“You don’t understand, Cai. He’s my friend.”
Cai looked dubious.
“He’s helping us, isn’t he?”
“I guess so. Although if he shoves one of your other friends off a very high tower, you might want to think twice about him.”
“Who said you were my friend?” Autumn gave Cai’s staff a nudge. It tangled in his feet and tripped him.
“Whoops!” she called over her shoulder as Cai chased her, laughing, up the stairs. “Guess all that magic isn’t enough to make you graceful, is it?”
They reached a landing and shoved through the door. There they found what could have been a cozy sitting room, its fireplace cold and empty. Then there was a corridor lined with rooms, two beds in each. They’d all been stripped and covered in white cloth.
“So much space,” Autumn said, gazing through the window at the moon bundled up in clouds. She’d never felt more like Cai’s sidekick. It was an impossible, intoxicating feeling, even if it wasn’t true. She wished Winter was there to be part of it.
She peeked into one of the rooms. There was something about the place that made her want to march back down the stairs. It was a loneliness, so heavy it hung in the air like fog. Why had the magicians bothered to build the Silver Tower just to leave it empty?
Cai was gazing out the window, his eyes on the scudding clouds. He had that elsewhere look on his face, and Autumn thought she could guess what he was thinking.
“Late frost this year, Gran says,” she said lightly. “Might not even snow at all, except up on the peaks. Wouldn’t that seer be red in the face?”
Cai looked amused, which was an improvement. “I doubt he got the forecast wrong.”
“Never know,” Autumn said. “Sure, he’s a seer, but he’s a man too. Gran says they’re wrong all the time.”
Cai and Autumn went to the not-top floor of the tower, which did a very good impression of the top floor of a tower. There was no mysterious staircase leading to nothing, and when Autumn stood on the balcony, she could see the crenellated roof above them. Did the tower really keep going? Was Winter really here somewhere, trapped up in the sky, or were they wasting their time? This was the last clue to investigate—or at least, the last clue in the castle.
Autumn swallowed her fear and closed her eyes and looked. There was Winter’s presence, flickering as it sometimes did, but was he closer now or farther away? She couldn’t tell.
Cai tapped his staff against the wall, murmuring incantations. Sometimes he just stood with his eyes closed, listening. When he did this, he began to glow lightly.
Autumn chewed her lip, watching him. She had to admit, she was still terribly curious about what sort of monster Cai was—or if he even was a monster, for she found herself doubting her certainty on that score with him pacing about all noble and hero-like, and bathed in starlight to boot.
Cai? she said in the Speech.
He started. “What?”
“Just checking your hearing.”
He looked uneasy. “You don’t have to do that.”
“You don’t like it?”
“No. It feels like—I don’t know. Like you’re sticking a hook in my ear or something.”
“Most monsters don’t like it,” Autumn said. “Speakers can talk to monsters, but we can also order them around, if we’re strong enough.”
Cai looked thoughtful. “So you could order me to do something?”
“Maybe I could, but I wouldn’t,” Autumn said. “That’s not fair.”
Cai leaned his staff against the wall and faced her. “Try it.”
Autumn’s brow furrowed. “Really?”
“I want to know what I am.” Cai looked pale but determined. “Maybe this will help.”
Despite herself, Autumn felt a little shiver of anticipation. Well, she thought, who could blame her? The chance to order Cai Morrigan around didn’t come up every day.
“Okay,” she said. “Relax. Don’t try to fight me, all right? Let’s just see if this works.”
Cai nodded.
Raise your left hand, Autumn said in the Speech.
Cai’s hand jerked up. He blinked at it in surprise.
Autumn tapped her foot, thinking. Now, try giving me some of your magic. Just a tiny bit. She held her hand out in the shape of a bowl.
Moving like a sleepwalker, Cai placed his hand over Autumn’s. Light gleamed in the cracks between their fingers, and Autumn felt something lighter than water and softer than wool fill her palm. When Cai drew back, she was cupping a handful of starlight.
She gasped with delight. The starlight trickled through her fingers and splashed against the floor, where it went out.
“Let’s see how strong you are,” she said. “This time, try to stop me.”
Cai nodded.
Raise your left hand, Autumn said.
It was like walking into a stone wall. Autumn stumbled back a step, gasping.
“Are you all right?” Cai demanded. Autumn nodded. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she said. Cai looked so pale and worried that she couldn’t tell him the truth.
Because the truth was that she’d never encountered a monster with a will stronger than Cai’s—apart from the boggart. Usually, when a monster resisted her commands, she felt it struggle at least a little, like a person walking into a strong headwind.
What was Cai?
“Let’s just say I’m glad you don’t have a taste for hearts,” Autumn said lightly, to cover her amazement.
Cai looked as if he didn’t want to hear any more than that. He turned away. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Autumn handed him his staff. She still wasn’t afraid of him, and he must have seen that in her face. He managed a faint smile.
“Well?” she prompted. “Do you sense any old spells?”
Cai looked relieved by the change of subject. He touched the wall and glowed brighter than ever. “No. There’s just the ordinary magic holding the walls together.”
Autumn kicked at a chair. “Has anyone ever told you that you’d make a very nice lantern? Gran could stick a hook in your collar and carry you around the Gentlewood.”
Cai blinked. “Do you always say whatever goes through your mind?”
Autumn sighed. “Pretty much. Winter used to say I was born with one foot in my mouth.”
Cai smiled. “I wish more people were like you. Most of them just say what they think I want to hear.”
“Well, they want to impress you.” She was glad it was too dark for Cai to see her blushing. “I don’t.”
“I wouldn’t want to see you try to impress someone. I’d fear for their life.”
Autumn tripped him again.
The walls of the tower were lined with tapestries so dusty that great clouds billowed out when Autumn shook them. The scenes were strange—there were no magicians, who were always recognizable by their glowing staffs. Women and men walked alongside monsters or held out their hands as if offering gifts. Autumn saw dragons of all varieties, fat and happy in luxurious gardens, as well as afancs and gwarthegs, and some beasts she didn’t recognize. There was even a shadowy window edged with claws, from which gazed a pair of disembodied eyes that looked decidedly boggartish.
“I wonder if this is where the hedgewitches lived,” Cai murmured.
“What?”
He shot her a look. When he spoke again, he seemed to choose his words carefully. “It’s something I read in one of those old books in the skybrary. There used to be two kinds of magic folk in Eryree. Magicians and hedgewitches.”
“Hedgewitches?” Autumn repeated. She’d heard the word witch before—they appeared in old legends as a sort of magician gone bad, who lived alone in forests and got up to all kinds of wickedness. Servants also used it as an insult for magicians they didn’t like. She didn’t know there was another meaning.
“Hedgewitches were magical,” Cai said. “But it was a different kind of magic. They could speak to monsters and beasts, brew heali
ng potions, weave talismans from branches to ward off enemies, that sort of thing. But even though their power was just as useful as magicians’, some people thought it was unimportant. Hedgewitches didn’t use staffs or incantations or do flashy stuff like summoning castles from the ground.” He waved a hand at the room. “Magicians called it ‘low’ magic, the opposite of their ‘high’ magics. Two hundred years ago, one of the old headmasters decided Inglenook wasn’t going to teach hedgewitches anymore. Since then, their kind of magic has been mostly forgotten in Eryree, while the influence of magicians has grown and grown. Which was probably the point.”
Autumn’s mouth was dry. “What happened to them?”
“Nothing. They’re still around. Only now they’re just called Speakers—people forget that they can do more than just speak to monsters.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Autumn said with a huff. “Us Malogs are Speakers, but we can’t make healing potions or any of that other rubbish.”
“Bet you could, if someone taught you,” Cai said. “What about your gran?”
“Well, she has her cure-all,” Autumn said. “But that’s swill, that is.”
“I won’t argue with that, but I don’t think it matters what it tastes like.”
Autumn felt flustered, torn between fascination and dismissal. What Cai was saying was nonsense—wasn’t it?
She thought of Gran’s cure-all. Yes, it was foul, but Autumn had to admit that it usually worked. And then she thought about Gran’s yearly tradition of placing a doll woven from river reeds above the door to ward off winter coughs and sniffles. Gran always shrugged and said it was just what her parents had done, giving Autumn the impression that even she believed it silly superstition. Yet when was the last time any of the Malogs had caught a cold? And them being outdoors in all weather.
It was ridiculous. Of course it was. Even more ridiculous was the seedling of hope that sprouted inside her, tiny leaves twisting in search of light.
Autumn gazed at the tapestries. The hedgewitches—if hedgewitches they were—wore simple cloaks and carried baskets of leaves and herbs. They were, in many ways, the opposite of magicians, who were usually shown blazing with light or posing atop a pile of dragon heads. Also, they seemed to be talking to the monsters. Negotiating. Magicians didn’t talk to monsters. They killed them.
“So,” she said hesitantly, “you think I’m a hedgewitch?”
“No,” Cai said. He looked determined and a little nervous, as if he was giving a speech he’d already worked out in his head. “I know you are. And I think what’s ridiculous is the fact that you haven’t been taught anything about your powers. I’m going to speak to Headmaster Neath about it.”
Autumn’s confusion turned to horror. “Oh, Cai, no! You can’t. What if he sacks Gran?”
Cai looked astonished. “Why would he sack her?”
“Gosh, I don’t know.” Autumn threw up her hands. “Maybe because he’ll think we’ve been filling your head with nonsense about us being magic. If that’s not acting above your station, I don’t know what is.”
“I’ll tell him it was all my idea, Autumn. Promise. I’ll tell him—”
“And if he doesn’t believe you?” Autumn spun Cai around and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Cai, I know you’re just being nice and all, but you don’t get it. Me and Gran and my brothers, we’re beastkeepers, all right? That’s it. And if we start going around telling people we’re something else, either they won’t believe us, or they’ll get mad.”
“I do understand.” Cai’s face was red. “My parents were servants, remember? If I didn’t have magic, I’d be just like you.”
“But you’re not like me, Cai.” Autumn released him. Suddenly she felt very tired. “And I bet your parents tell you to keep quiet about them, don’t they? I bet when they have visitors at that fancy manor house of theirs, they pretend they’ve always been there, drinking their tea from nice china. Right?”
Cai’s face fell.
“Please don’t say anything,” Autumn said. “Look, there isn’t a lot of work out there for beastkeepers. There’s a few in Langorelle, working for the king’s magicians, but that’s it. If we lose our position at Inglenook, we’re in trouble. We’ll lose our home. We’ll lose everything. Do you get it?”
“Yes,” Cai said, though Autumn wasn’t sure she believed him. Cai’s worries were all about magic and heroism and grand quests. He’d never known what it felt like that winter when a wyvern escaped from the menagerie and attacked one of the students, and the parents had written angry letters to the headmaster about Gran. That dark cloud that had settled over the cottage, all of them worrying where they would go if Inglenook turned them out. The headmaster had stood by Gran, but he hadn’t had to. Autumn’s place at Inglenook wasn’t guaranteed the way Cai’s was. Her home was a twiggy, fragile thing.
“Anyway,” Autumn said into the silence. “I don’t care about magic.”
She said it loudly, as if that would make it true. She wished it was true. She wished she didn’t dream of a cozy dormitory of her own at Inglenook, or a cloak woven with so many spells it glittered when the wind brushed it. But dreams were only that—dreams. And even if she was a hedgewitch, she still wouldn’t belong there.
“I won’t say anything,” Cai said. “But after we find Winter, if he’s here to be found, I’m going to help you learn about your magic. The way you’re helping me.”
Autumn was too relieved to argue. Truthfully, she felt a little shiver of excitement. The seedling of hope sprouted new leaves. What if she really was magic?
She looked at the old-fashioned tables and chairs. Had students once sat here, talking and laughing, students like her? The loneliness of the Silver Tower seeped into her like a damp chill, and Cai’s tale of hedgewitches made her feel strange.
Winter, she thought.
Cai paused by the fireplace. “I haven’t seen your boggart in a while.”
“Boggart?” Autumn called.
The boggart appeared an inch from Cai, who leaped backward in surprise.
“Don’t go in there,” the boggart said.
“Where?” Autumn said. “The fireplace?”
“I thought there was something strange about it,” Cai said.
“Boggart,” Autumn said slowly, “is there a door there?”
“Possibly.”
“Boggart.”
He crossed his arms. “That’s all I know. It’s a possible door. It smells like the sky in there, but if it’s a door, I can’t see where it opens. There’s too much magic in the way.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“Because you shouldn’t be here,” the boggart said. “Let’s look for Winter somewhere else.”
Autumn turned to Cai. “Well?”
He nodded. “There are loose threads here. The fireplace is a seam in some sort of enchantment, a big one. It’s old and frayed.”
“What is it?”
“It could be anything,” Cai said. “Maybe the fireplace was enchanted larger. If I pull at the threads, maybe it will only shrink to its original size. That’s the trouble with enchantments—you never know what you’ll find beneath them.”
Autumn took the boggart’s hand and drew him away from the fireplace. He didn’t stop glowering at Cai.
Cai tapped his staff against the fireplace. He didn’t murmur any enchantments, but his fingertips began to glow. He put his hands inside the fireplace and moved them as if he were stroking an enormous cat.
“There!” he said. “Found it. Give me your hand.”
“I won’t be able to feel anything,” Autumn said. And yet she wanted to try. She wanted to so much.
“Let’s see.”
Autumn stuck her hand inside. The fireplace was large enough for both her and Cai to fit inside. She felt nothing at first, and then—
Something brushed her skin. It was cool, like Cai’s starlight, and tickled horribly. Autumn choked on a giggle.
“Oh!” she mar
veled. “Is that it? The hole in the enchantment?”
“Yes.” Cai’s gaze was distant. “Stand back. I’m going to rip it.”
Autumn and the boggart backed away. Cai thrust his glowing staff into the fireplace, and there was a sharp flash of light.
“There,” Cai said.
Autumn opened her eyes. The fireplace was still there, but it had grown. The mouth of it nearly stretched up to the ceiling, and a chill breeze wafted out. It smelled like fog and mountaintops.
“Autumn,” the boggart warned. He sounded much older suddenly, and his voice had claws. The room grew so cold that the damp in the air froze into ice crystals, which sprinkled the floor.
“Stop it,” Autumn said. “I’m going. Are you coming or not?”
The boggart’s face darkened. He disappeared, spinning round and round the room. The windows shattered one after another, and the wind rushed in, tugging Autumn’s white hair free of the kerchief. Cai threw his arms over his head.
Fine, the boggart said. Now that he’d had his tantrum, he didn’t sound angry anymore, just resentful. But I’m going first.
He darted into the fireplace.
Cai stood frozen, staring after the boggart with his mouth hanging open. Autumn, who was used to the boggart’s temper, said, “Come on,” and pulled him in.
It was like walking through fog, one of those ponderous fogs that rolled in from the sea in September, thick enough to drink from a spoon, as Gran liked to say. But unlike fog, the doorway in the enchantment was soft and gummy and sent shivers over her skin.
Then they were through and facing a spiral staircase. She and Cai were covered in a fine glitter. The tapestries and furniture were gone—entire chunks of the walls were gone. Autumn was afraid to step onto the staircase in case it gave way.
“Interesting,” Cai murmured, brushing the wall. “They didn’t change the tower’s substance; they just folded it into the sky.”
The wind moaned, and Autumn shivered in her thin housekeeper’s uniform. “Plain words, please, not magician-speak.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I just mean that it’s all still here.”
“It isn’t,” Autumn said. “And you don’t need magic to see that.” She went to a gaping window. If she leaned out far enough, she could see some of the ruined tower above them, broken and haunted, before it disappeared into the clouds. The rest of the castle spread out below—they were no higher than the other towers, not yet. Dots of light glowed in one of the courtyards—magicians’ staffs. She looked for the beastkeepers’ cottage, but it was hidden in the folds of the mountain.
The School between Winter and Fairyland Page 13