Jane Doe and the Key of All Souls Read online

  I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Then I just have to stand on the foundation stone in the centre of the Cradle Sea, somehow heal the entire Manor before Roth destroys it completely, then defeat Roth and save my dad.’ I shake my head. ‘What if we get inside the Cradle and I still don’t know what to do? Or what if we figure it out, but I stuff it up and kill everyone?’

  Violet dabs my hand dry with a corner of her robe. ‘You’re not going to kill everyone.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because despite what people say, you’re smart, capable and definitely not evil.’

  ‘I lost control yesterday, Violet. Back in the Manor …’ I bite my lip. I still haven’t told her about the Spectre. How it found me in the water and wrapped its tendrils of light over my hand. How I asked it to help me, and it did. At least, I think it did. It didn’t Grip me, anyway. But why? Because the Makers left the Spectres behind to protect me? Because they’re bound to me, just as they’re bound to the Cradle? I suppose Violet figures I simply got away from the thing, and that’s fine by me. The Spectres are monsters. If I’m connected to them, what does that make me?

  ‘I tore that corridor apart,’ I say. ‘If the gateway hadn’t been there, we would’ve drowned.’

  ‘But it was there,’ Violet says. ‘And you opened it. You saved us, Jane.’

  I remember it all so clearly. Almost drowning after the Spectre fled. Waking up to see Violet leaning over me. I grabbed her knife, sliced open my palm and slammed it onto the stone. That was when the power got away from me. When everything fell apart. I can still feel it: every crack, every tremor. It was terrifying, and it hurt, but – as odd as it sounds – for a second there it felt incredible. Part of me liked it, part of me wanted more, and that’s the scariest part of all.

  I shake my head. ‘We got lucky. I’m telling you, I’m not ready for this.’

  Violet tears a strip of material from her robe and wraps it around my palm. ‘Think about it this way. What do we know about the Makers? Who are they? How did they create the Manor?’

  ‘I’m tired, Violet. I don’t feel like rehashing every little –’

  ‘Trust me,’ she says. ‘It’ll help, I promise. Go on. Tell me.’

  ‘Well,’ I rattle off the story as it comes to mind, ‘long, long ago, the Otherworlds were violent, chaotic places. Then Po, Aris and Nabu-kai met. The Gatekeeper, the Builder and the Scribe. The Makers. Po could travel between worlds, Aris could create and shape stone, and Nabu-kai could see into the future. He was sort of like the grand architect, I guess. He foresaw it all. The Manor’s halls and booby traps. The corridors and gateways, and the paths of everyone who’d walk through them. Together, they brought his vision to life – they created the Manor – and it bound and stabilised the Otherworlds.’

  Violet nods, and ties the bandage off. ‘But in order for life to truly begin …’

  ‘They had to clear the Otherworlds of the old Gods of Chaos. So they tricked them. Told them about the Manor, opened every gateway and let them into the Cradle, the enormous chamber at the core of it all.’

  ‘And once inside, their combined energies clashed and swirled and formed the Cradle Sea, a source of terrible, unmatched power that could raze entire worlds if unleashed!’

  ‘Really not helping the nerves, Violet.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘But it’s true. And what happened next?’

  ‘Well, the Makers knew they’d have to join the Gods of Chaos, but instead of becoming part of the Sea, they poured their energy, their life force, into the foundation stone – the first stone laid down by Aris – sitting in the centre of the Cradle, to bind and protect the Sea.’

  Violet nods. ‘But before they did that?’

  ‘Well … they left two keys in the Manor to open the Cradle –’

  ‘And a third – you – inside the Cradle to protect it,’ Violet says. She smiles, soft and reassuring. ‘See? As weird and daunting and scary as it sounds, you’re part of the Manor, Jane. You were literally made for this. Born for this. Trust that – trust them.’

  I huff out a breath. ‘Trust the Makers.’

  ‘They gave you this connection to the Manor for a reason. You said it yourself. The Makers poured their life force into the foundation stone.’ She nods at my wounded hand. ‘If you get to the stone and make the connection, maybe it’ll amplify your powers. Focus them. Open up a direct line between you and the Manor. Between you and the Makers themselves.’

  I trace my thumb over the bandage. ‘You reckon I’ll be able to … talk to them?’

  ‘Well, I doubt you’ll have a lengthy chat over a cup of tea, but maybe they’ll be there for you. In essence, spirit, whatever you want to call it. Maybe they’ll guide you.’

  ‘That’s a lot of maybes.’

  ‘I know everything seems overwhelming, Jane. I know it’s unfair. We’re outnumbered. Outgunned. Outside. The fate of all worlds shouldn’t rest on the shoulders of a fourteen-year-old girl, but it does.’ Violet pauses. ‘Well, technically, you’re not fourteen.’

  ‘Technically, I’m not a girl. I’m a key.’

  ‘The point is, you’ll find a way. We will find a way. How do we find the Cradle? How do we save the Manor? How do we rescue your dad? Answers will come, and when they do?’ She smiles at me. ‘You’ll be unstoppable.’

  And there it is. The word that frightens me more than any other.

  Unstoppable.

  ‘Elephant,’ I remind her. ‘Small pieces.’

  THE NEW NIGHTMARE

  I’m back in the Manor, whirling through black water, lungs on fire. My same-old, same-old nightmare. Good times. Again, I see Dad and Elsa suspended in the dark. Again, I hear the eerie underwater moaning and that soft, whispered voice.

  Let go.

  I used to think it was Elsa’s voice. Now I know I was wrong.

  The tide changes, and I’m pinned to a wall. The current eases. The Spectre looms before me, white and blinding; a wisp of horns, eyes like white-hot embers. Tendrils of light stream from its sides, curling with the ebb and flow of the water. I take the Cradle key from my pocket.

  If you want to save the Manor, I think, help us. Let me go.

  But this time, it doesn’t help us. This time, the Spectre turns against me. Roars so loud every bone in my body aches and my teeth feel like they’re about to crack. The tendrils of light reach out to grab me – Grip me – drag me kicking and screaming to that realm of waking nightmares.

  But someone pulls me out of the water just in time.

  ‘No!’

  The porcelain half-mask. The veiny, mottled skin. Roth’s rotten stench blasts my throat dry. He leans over me and growls, rippling the air between us with his rancid breath. My skin itches and crawls. He stares into my eyes, trying to turn me inside out, trying to read me.

  I know exactly what he’s thinking. You’re mine.

  I cry out, kick him, slip from his grasp and scramble to my feet.

  When I spin around, the water has disappeared. I’m sprawled in a black-sandy corridor, surrounded by glittering crystals of pale blue and rose. I can still smell Roth, still hear him breathing somewhere down the corridor, so I turn and run. The crystals crack, tremble and grow, sprouting and stabbing from the walls. I sprint for an open door, dive through the shrinking gap, and land in a puddle of blood-red sludge. I’m back in the forest now, surrounded by red-leafed trees, snaking vines and those glowing spores floating through the air like miniature moons. I feel lightheaded, woozy, like I could lie down and sleep forever, but I can still hear Roth, still feel him – he’s coming for me – so I pull myself out of the sludge and run. The red leaves flap. The vines whip around and try to snag me. Tree roots burst from the leaf- and bone-litter, and trip me up. But when I hit the ground it isn’t sludge I land in.

  ‘What the …’

  This time, I’m bathed in candlelight, lying in a mound of snow. I’ve been here before. It’s the first hall I entered after I left Bluehaven. Roth has v
anished. I scan the frosted balconies. The icicles. The columns adorned with stone-carved faces. The doors on this lower level are almost completely buried in the snow.

  There’s the hole I burrowed through when I first arrived, so clueless, so lost.

  There’s my trail of footsteps.

  There’s me – past-me – however-many-days-ago-Jane – trudging through the snow.

  ‘Dad,’ she whisper-shouts, clinging to her lantern. ‘You there?’

  I have to stop her. Have to save her.

  ‘Wait! You’re going the wrong way!’

  She can’t hear me. Can’t see me. She’s already stepping into the black archway at the other end of the hall, swallowed by the dark. I move through the snow as fast as I can, but when I finally step through the archway, past-me has already fled. The Spectres are here instead – the two that escaped from the Cradle all those years ago – looming before me, reaching out with their tendrils of light.

  ‘P–please,’ I stammer. ‘You’re supposed to help me. W–we’re on the same side.’

  They shake their heads, slow and menacing. They’ve been waiting for me. I can feel it. Waiting for this moment ever since I stepped into Arakaan. Ever since I found out I’m the third key. Their tendrils seep into my eyes, up my nose, down my throat, infecting me with that white-fire light, Gripping me at last. And then –

  Poof! They’re gone, along with the snow.

  I’m kneeling on the foundation stone in the centre of the Cradle Sea now. I’ve made it. Somehow I’ve beaten Roth and my bleeding hand’s fixed to the trembling stone. I can feel the power of the Makers flowing through me, stronger than ever before. But something’s wrong. A bad feeling, deep inside. A dark and endless void. It hurts. It hurts so much I’m crying, screaming, and I don’t know what to do because Dad and Violet are dead. How they died, I’ve no idea. All I know is they’re gone – lost forever – and it’s all my fault.

  Someone, somewhere, keeps shouting my name. Elsa, I think. She’s pleading with me, telling me to stop, but I can’t feel the Makers anymore, just that gaping void in my chest.

  ‘No,’ I gasp through gritted teeth. ‘Please no …’

  I can’t stop it. This is the end. The foundation stone cracks. The Cradle Sea surges and glows, white and blinding like the Spectres.

  Return, the voice that isn’t Elsa’s whispers –

  And I wake with a start, gasping for air, twisted in my blanket under the stars. I shudder with relief. Violet’s snoring softly beside me. The whole tribe’s passed out, by the look of it. But I’m not the only one having nightmares. Elsa’s tossing and turning on the other side of camp.

  ‘No,’ she calls out. ‘Please.’

  I creep over to her as quietly as I can, blanket wrapped around my shoulders, stepping past saddles and smouldering campfires, over splayed legs and spears. Illuminated by this Otherworldly night sky, the salt pan’s an ocean of silver, dead calm. The moon’s small and sickle-shaped, dangling over our heads like one of Roth’s blades.

  ‘Charlie,’ Elsa whispers. ‘Charlie?’

  She’s dreaming about Dad. I kneel beside her. Grab a corner of my blanket and dab the little beads of sweat from her brow. ‘He’s okay,’ I whisper. ‘Roth needs him. He’ll keep him alive.’

  I need to hear it as much as she does. I never want to feel that void in my chest again.

  We’ll save him, I want to tell her. I don’t know how, but we will.

  ‘No,’ Elsa mumbles. ‘Roth …’

  She’s trembling, just like Dad used to tremble in the Hollows’ basement. I hold her hand, just like I held his. I tell her, ‘It’s okay, I’m here, go back to sleep.’ When she settles, I uncork her waterskin, toss it aside, and let the booze bleed into the salt. Then I stand up and freeze.

  Yaku’s awake, watching me, the moonlight glinting in his good eye.

  I nod hello and hold up my hands to show him I’m unarmed. He frowns, goes to say something – Rack off, I assume – so I beat him to it. ‘Don’t worry,’ I mutter, ‘I’m going.’

  Violet stirs when I curl up beside her. ‘Another nightmare?’

  ‘No.’ Liar. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘Okay,’ she yawns, closing her eyes again. ‘Just make sure Hickory saves me some pancakes.’

  ‘Will do,’ I say, and watch as a shooting star streaks across the sky.

  SOME OTHER REASON

  The tribespeople ride single file, supplies tethered to their saddles, weapons slung round their backs. Rifles, mostly. Wooden staffs, clubs, a couple of swords. Elsa’s nursing a crossbow near the front of the line, sleeping in her saddle. Her speckled horse keeps breaking formation, wandering left or right till Elsa wakes up, swears loudly, yanks the poor beast back in line and passes out again. I may have spilled her stash of booze, but that didn’t stop her nicking someone else’s.

  She hasn’t even looked at me all morning.

  We set off before dawn, when the suns started draining the northern sky of stars.

  ‘Novu,’ Yaku spat at me from his horse, jabbing a meaty finger in the directions of the compass. ‘Novu, torru, pillai, raan.’ North, south, east, west. ‘We are going raan.’

  West to the mountain range, to the outpost, to Hickory and, beyond that, the secret canyon city. Asmadin, they call it. Resting place of the second Cradle key.

  It’s mid-morning now, and I’m already baking. The desert’s shimmering so much it looks like the world’s about to wrinkle in on itself. The salt pan ended ages ago, giving way to a blistering landscape of sand and scree. Everyone’s on edge, scanning the desert for who knows what. Another sandstorm? More Tin-skins? Some other deadly Arakaanian beast?

  I’m sweating in my saddle near the tail end of the line. The hooded robe I was given this morning stinks so bad it reminds me of Roth. My goggles, fashioned from an old Leatherhead gas mask, are lopsided and too tight, but at least they cut the glare. I’m still trying to figure out how this horse business works. We have ’em on Bluehaven, but I’ve never had the chance to ride one. I’m pretty sure this one’s broken. He keeps trying to headbutt the other horses, and whenever I yank on the reins to stop him, the jerk tries to bite me. He’s dirty. Ugly. Irritating. Nobody told me his name, so I’ve decided to call him Scab.

  Violet’s riding beside me, cloaked and goggled, too. She named her horse Rex, and he’s perfect, of course. Calm. Polite. Keeps his teeth to himself. ‘Are you sure you didn’t have a nightmare last night?’

  I still haven’t told her about the dream, for the same reason I didn’t tell her about the Spectre in the water, back in the Manor: I’m afraid. Afraid of what I am, what I can do, what could happen if I lose control again. The Spectres in my nightmare could sense it. I reckon that’s why they Gripped me. They think I’m gonna fail, which makes me as big a threat to the Manor as Roth. If I mess this up, we’re all doomed. Every Otherworld. Every soul. What if they’re right?

  I can still feel and see it all. That void in my chest when I knew I’d lost Dad and Violet. The cracking stone. The surging, glowing Cradle Sea. That voice.

  Return.

  Back in the Manor, the voice was a comfort. It gave me hope when the river creatures were closing in, told me what to do. Now it terrifies me, not least because I have no idea whose voice it is. The Manor’s? One of the Makers? Po’s, perhaps. And return to what? The Cradle?

  Great tip. What do they think I’m trying to do?

  ‘If I did have a nightmare, I can’t remember it,’ I lie.

  ‘Hmm,’ Violet says. ‘It’s a shame, really. I know your nightmares are no picnic, but I was hoping we might get another hint of what’s to come. Maybe a nudge in the right direction, like we had inside the Manor. Even you have to admit, they’re handy. They’re a gift.’

  ‘A gift? Uh-uh.’

  All those nightmares I had growing up. All those never-ending stone corridors. All those times I was drowning in the Cradle Sea. They were a twisted glimpse of my past, but what about the other
s? Those people I saw running for their lives. The children screaming and dying. Were they terrible but regular, run-of-the-mill dreams? Or were they things that have happened? Things that are going to happen? Things that are happening, right now, inside the Manor and out? How the hell am I supposed to tell the difference?

  ‘I’d rather dream about pancakes, like you.’

  Violet scrunches her face at me. ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Point is, I hate the nightmares, just like the quakes.’

  ‘And, like the quakes,’ Violet says, ‘we need them, whether you like it or not. The Manor’s been calling to you, Jane, all your life. Showing you things. Telling you things. You just weren’t aware of it. But this power inside you – it’s awake now. There’s no going back. You can’t ignore it. Next time the Manor calls … you have to listen.’

  ‘I did listen, remember? The Manor showed me the path to the river and the hall of waterfalls. I followed it – we followed it – the path that led us here.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Violet says to herself, looking out at the desert, ‘here.’

  We ride and we ride, and the mountain range doesn’t seem to get any closer. When the suns get too high and the temperature soars even higher, Elsa – having slept off her hangover at last – orders everyone to get off their horses and walk. Luckily, I’ve been given a pair of sandals but even so it’s too much. All of it. The sweat. The aching legs. The growling hunger and throat-wrenching thirst. I barely even have the energy to swear at Scab anymore. Violet, on the other hand?

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says out of nowhere. ‘Why are we in Arakaan?’

  I wipe a trail of sweat from my cheek. ‘Because the Manor wanted us to find Elsa.’

  ‘Yeah, but why did it bring her here?’

  ‘Because this is the world Roth left for dead.’ I glance over my shoulder at Yaku. Guy’s been riding behind us all day. ‘It’s the last place he’d ever think to look for the second key.’