Read Online Empire of Bones by N. D. Wilson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: N. D. Wilson
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waiting while I found you.” He backed away from the outhouse. “Come on, then, and no more disappearing. Oh, and Cy, don’t make your sister pack you around.” He grinned, turning down the slope. “Shameful, mate! Her tracks looked like a squiffy two-legged pony’s.”
Antigone laughed.
“Her idea!” Cyrus said. “Not mine.” But Rupert wasn’t waiting, and Antigone had already grabbed the extra globe and was hurrying after him.
With his head whirling, Cyrus hopped out into the light and hobbled down the hill, trying to keep up.
The camp was like an old village, swallowed by time and trees, with only the cabins near the lake seeing any sun. Cyrus passed a boathouse with a sagging roof and walls lined with stacks of canoes buried in needles and moss. Rupert and Antigone led him around an old obstacle course crushed beneath the carcass of a fallen treeso old and rotten that moist wood fell away at the merest touch.
Cyrus’s bare feet were silent on the needle-carpeted path, and the movement felt good for the most part, loosening his incredibly tight calf. Beyond the obstacle course, there were more cabins—some completely collapsed in on themselves, and others hiding beneath fallen branches and tufted ferns. And beyond these, in a pool of sunlight, there was a two-story stone lodge nestled against the base of a rising mountainside beside a thin ribbon of falling water. Moss-covered boulders stood guard around it. The roof was peaked twice, side by side, and the valley between the peaks was full of the accumulated forest slough of decades—drifted cones and needles and wooden decay. Two tall adolescent cedars had sprung up in this rooftop valley, but the lodge beneath them was still straight and strong.
Broad stone stairs ran up to plank doors on the second story. Hanging above the door, a large version of the lightning bolt tadpole on Cyrus’s shirt had been burned onto a thick crosscut of cedar.
Rupert strode up the stairs and pushed through the doors, but Antigone waited for her brother at the bottom. On one side of the stairs, a steep wheelchair ramp of boards had been thrown down, and a rope had been tied to a post at the top. Cyrus could only imagine trying to pull himself up. Going down would almost be worse.
“This whole place belongs to Llewellyn?” he asked his sister.
Antigone nodded. “Rupe says Llew used to be one of the top trainers, and not just from Ashtown. Power families all over the world hired him and sent their kids here. He built this whole place himself.”
“What happened?” Cyrus asked.
Llewellyn Douglas rolled out of the doors and stopped on the top step. “A man named Edwin Laughlin happened. Phoenix.” The old man growled. “He came out here with grand ideas of how my training could be improved. Without so much as a do-you-mind, he picked an Acolyte and got started with his sorcery. I almost killed the villain and he almost killed me. I’m not in this chair because I love wheels.”
“And the kid?” Antigone asked.
“Went nuts,” Llewellyn said. “Died a year later. Now get up here if you’re gonna.”
The inside of the lodge was dim and enormous. The ceilings were vaulted on massive peeled logs, and low wooden chairs and tables dotted the room around a large stairwell in the middle. The Captain sprawled in a chair across from Gil and Arachne. Horace was sitting at a table, scratching something out on an old pad of paper. Diana was playing cards with Gunner, who had his long suit-clad legs folded up awkwardly beneath the table. The transmortals were like anchors in the room,like exhibits in a museum with mere mortals flitting past. Light treated them differently somehow. Or they treated light differently. The shadows they cast seemed deeper, the patterns in their faces exaggerated by centuries of extra expression, their eyes always staring out from another time. Especially small Arachne. Her blue icy eyes always seemed to be leaking light collected lifetimes
Antigone laughed.
“Her idea!” Cyrus said. “Not mine.” But Rupert wasn’t waiting, and Antigone had already grabbed the extra globe and was hurrying after him.
With his head whirling, Cyrus hopped out into the light and hobbled down the hill, trying to keep up.
The camp was like an old village, swallowed by time and trees, with only the cabins near the lake seeing any sun. Cyrus passed a boathouse with a sagging roof and walls lined with stacks of canoes buried in needles and moss. Rupert and Antigone led him around an old obstacle course crushed beneath the carcass of a fallen treeso old and rotten that moist wood fell away at the merest touch.
Cyrus’s bare feet were silent on the needle-carpeted path, and the movement felt good for the most part, loosening his incredibly tight calf. Beyond the obstacle course, there were more cabins—some completely collapsed in on themselves, and others hiding beneath fallen branches and tufted ferns. And beyond these, in a pool of sunlight, there was a two-story stone lodge nestled against the base of a rising mountainside beside a thin ribbon of falling water. Moss-covered boulders stood guard around it. The roof was peaked twice, side by side, and the valley between the peaks was full of the accumulated forest slough of decades—drifted cones and needles and wooden decay. Two tall adolescent cedars had sprung up in this rooftop valley, but the lodge beneath them was still straight and strong.
Broad stone stairs ran up to plank doors on the second story. Hanging above the door, a large version of the lightning bolt tadpole on Cyrus’s shirt had been burned onto a thick crosscut of cedar.
Rupert strode up the stairs and pushed through the doors, but Antigone waited for her brother at the bottom. On one side of the stairs, a steep wheelchair ramp of boards had been thrown down, and a rope had been tied to a post at the top. Cyrus could only imagine trying to pull himself up. Going down would almost be worse.
“This whole place belongs to Llewellyn?” he asked his sister.
Antigone nodded. “Rupe says Llew used to be one of the top trainers, and not just from Ashtown. Power families all over the world hired him and sent their kids here. He built this whole place himself.”
“What happened?” Cyrus asked.
Llewellyn Douglas rolled out of the doors and stopped on the top step. “A man named Edwin Laughlin happened. Phoenix.” The old man growled. “He came out here with grand ideas of how my training could be improved. Without so much as a do-you-mind, he picked an Acolyte and got started with his sorcery. I almost killed the villain and he almost killed me. I’m not in this chair because I love wheels.”
“And the kid?” Antigone asked.
“Went nuts,” Llewellyn said. “Died a year later. Now get up here if you’re gonna.”
The inside of the lodge was dim and enormous. The ceilings were vaulted on massive peeled logs, and low wooden chairs and tables dotted the room around a large stairwell in the middle. The Captain sprawled in a chair across from Gil and Arachne. Horace was sitting at a table, scratching something out on an old pad of paper. Diana was playing cards with Gunner, who had his long suit-clad legs folded up awkwardly beneath the table. The transmortals were like anchors in the room,like exhibits in a museum with mere mortals flitting past. Light treated them differently somehow. Or they treated light differently. The shadows they cast seemed deeper, the patterns in their faces exaggerated by centuries of extra expression, their eyes always staring out from another time. Especially small Arachne. Her blue icy eyes always seemed to be leaking light collected lifetimes
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