“Such a weak-minded fool!” Charles said. “Your lack of imagination truly dazzles me. Though I must admit that your going undercover as a lowly Pedant to find me did rather surprise me. I didn’t think a lord would stoop to such a thing!”
“I did stoop, much good has it done me. And them,” Bayne gestured toward the fallen Architects.
Charles laughed. “Yes, well. I suppose there are those with imaginations less clever than yours. Or were, I should say. And I suppose those who lack imagination have their uses. Nyx, for example. He thinks he’s building a new Engine to power the Refineries; he has no idea what’s going on. He does as I bid. As for me, I don’t care what happens with the Waste after I’m gone. It can swallow this world whole for all I care. And good riddance!”
“But this world is the seat of your power! How can you possibly—”
“I’ve no time to debate Magical Philosophy!” Charles snarled. “That Well of Power theory is just that—a theory. No one knows if it’s true. Now into the jar you go! I have a witch to catch. And she is a wily one, isn’t she?” The renegade warlock smirked.
“If you so much as lay a finger on her . . .” Bayne growled.
“Bayne,” Syrus pleaded. He began backing away.
“What?” Bayne said. He turned toward Syrus in a feint, raising his other hand. The glowing ball of light that had been hovering in the ceiling streaked toward Charles like a comet.
Charles barely lifted a finger. The ball dissipated in hisses and sparks that arced around him like the coils of Saint Tesla’s fabled Engine.
“By Athena,” Bayne breathed.
Syrus cursed.
“Surely that’s not the extent of your power, my lord,” Charles purred. He set the jar on the table as he moved toward them. His hands shone with ghastly light.
“Run, Syrus!” Bayne said. He raised his hands.
“But—”
“Run, I said!” the Architect shouted.
Lightning coruscated throughout the chamber. Syrus dove between the legs of dead Architects and under the scarred table as blazing tentacles of light threatened to choke him. He skidded out from under the table and ran, cursing that he was without darts, that Bayne was such a noble fool, that this Charles—whatever he was—would most likely kill everyone.
He skirted the pit in the darkness with only the glimmer of phosphorescent moss and the occasional terrible lashing of light to guide him. He had no idea what he would do. There was no one to help him, no one to whom he could appeal. There was only himself and the stones at his feet. He bent to pick up a few, surprised by tears of rage. This helplessness had preyed upon him in the train car and again in the Refinery. He’d believed that with Bayne’s help, he’d never be powerless again. He’d been wrong.
He knew one thing, though. He couldn’t just leave. He had to help however he could. This monster could not be allowed to unleash the Waste or destroy the Manticore to do it. As he stood, stones clicking in his pocket, he realized that not all of the glow above him came from moss. Dozens of eyes watched him from various crevices—the little Elementals he’d seen here and there when they’d first entered the old temple.
He whispered words of friendship in the sacred language. “Wode pengyo. Heping.” My friends. Peace.
Some of them crept closer. They were listening.
“I beg you, please give us aid,” Syrus said.
The nearest pair of eyes materialized into a cave sprite. He hung upside down by his toes like a bat, his glowing eyes nearly level with Syrus’s.
“And what will you give in return, child of the Guest People?” the sprite asked.
“Whatever you ask, if you will only help us dispose of this treacherous warlock.”
A shout presaged another ball of light blasting down the tunnel.
Another sprite crawled closer to perch near his fellow. “Whatever we ask, eh?”
Then a third voice came, from behind a shattered cornice near Syrus’s leg. “But the Law says we must not harm our kin. We cannot interfere.”
A debate began in a language of clicks and trills that Syrus didn’t know. Syrus listened for several seconds before he interrupted. “Please! We need your aid. You know what happened here. No matter what this warlock may be, if he goes free, death will come to your people many times over, I promise you. He’s planning to unleash the Waste!”
More conferring.
Then, one said, “The Law says that Elemental may not harm Elemental, but it does not say we cannot distract or halt his progess.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Many more agreed, little heads popping up from everywhere, sprites surrounding Syrus with their lantern-eyes. “We will help if you will one day help us in return.”
Syrus spoke the ritual words of agreement.
“Well-mannered, that one,” the first cave sprite said.
“He’ll go far, I’m sure.”
“Didn’t you see his face? Of course he will!”
Syrus smiled as they bubbled ahead of him down the tunnel. They reminded him strongly of his clan, happily babbling about this and that, but they also made him wonder if Truffler was more articulate than he had ever let on.
The one Syrus had come to identify as the leader crept down the tunnel wall until he was close to Syrus’s ear. “You go in first with your stones and then we will do the rest,” he whispered. “You can spirit the poor Architect away yourself, yes?”
Syrus nodded.
“Well, then. Remember our bargain.”
“Wo shi.” I will.
Syrus looked around the broken door. Bayne was crouched under a failing shield he’d made against Charles’s incessant magic. More and more etheric energy was leaking through the glowing bubble, causing the Architect to cry out every so often in pain. Charles grinned and pressed harder.
Syrus snuck closer, wishing that he at least had a sling. He could hear Bayne whispering, gasping out the words that would hold his shield until they couldn’t.
Syrus aimed. His first pebble hit. Charles started; the eruptions of deadly flame weakened. Syrus pressed his advantage, and hurled several pebbles in rapid succession.
Charles whirled. “You are as much of a fool as this one, I see!” There was a dark ring around his mouth. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that dart of yours, boy. You will pay for that now.”
Faster than lightning could fly from Charles’s fingertips, the cave sprites whirled around him, like a tornado of bats. Charles shouted at them, things that Syrus couldn’t quite understand. He feared for a moment the sprites wouldn’t be able to withstand whatever dark Elemental walked in the warlock’s skin. Several of them disappeared with shrieks under the whirlwind; Syrus guessed Charles had caught those and destroyed them, despite the Law. But the rest held firm. They pushed and pulled him toward the door and out into the hall, winding around him like thread on a drop spindle.
Syrus rushed to Bayne, who was still chanting feverishly, his arms trembling, eyes closed.
“Bayne,” Syrus said. “Bayne!”
The chanting stopped. Bayne’s eyes opened. His arms fell to his sides, but his hands didn’t cease shaking. His fingers were black, as if scorched by gunpowder.
“We’ve got to go! Can you get us out of here? I don’t know how long the sprites can hold him!”
“I can’t travel through this much rock. Not now. Just . . . get me outside,” Bayne whispered.
Syrus helped him rise, though the full weight of the Architect on his slender frame nearly toppled him. Together, they limped out into the hall, skirting the pit. Syrus listened for the sprites, but all he heard was Charles’s incoherent shouting from somewhere deep in the pit. Then there was a great rumble, almost like a snort. The entire cavern shook with it.
“Maybe the Beast ate him,” Syrus said. He wished it were so, despite what the sprites had said about the Law of their kind.