Darklands

Quite the spectacle. Somehow “spectacle” didn’t come close to describing what Pryce was planning.



Dad stumbled, and I caught his arm.



“Are you all right?” He looked exhausted. And shrunken, as though he’d lost another half-inch of height. “Do you want to rest?”



“No, I’m fine.” He waved away my concern. “Lack of sleep, that’s all.”



I studied him. He wasn’t just smaller; he seemed somehow less substantial, like if somebody shone a spotlight on him, the beam would pass right through his body.



“Dad—”



He changed the subject, talking over me in his lecturer’s voice. He described the city where we were headed. Tywyll, ringed by a high stone wall, was built on a hill, with narrow cobblestone lanes and crowded-together houses. “At its center is Resurrection Square, where the cauldrons are installed.” His face paled a degree at the mention of the cauldrons. “Bordering one side of the square is Lord Arawn’s palace. It’s huge.”



Although his voice was strong, our pace had slowed. Dad walked with an old man’s gait. Shades passed us on both sides, like water flowing around a rock in the middle of a stream. I didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let me speak. He kept trudging along and talking, as though his voice was what made his feet move. But with each step, he looked worse.



By the time we reached Tywyll, there’d be no way he could resist the cauldrons’ pull. If I’d understood how this journey would drain him, I never would have let my father come with me.



“Now, Arawn—there’s someone you should know about,” he was saying. “Some believe he is the Darklands. That as Arawn fares, so fares the realm. He isn’t merely another shade who happens to rule this place. He’s a god here. He’s been here forever, and he’s never gone into the cauldron of regeneration. Many believe he’s the source of the Darklands’ magic. Oh, wait. I told you that before, didn’t I?” Dad stopped. He wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “Maybe we could take a rest.” He pointed at a low stone wall that bordered the road.



“Sure.” I offered him my arm. He shook his head, then changed his mind and took it.



Dad sat on the wall and closed his eyes. Dark circles shadowed the hollows beneath them. His face was wet, covered with an iridescent sheen like oil. His skin was pale, thin, nearly transparent. How could he be changing so much, so fast? The whole time I’d been in the Darklands, I’d had trouble believing my father was really dead. Now, he looked like a ghost, one that would disappear in an eyeblink.



I didn’t blink. I sat down beside him and touched his arm. He still felt solid.



He opened watery eyes. “Well, Vic,” he said with a rueful smile, “I hate to admit it, but it looks like you get to ditch the old man after all.”



“No.” For a minute, that one syllable was all I could trust my voice to produce. “I will never, ever ditch you. What’s wrong, Dad?” I felt like a fool asking the question. It was obvious what was wrong. My father was dying.



“Remember what I said before? My time here is running out. It’s happening faster than I hoped.” He wiped his forehead with his hand, then showed me the moisture on his palm: streaks of color, as though a painter had swept watercolors across his hand. “The magic is leaving me. It’s sweating itself out. I may have sped up the process. We’re close to Tywyll now. The pull is so strong, and I’ve been resisting it so hard…”



I put an arm around him, and he slumped against me. I’d never felt so damn helpless.



“I had a theory,” he said, “but it doesn’t look like I’ll get to test it.”



“What theory?” I pulled him closer to me, as though I could hold him here through sheer will.



“About the magic here. There’s a legend about springs where pure magic bubbles up from the ground.”



I nodded. He’d mentioned that to me when we left his cave.



“It’s not just a legend. When I was working in the royal library, I found a map. It showed the location of three such springs. I copied it. I thought if I could get to a spring, it would give me strength to resist the cauldrons, maybe even lighten up these black clothes—that was the theory, Vic. I almost made it. Now, I’ll never know.”



“Wait. You almost made it?” My pulse picked up at the thought. “Are we near a spring?”



“Not far. But it’s too late.”



“Which way is it? I’ll get you there.”



“Forget it. I know the prophecies. I know what will happen, out there in the Ordinary, if Pryce gets his shadow demon back. You can’t trade all those lives for mine. I’m already dead.” His eyes closed and he paled another degree. “Twice over.”



Dad’s knapsack—he’d packed a map in it. I jumped up and went through the bag, tossing aside a knife, a cup, some apples. My fingers found a roll of parchment. I pulled it out, opened it. Yes. A map.



There was the road we’d been following. There was Tywyll. The clusters of houses were drawn in but not named—how could I figure out where we were? Wait. I’d noticed that crooked dovecote, like a small-scale version of the leaning tower of Pisa. It was in the last village we’d passed. In a minute, I had our location. Dad was right. A spring was close by.



Dad moaned softly. It was a sound I’d heard ten years ago. On that night, my father had died as I watched, unable to help him.



I would not let that happen again.



I scooped up my father into my arms like a child and ran for the spring.



THE WOODS GREW DENSER AS WE WENT DEEPER INTO THEM. I thought we were close to the spring now, but how would I know when we were there? I was afraid I’d run right past it.



Then I heard it.



I stopped. The sound was like water splashing over rocks, but more musical, almost like harp strings. I went toward the sound. It grew louder, and I noticed a sharp, metallic, almost electrical smell. That was how Dad had described the smell of magic. I looked down at him. His eyes were closed. He was so thin, so pale.



Even though I could hear the magic, and smell it—hell, I could almost taste it—I couldn’t locate it. I’d follow the sound, only to have it ricochet to another location. Then it would happen again. The spring was hidden somehow. I wanted to weep with frustration. All the time I searched, my father was fading.



A bead of iridescent sweat dropped from Dad’s forehead. It fell to the ground with a soft plink, like a note on a toy piano. The tiny sphere didn’t flatten or sink into the ground. It rolled. Another drop of sweat followed it.



Dad had said he was sweating out the magic that made up his body. Maybe these small drops of magic were returning to their source.



I followed the rolling spheres. They went up a small rise, curved around a tree, and disappeared into a pile of leaves on the forest floor. The music of the spring seemed to be coming from behind me now, but I focused on the beads of magic. Another fell from Dad and rolled into the leaf pile. I walked around the pile. The drop didn’t emerge from the other side.



I gently set Dad on the forest floor. Then I reached out to clear away the pile of leaves. My hand passed through something solid. It felt like a thin sheet of ice, except it wasn’t cold. There was a loud crack, like a mirror breaking, and the illusion fell away. A small pool, perfectly round and no bigger than two feet across, glimmered at my feet. I’d found the spring. Magic, like liquid gems in a million brilliant colors, flowed and shimmered at my feet. The pool sparkled with an internal light, brighter than any I’d seen in the Darklands. It was beautiful, mesmerizing. I could watch those shifting colors forever.



I tore my gaze away and went back to my father. The magic was leaving him even faster now, returning to the spring. Somehow I had to reverse the flow. But how? Did he drink the magic? Bathe in it?



“Dad,” I said. He opened his eyes. Even that small effort seemed to cost him. “We’re at the spring. What do I do now?”



A shadow loomed over us. “You die,” boomed a man’s voice.



My instinct was to look up, toward the voice. But I ducked instead. A sword blade swished over my head.



I somersaulted and scrambled to my feet, drawing my sword. A blur of red came at me. I parried his blow. I could see my attacker now: he had dark hair and a coal-black mustache; a tall, broad-shouldered man in a red tunic. He kept coming at me. I backed away from the spring, concentrating on fending off his hailstorm of blows.



“Stop it!” I shouted. “I don’t want to fight you. I’m trying to save my father’s life.”



“I am a Keeper of the magic. You have uncovered the hidden spring. You must die.”



There’s no reasoning with some people. I charged him.



The Keeper laughed. He blocked my thrust with his sword, as I’d expected. I slid my blade along the edge of his and moved it in a wide circle, like swinging a lasso, bringing it around and aiming for the side of his throat. Again he parried the blow.



I brought my arm up and twisted slightly, coming at him with a backhanded stroke. He blocked, but took a step back, his eyes wide with surprise.



“Leave us alone,” I said, “and I won’t kill you.”



The Keeper snarled and came at me. I wasn’t going on the defensive again. I met his attack and countered, pushing him back.



My ears strained to catch the sound of a splash behind me, to pick up some sign that Dad was using the spring. All I could hear was the harplike music of the flowing magic and my own harsh breathing.



The Keeper backed up another step, and I pressed my advantage, moving forward and aiming low. My blade slashed his left thigh. I raised it again and attacked from the right. He stopped the thrust and raised his arm, lifting my blade and forcing it to the side. At once, he sliced straight across, aiming for my head. I ducked.



The sweep of his stroke left his body wide open, and as I came up I sliced him deeply across the stomach. Rainbow-colored blood spilled from the gash.



The Keeper dropped his sword. Clutching the wound, he crumpled to his knees, then fell facedown on the forest floor.