“What was that?” Edward asked.
“The blue-eyed phantom, I think…” Cyrus whispered.
“It left something behind.”
A familiar shape lay on the log; a husky,brick-like body. Cyrus stabbed at thewater as he paddled closer. The ice in his chest evaporated, becomingacid in his throat. He reached out and turned the body to face him. Cyrus feltas if he was dangling over the edge of a cliff. All the air left his lungs, and his knees buckled.
It was Niels. His face was serenebut lacked spirit beneath the flesh. Gently, Cyrus shifted his stiff body downinto the boat. With Niels’ head on his lap, Cyrus caressed his icy cheek.
“No,” he half blubbered, half shrieked.
His thoughts became stilted and frozen. He felt trapped in frigid waters,pinned under endless waves. Cyrus wanted to rage, wanted to run away, wanted tosmash himself in the face. But all strength abandoned his being and he was leftshaking with sorrow.
“I’m so sorry…” Edwardwhispered.
Like a key in a jammed lock, Cyrus felt something in his heart twist andbreak off. The tiny fragment began to burrow itself into his soul. He recalledhis brother’s terrified face, as he dangled alone at the edge of the darkchasm.
“Why couldn’t I help him?” he asked, through gritted teeth and glassyeyes, “Why?”
He had failed his brother, the only family that had ever cared for him.And he had failed himself. A useless bastard, everyone was right. And he wouldhave to suffer that shame for as long as he lived. Which would not be long at all,he thought, in a moment of morbid hope, for his tiny world of Virkelot was crumbling, and the end was surely near.
Chapter 13
TRAPPED
THE FOLLOWING DAY was like a darkand hazy dream. Cyrus had still not grasped the fact that he would never see Nielsagain. He sat at his stepmother’s bedside. Neither spoke.
Several villagers had found Llysa floatingunconscious inside a wooden bathtub and had towed her ashore. She spent the nightin a deep coma, but as her temperature rose and the pale color returned to herskin, she began to rouse in the early morning hours. She had said little sincethe news of Niels’ death. She just lay in her bed, staring at the wall.
Cyrus felt numb all through his being. He was afraid to think about hisbrother. He had to keep his guard up, for even in Llysa’s weakened state, he felt as if trapped in a room with apoisonous viper.
The one saving grace was that, because Cyrus had rescued Sarah Heiler, her father, Dr. Heiler,had given him and Llysa their own private room. Like the main infirmary, their square tent was constructed with salvaged fence posts anddonkey blankets. In the corner burned a makeshift stove that kept the shelter toastyand dry.
Cyrus heard rustling and saw the doctor duck into the room. He was apear-shaped man with slicked back grey hair and a long slender nose.
“How’s our patient doing?” the doctor asked.
He took a seat at Llysa’s bedsideand felt her forehead.
“Hmm… I’ll try to get some more wood for the fire and scrape together ahot meal. Warm stew should bring back some of your strength.”
With the loss of most of the animals and all the farmland, provisionshad become scarce on the island, and the villagers were forced to ration whatfood remained.
“By the way, Cyrus,” the doctor continued, “I never got the chance tothank you for saving Sarah. I don’t know what I would have done had you notbeen there.”
“You’re welcome,” Cyrus replied, not knowing what else to say.
The doctor put a comforting hand on his shoulder, then slipped out ofthe tent.
Llysa looked over at Cyrus for thefirst time since she had received the devastating news. Her hair hung thin andlank, and her skin appeared stretchedtight over her sharp features.
“It should have been you,” she said.
Cyrus’ heart began to quicken.
“You think Niels would have been off saving some hussy instead of his own brother? You should be the one lying deadat the bottom of that lake.”
Cyrus said nothing. He just stared at the floor, his head low.
Without warning, Lars Hoblkalf stuck his fathead through the door flap.
“Excuse me, Mrs. LongBones, but I was wonderingif I could have a word with your son?”
“What’s this all about?” Llysa asked.
She coughed deep from her chest.
“It will only take a moment,” the mayor’s son answered, with aslapped-on grin.
“Go then, the both of you. Get out of my sight.”
Cyrus rose from his seat, thankful for the excuse to leave, and followedLars out of the tent.
Lars Hoblkalf was a portly, middle-aged manwith thinning curly hair and a freckled face. He waddled through the muddystreets of the make-do village with Cyrus trailing after him.
Rubbish and muck lined the narrow pathway while bloated clouds drizzledrain from above. The pair stepped aside as several villagers ran past withcoats over their heads, collecting whatever materials they could claim to covertheir temporary homes.
“Cyrus, if it weren’t for youfinding a way out of that pit, I surely would have drowned in that lake. I justwanted to thank you in person. I always knew you were a good lad.”
Lars ruffled Cyrus’ hair.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Hoblkalf,” Cyrus said, ashe pulled away and straightened his yellow locks.
The mayor’s son smelled of beer and cheese.
“You can call me Lars, Cyrus.”
Cyrus did not reply.
“Say, how did you find that cave anyway?”
Again, Cyrus remained silent.
“Come on, I have something that might cheer you up,” Lars continued.
The fat man led Cyrus through the rain-spattered streets and towards thetemporary town square. The air smelled of soil and mold. Cyrus could hear themayor’s voice booming through another of his longwinded speeches. He was talkingabout rebuilding the Hoblkalf Crane, salvaging whatthey could from the lake and repairing their damaged island. The crowd booed andjeered in response.
“What’s going on?” Cyrus asked.
“You’ll see.”
The mayor’s son guided him through an alleyway, which led to a backstagecurtain guarded by one of the mayor’s men.
“He’s here,” Lars said.
The guard nodded, then stuck his neck
