The Indigo King - James A. Owen [65]
“Hurry!” Jack implored the others. “We have to save as many as we can!”
“It’s going up too quickly,” John said, scanning the rafters of the room, which were already pouring with smoke. “We can’t do enough. The Histories said that the most essential works were saved. We’ll just have to trust that they will be.”
Reluctantly the others agreed. They dropped the baskets and headed for the portal.
All the librarians and various scholars were running in every direction, mostly away from the flames. As the companions passed the doorway to the Grail chamber, they noticed that Archimedes was no longer at his post.
“Smart old owl,” Chaz remarked drolly as they turned the corner and headed for the projection.
Chaz passed through first, with Jack close on his heels. John paused at the wall and turned to look at the Grail on the door, now cracked.
Meridian was gone, to who knew where. Madoc was Bound, and banished. It had not even occurred to John that banishment could be done. If he was truly exiled to the ends of the Earth, then perhaps that was enough. Perhaps.
He tried not to think about the fact that at the moment Meridian had spoken the Binding, he had considered just killing Madoc. And he tried not to think about how relieved he’d felt when, with the banishment, he realized he might not have to.
And all it had taken was convincing the brother they trusted that he had to betray the one they didn’t.
He hoped they had done enough.
John closed his eyes to the flames as they enveloped the image of the Grail, and he turned and stepped through the portal.
After receiving much more attention than he was comfortable getting, Hugo decided to camouflage himself as best as he could by donning Hank Morgan’s helmet and gauntlets. After five minutes of wearing the incredibly heavy, stiflingly hot, and impossibly ill-fitting pieces of armor, he took them off and was immediately accosted by a small band of lithe, well-armed men. Or at least, he assumed they were men—they cursed like men and were dressed like others he’d seen on the field. But when he looked closely, he noticed that their ears were pointed, and they had only four fingers. And while they knocked him about, more for sport than anything else, he thought he heard them refer to each other as “elves.”
He quickly replaced the helmet and gauntlets, and the elves, laughing, moved on. Hugo sighed heavily and looked around for Hank, who had at least seemed to be genial, if not a friend. Even Pellinor would be a welcome sight.
Still, Hugo had time to think. Hank had mentioned having been sent here by a Caretaker of the Imaginarium Geographica … Samuel Clemens. It took a moment for Hugo to remember why that name was familiar, and then he recalled it. The American writer. The one who wrote of riverboats, and slavery, and Adam and Eve … That fellow had been a Caretaker, as John and Jack claimed to be?
But wasn’t Clemens also dead?
“Sam says hello,” Hank said as he dropped down to sit next to Hugo. “Aren’t those hot?” he asked, indicating the helmet and gauntlets.
“Terribly so, yes,” Hugo replied, removing the armor. “But it seems unless I look a bit more the part of the knight-at-arms, I’m a target for mischief and harassment.”
“The elves, I’ll bet,” Hank guessed, looking over the helmet. “There’s a compact not to engage in any fighting until the actual start of the tournament, but that only applies to the champions here to compete—mostly knights and would-be kings. The elves are notorious for skirting the rules. They think they’re better than everyone else, mostly because they live impossibly long lives. I think they’re a bunch of pansies, myself.”
“But you said you weren’t here to compete,” said Hugo. “So why did you come dressed as a knight?”
“Simple,” Hank answered as he put on the helmet. “So I wouldn’t be kicked around by a bunch of pansy elves.”
* * *
Hank led Hugo around the outskirts of the field