The Dire King (Jackaby #4)(71)

“Fine. Okay.” Jackaby swallowed. “You might crack my egg. You might not. Even if you do manage it, you’ll have to find your way around. Bit of a mess up there. It will take time, and the armies of the Annwyn are on their way as we speak—”

The Dire King chuckled. “The Seelie army is destroyed,” he said calmly. “And I am not concerned about dwarves and elves. Hold on tight, now. This might tickle.”

“Unnngh.” Jackaby shuddered. His eyes clenched. The Dire King was digging into his mind.

Fight him, I thought. Fight him. I recalled too well the periods when the Dire King had infiltrated my mind. I woke up dizzy and confused, learning only afterward about what I had done—what he had done in my skin. Anger rose hot in my chest.

Jackaby suddenly lay still. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

“Amazing,” said a voice that was not Jackaby’s. “Truly breathtaking. I can see the patterns, the powers at play. I can see how the veil was made. I can see how it can be unmade. Alina.”

“I am here.” I heard her voice from above me, but I could not see her behind the control bank.

“The fluctuator controls. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready, my lord.”

“The large dial at the top, turn it ten degrees.”

The hum of the machine changed pitch ever so slightly.

“No. Back two degrees. There. Now the fine adjustor below it. Five degrees. One more. Stop. Yes—it’s aligning! It’s beautiful! Now the polyphase alternator—that’s the controls on the opposite panel.”

I could hear Alina throwing switches and adjusting dials. The thrum of the machine was louder now, pulsing in my ears.

“It is done,” said the voice out of Jackaby’s lips at last. And his head sagged. The Dire King had left his mind. “You performed well, little dog,” he said from his own body. I still couldn’t see his face, but something about his voice was familiar. “Now move aside.”

Alina stepped abruptly in front of me and I panicked. I tried to slide out of view before she looked down at me, and my foot slipped on the step. I was suddenly standing on nothing at all. I fell. Before I could get my wits about me enough to even scream, I was caught hard in the gut by a thick stone, floating weightlessly in midair. I clung to it desperately. The stone trembled and rolled, but it held my weight as it continued to drift, floating silently under the landing.

“Did you hear something?” Alina said above me. I held my breath.

And then gears ground into motion and the tower was filled with noise. The device below me, the metal tank, began to swivel upward on its massive arm.

“I saw you,” Jackaby moaned. “You looked inside my head. And I looked inside yours.”

“Tsk, tsk,” chided the king.

“I saw a battle—from a long time ago. A rift between factions of fair folk.”

“There were many.”

“This one was a duel between kings. I was watching it from a distance. I saw Arawn and Hafgan, the Fair King and the Dire King. Hafgan was wearing the black crown and holding a black spear. He lost. Arawn killed him. The crown fell to earth.”

“This is history. It is well known,” said Alina.

“Did you know that Lord Arawn hesitated?” said Jackaby. “When it was over, he looked mortified by what he had done. His face—there was something very human about his eyes. As the Dire King lay dying, he beckoned Arawn close. He whispered something to him. He pressed something into his hand, which Arawn tucked away with a shaking hand. The crowd rushed in and soon Lord Arawn was pulled away. His people were celebrating, but he did not look proud. He looked sad and frightened.”

“Why should he not look proud?” Alina asked.

“Why indeed?” the Dire King asked.

“I saw what happened next,” Jackaby continued, “in the darkness of the tower keep—this tower keep. Lord Arawn was approached by a cloaked figure. Do you remember who was under that cloak?”

The Dire King did not answer.

I had drifted close enough to the edge of the landing that I was able to reach a hand out to catch hold of the platform. I pulled myself up. On the far side of Jackaby now, I crouched low, keeping out of sight with my back pressed up against the control panel.

The machine above us clicked, settling into place. Its mechanical arm had raised it high into the air, and now the mechanism whirred as it rotated to face the control stage. The nozzles at the end buzzed and clicked as they realigned, their apertures swiveling to focus on a single point. The device was directed now squarely at the Dire King.

“It was you,” said Jackaby. “You raised a hand out of your cloak, and with a motion the glamour covering Lord Arawn dropped away—but of course he wasn’t Arawn, not really. The victor who killed Hafgan all those centuries ago, the good and righteous champion who wore Arawn’s face and claimed victory over the Dire King, was not Arawn at all. He was a man. A mortal. I recognized him. He was much younger in your memory than I had ever known him. You called him Pwyll, back then, but I knew him as Father Grafton.”

“A very plain name,” the Dire King drawled. “His aliases always were.”

“Grafton never wanted to kill anyone,” Jackaby continued. “I think that might have been why Hafgan gave him the shield. Hafgan recognized goodness in him, even after Grafton had delivered the killing blow. Hafgan lay dying, but he knew that Grafton would keep the gem safe. He knew Grafton would keep it out of the hands of his sworn enemy. Out of your hands, Lord Arawn.”