The Magician King_ A Novel - Lev Grossman [33]
“We hadn’t heard from you for years. There didn’t seem to be any point. I mean, what do you actually do with the stuff?”
Quentin could have answered that, but even he had to admit that the answer wouldn’t have been a very good one. Probably they used it to regild Eliot’s scepter. Taxation without representation. She could start a revolution. She was right. It was all so unreal.
“Anyway look what happened. They sent us a king. I think we might be forgiven for feeling a little pleased with ourselves. But why are you really here? Don’t tell me that’s the whole reason, it’s too, too disappointing. Are you on a quest?”
“I’m afraid I am going to disappoint you. I’m not on a quest.”
“I was sure you were looking for the magic key,” she said. “The one that winds up the world.”
It was hard to tell when she was joking.
“To be honest, Elaine, I don’t really know much about the key. I guess there’s a story about it? Do you get a lot of people looking for it?”
“No. But it’s just about our only claim to fame, aside from the beetles.”
A vast orange moon was rising, as orange as their cigarette tips. It was a crescent moon, hanging so low it looked like it could snag a horn in the Muntjac’s rigging. Fillory’s moon was actually crescent-shaped, not round. Once a day, exactly at noon, it passed between Fillory and the sun, making an eclipse. The birds all went quiet when it happened. It still seemed to take them by surprise. Quentin was so used to it he hardly noticed it anymore.
“It’s not here anyway,” she said.
“I figured that.” Quentin poured himself more rum from a decanter. Not that he needed it, but who cared. He wondered if they’d solved the mystery of Jollyby’s death yet.
“It’s on After. The next island farther out.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m not following. What’s where?”
“There’s an island farther out from here, called After. Two days’ sail, maybe three. I’ve never been there. But that’s where the key is.”
“The key. You must be joking.”
“Am I laughing?” Was she? She gave him a funny half smile.
“I’m thinking this is a metaphorical key. The key to life. It’s a piece of paper that says ‘haste makes waste’ or ‘early to bed early to rise.’”
“No, Quentin, it’s a real key. Made of gold. Teeth and everything. Very magical, or that’s what people say.”
Quentin stared at the bottom of his glass. He needed to be thinking now, but he’d taken steps to disable his thinking apparatus. Too late. Haste makes waste.
“Who makes a key out of gold?” he said. “It makes no sense. It would be too soft. It would get bent all the time.”
“You’d certainly have to be careful where you stuck it.”
Quentin’s face felt hot. Thank God the night was cooling off, finally, and a night wind was rising in the trees around the embassy.
“So there’s a magic golden key a couple of days’ sail away from here. Why haven’t you gone and gotten it yourself?”
“I don’t know, Quentin. Maybe I haven’t got any magic locks.”
“It never occurred to me that the key might be real.”
It was tempting. It was more than that: it was a big buzzing neon sign in the darkness that read ADVENTURELAND. He could feel the pull of it, from out over the horizon. The Outer Island was a bust, a red herring, but that just meant he hadn’t gone far enough.
Elaine sat forward on the couch, looking more sober and cogent than he felt. Probably she was used to this rum stuff. He wondered what it might be like to kiss her. He wondered what it might be like to get into bed with her. They were all alone on a sweaty tropical night. The moon was up. Though if he’d been serious about that he probably should have stopped drinking a little sooner. And now that he did think about it, he wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to kiss those thin, smiling lips.
“Will you let me tell you something, Quentin?” she said. “I would think very hard about whether you want to look for the key. This island is a pretty safe place as islands go, but it’s the jumping-off point. This is the end of Fillory, Quentin.
“Out there”—she pointed out to