork bellies.
Better than that. The sprites had children; properly tended, they would yield fruit forever, like a well-kept garden.

“It is not such a bad arrangement,” Pyros said. “Some of the other Readers would demand more, or simply imprison us all. And Geryon allows us to select who the tribute is, so we can spare the young.”

“Why don't you leave?” Alice said, forgetting herself for a moment. “There must be somewhere else you can go.”

“Not anymore,” Pyros said, smiling sadly. “Once we roamed across a dozen worlds, moving through the wild gates as we pleased, slipping to your world and back again to find our sustenance. This was before my time, of course, in the days of my grandspark's grandspark. I am not
that
old. But now we have no choice but to huddle close to the Heartfire.”

“What happened?”

“You did. Humans. Readers.” Pyros shrugged. “The wild gates are closed, bound into books. Those that
remain lead farther away from your world, to realms where we cannot live. The power that once flowed freely is caged now, locked away between covers and inside libraries. We do what we must to survive.”

Alice shook her head, trying to take it all in. After a moment, she remembered the original question. “It's not tribute,” she said. “Nothing like that. I need your help here, in your world.”

“What can we possibly do to help a Reader who can defeat a bluechill?”

“I need to find the Palace of Glass,” Alice said. “Beyond the wild gate.”

Pyros froze, dull red eyes locked on hers. Alice stared back, until his glowing gaze left flickering spots on her vision.

“I did not think Master Geryon knew about the Palace of Glass,” he said.

“I don't know if he does.” Alice lowered her voice, as though her master might be listening. “I'm not doing this for him. I need to find it for my own sake.”

“It is a dangerous place,” Pyros said.

“I can take care of myself,” Alice said.

“Not dangerous for you. The Palace is a
prison
. There are things buried there that must never be released. Even
when we lived beyond the wild gate, my people knew better than to venture there.”

Alice felt a chill, despite the fire. “I'm not going to release anything.”

“Then what do you hope to accomplish in such a place?”

“That's my own business,” she said. Her anger flared a little.
This is what I need to do to beat Geryon. I don't have to justify myself.
“All I need is for one of you to guide me there.”

“Even that is a great deal. Those who venture so far from the village rarely return. But . . .” Pyros shook his head and sighed. “I suppose a Reader must know what she's doing.”

Actinia returned, bearing Alice's torn, makeshift pack. Alice rooted around until she came up with some hard crackers, which she dipped in the jug of water. The sprite watched in fascination as Alice chewed and swallowed.

“And you enjoy that?” Actinia said. “It doesn't hurt?”

Drinking water probably did look odd, Alice thought, to a creature made of flames. She nodded, her mouth full of cracker. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.

“Actinia,” Pyros said quietly, “please go down the hall
and ask Flicker to join us. Then you are dismissed. Join the feast.”

“I can't stay?” Actinia said. “I wanted to talk to the Reader.”

“Go. Now.”

The young sprite left again. Pyros looked after him fondly.

“He doesn't seem to hate me as much as Flicker does,” Alice said, opening a tin of ham.

“He is . . .” Pyros paused, waving a hand vaguely. “It is difficult to explain, to a human. You have two sparks, yes? A ‘mother' and a ‘father'?”

Alice nodded, tearing apart strips of meat and sucking the juices from her fingers.

“But when you are first kindled, you are . . . blank.”

“Blank?”

“You have no memories. No thoughts.” Pyros shook his head. “It is difficult. I do not know very much about humans.”

“You mean when we're babies?” Alice said. “I don't suppose babies remember much, no.”

“It is not that way for us. Each spark passes memories on to his kindling. A fraction of himself, something
he chooses to preserve. The new kindling knows these things from the very beginning, as part of his being. Some memories have been passed down since before the time of the Readers.”

Alice had an image of a line of candles, each one lit from the next, passing the flame on and on. She nodded hesitantly.

“Each line, each lineage has its own notion of what to pass on,” Pyros said. “Practical things, skills and knowledge. Treasured memories and joys. Grudges. Some let the oldest memories fade, and others keep that flame bright. Flicker's spark gave him some of our oldest memories, from the days when our people roamed free. It makes him . . . quick to anger.”

“What about Actinia?” Alice said, fascinated.

“He is my grandkindling,” Pyros said. “His spark and I agreed that it was time to let go of the old days. To accept the way things are. He remembers nothing but this world, the tunnels between the surface and the Heartfire. He does not carry the hatred of his ancestors on his shoulders.” Pyros sighed. “Though I fear he may learn it soon enough.”

Alice tried to imagine what it would be like, to be born with memories from hundreds or thousands of years ago,
but her mind rebelled. She shook her head. Though they might be human-shaped, there were aspects to the fire-sprites that were as alien to her as the bluechill or the Swarm.

The bead curtain clattered, and Flicker appeared. His pale skin was slightly flushed, and his hair was brighter than normal, sparks of brilliant white floating across the strands. He was smiling, but his grin faded at the sight of Alice.

“You wanted to see me?” he said.

“I did.” Pyros pushed himself to his feet, shaking out his long white hair. “We should leave the Reader to her rest.”

Flicker glanced at Alice, then looked away. “You're going to be all right?”

“I think so,” Alice said. “They told me you brought me back. Thank you.”

“I couldn't let you die,” Flicker said with a scowl. “Geryon would be angry if he found out. But don't think it means anything—”

“Flicker,” Pyros said from the door.

The boy nodded to Alice, then followed his elder out through the curtain. Alice lay back on the lumpy leather blanket and closed her eyes.

Maybe we're not so different.
Human parents taught their children what they believed, after all. What things were right and which were wrong. Stories about what had happened in the past.
It's the same thing, isn't it?

Right and wrong.
She closed her eyes. Sleep was not hard to find, but her father's sad, disappointed face was waiting.