A Fortress of Pebbles

The Master of Language drove the ravaged limousine within a few miles of home. Then, he pulled onto a backroad laced with “No Trespassing” signs and parked just out of sight of the main road. It wasn’t far from the site of the bus crash that had started everything.

“We can’t afford to take you all the way home,” he said, hands on the wheel and eyes ahead. “From here, though, you can walk to the bus stop. Or home, if you want.”

Cassandra thought she heard a trace of resignation in his voice. “Because it might be a trap?” she said. It was weird: this morning, she’d dreaded getting into the limo; now she felt the same about leaving it. The hole in the roof dripped water onto the seat between her and Orion.

The Master of Mind handed Grandpa’s pebble back to her and said, “The mind consumes information like the body consumes food. It’s becoming clear that we’ve been starving for longer than we realized.”

“While the Rot has grown fat on it,” muttered the Master of Language.

The ordeal in the cemetery had changed them, too, Cassandra realized. Yesterday, it had all been about recruitment, pebble swallowing, and the gamification of magic. Now, the Rot had officially introduced itself. It was like they’d looked carelessly into the shadows, only to find eyes therein.

Cassandra almost felt sorry for them – recalling her brief tour through the Spire of Masteries: This laboratory to my left is dedicated to earthquake prevention. The one on the right is for volcanoes. It’s the reason Yellowstone National Park hasn’t exploded.

One moment, you think you know everything. The next, nothing.

The gray pebble in her hand – the same color as the sky visible through the hole overhead – had changed everything. She studied it, wondering if her parents had even been visiting Grandpa all of those times. Because it was starting to seem like an elaborate maneuver, not to mention a web of lies.

And why? To lure the Masters there? To make a point? To intimidate them?

“You really think the Rot has a Fortress parked under our house?” said Orion, breaking Cassandra’s thought spiral.

“Docked,” said the Master of Language. “It’s just a theory. But…”

“Grandpa’s bunker,” said Cassandra. Thoughts and half-memories tugged at her like a spiraling ocean current: dreams of searching for something she had lost in the bunker’s labyrinths; dreams of something looking for her, too. Something dark. Something older than Grandpa.

***

Aissaba couldn’t stop looking at the cuckoo clock – not even the whole clock, but the ornate number twelve at the top. It was gilded onto a door made of pebbles, like a miniature version of the Fortress gates, ready to sweep aside when the appropriate hour arrived.

“Have you blinked with Orion recently?” said Aissaba, interrupting the classic Tassadu-esque monologue that had been unfolding non-stop for almost an hour. She’d been watching a second hand painted like the moon orbit the clock face fifty-three times.

“Now that you mention it, yes,” he said. “But they’ve been more…”

“Subtle?” said Aissaba. “Subconscious?”

“Like if you aren’t paying attention to them, you mistake them for…” Tassadu got out of the tub, dried himself off, and sat down on the floor next to where the bone collector spider was idling. He was silent for so long that Aissaba thought he might have lost his train of thought. Not very Tassadu-esque. As he stroked the bone collector experimentally with a wet talon, causing it to wiggle with what seemed like pleasure, Aissaba thought she heard him say, “...the mind’s usual chaos.”

Or maybe she had just imagined it. It was weird to think of Tassadu’s mind as chaotic – given that he was the most organized person she knew.

She joined him on the floor, the strange pet between them. It nuzzled against her bare knee, seeming to solicit additional affection, which she provided – causing soundless wiggles in response.

“Something about a cemetery,” she said, feeling it come back like a dream she had lost. A hole in the roof. The hysterical laughter of a toothless man in a plaid flannel. Tobacco smoke. A gray pebble that had changed everything. The haunted look on the Master of Mind’s otherwise flawless face. Tassadu’s not-dad looking lost in the front seat.

Just then, the cuckoo clock struck 3pm. Aissaba found herself suddenly convinced that tonight, at midnight, something was going to happen. Cassandra’s grandfather had mentioned midnight during his ravings, and for reasons Aissaba couldn’t place, it made her think of cat-Styxx purring: These things happen bit by bit. One conversation at a time. One flower at a time. She was willing to bet that the moment the clock struck, they’d hear a soft knock at their door.

“What’s that face for?” said Tassadu.

“I just can’t help but think that whatever cat-Styxx is doing to us, Cassandra’s grandfather is doing to the Masters,” she said.

Tassadu looked at her gravely. “If cat-Styxx is one of the Masters of Rot, what would you bet that their grandfather is too?”

“Every pebble I have,” said Aissaba, thinking of the seemingly innocuous gray mind pebble that Cassandra now called Grandpa. She thought of the bone collectors exploding from nearby graves in a storm of dirt and laughter. The bone spider nuzzled her knee again, and she stroked it absently as she watched the clock on the wall.

“What if we’re going crazy?” she said. “What was it you just said – the mind’s usual chaos?”

He just blinked at her with sleep-deprived turquoise eyes.

***

“What if I could get you a meeting with Mom and Dad,” said Cassandra. “Somewhere out of the house. Somewhere safe.”

The Masters were speechless for so long that Orion inquired helpfully: “Like a parent teacher conference?”

“Exactly,” said Cassandra. “I have some questions. I think we all do.”