Chantress

by Amy Butler Greenfield

  “But this man—”

  “This man was arrested and questioned for good reason. And that would be true even if the complaint about bread were the sole charge we had against him. But perhaps it will interest you to know that when his house was searched, he was found to be in possession of incendiary pamphlets by Locke and Grotius on the limits of royal power and the right of subjects to rebel against their King. When threatened with the Shadowgrims, he confessed all, and he has been sentenced to ten years’ hard labor on the Isle of Man. You are well rid of him.”

  “But—”

  “You would prefer that we had allowed him to remain free?” Lord Scargrave turned scathing. “Free to read his pamphlets and his books about the natural rights of men, and then to meet with others of like mind, and plot against the lawful rulers of this country? And then to murder you, as the King before you was murdered?”

  Henry stared straight ahead. Only I knew how deeply the words bit into him, and how much—at least at this moment—he loathed the Lord Protector.

  But it seemed Scargrave sensed something of what was in his mind, for he reined himself in. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” He inclined his head, as if to show deference to Henry. “I spoke too bluntly, and for that I ask your pardon. It was never my intent that you be forced to contemplate such matters. Indeed, I have pledged my strength, my wealth, and my honor in the hope of preserving you from such an end.”

  I felt Henry’s loathing ebb, to be replaced by self-doubt.

  “Perhaps my methods sometimes strike you as harsh,” Scargrave continued, “but how else can I defend you? And not only you but the very integrity of the kingdom itself? Someday, I hope we can contemplate new ways of governing men, but for now we must take no risks. For you are the last of a long and noble line, Your Majesty, and if we lose you, there is nothing standing between us and chaos.”

  Henry was now hanging on every word. Caught inside him, I found myself moved by the earnest voice despite myself. I hated Scargrave and everything he stood for, but it was impossible to deny that in his own way he loved his King and his country. It was what he had done in the name of that love that I despised.

  “Make no mistake,” Scargrave said. “I take no pride in imprisoning my fellow men. I would rather it did not need to be done. But without a king, without an heir, we would succumb either to civil war or foreign invasion. Next to the carnage these would cause, even a thousand arrests are as nothing.”

  Henry raised his head and met Scargrave’s burning eyes.

  “I do this to keep you safe,” Scargrave said quietly.

  “We are fortunate to be under your protection,” Henry whispered. The last spark of his rebellion went out.

  As he continued to stare into Scargrave’s eyes, a great feeling of dread overcame me—a thickening of the air, and a darkening and fluttering on every side, as of many wings . . . .

  Suddenly I knew that I must get out.

  With a wrench, I damped down the music inside me and pulled myself back from everything in front of me. Back from the King’s mind, back from the gilded chamber, back from those burning, restless eyes—

  I blinked, and the ring gleamed gold in my hand.

  “Miss Marlowe?” Sir Barnaby’s face hovered close. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes.” Still dazed by the journey, I pulled the ruby back over my head. “Yes, I am. But why did I reach the King and not Scargrave?”

  “The King?” Sir Barnaby said in dismay. “Miss Marlowe, you must tell us everything.”

  “I didn’t speak as I went along?” I had meant to, but perhaps I had gone in too deep for that.

  “You said a few words at the beginning only, and we couldn’t quite catch them,” Sir Barnaby said. “But no one dared disturb you; you were clearly elsewhere.”

  I told them everything I could recall about my time inside the King’s mind.

  When I was done, Oldville held out his hand. “May I see the ring?”

  Once I had handed it over to him, he played with the clasp. “Nat, take a look at this. There’s something odd about the mechanism.”

  As Nat was drawn into the proceedings, Penebrygg whispered in my ear. “Oh, my dear! What a coup!”

  “But it was the wrong person,” I whispered back.

  “No matter.”

  Before Penebrygg could say more, Nat held up the ring. “Here’s your answer.” The portrait swung loose, revealing a secret inner frame with a lock of red-gold hair.

  Christopher Linnet whistled. “King Henry’s hair.”

  Sir Barnaby looked at the ring in genteel consternation. “I had no idea it was there.”

  “Well,” said Oldville grimly. “Now we know what went wrong. Few totems are more powerful than hair.”

  “Ah! But let us look on the bright side,” Samuel Deeps urged. “The Chantress may have failed to reach Scargrave, but she most certainly excelled in reading the King’s mind. I have never heard anything like it.” He bowed before me, silk-clad leg neatly extended. “Chantress, I offer you my keen admiration and my deepest gratitude. You have aided our cause immeasurably.”

  As a rumble of “Hear, hear” crossed the room, Penebrygg beamed and patted my hand. “Well done, my dear, well done,” he murmured.

  “You mean, it was important—what I learned from the King?” I asked.

  “Yes, it was,” Sir Barnaby said. “We have long suspected that the King’s heart is with us, and that his true nature abhors the Shadowgrims. But only now do we know it for certain. And that is a great relief. It suggests that if we can but find a way to rid ourselves of Scargrave and his ravens, the kingdom will be in good hands.”

  Oldville nodded curtly at me. “And that is not all: We now know that you can read minds at a distance. And that means we stand a much better chance of defeating Scargrave.” He appealed to his fellow philosophers. “We must procure some artifact of Scargrave’s as quickly as possible.”

  “But how?” Deeps puzzled.

  “I am to dine with him later this week,” Sir Barnaby said thoughtfully. “But I can hardly take a lock of his hair, can I? At least not without arousing his suspicions.”

  “Not a lock, no,” Oldville agreed. “But perhaps a single strand? One lying loose on his cloak or his hat?”

  “I can try,” Sir Barnaby said doubtfully.

  “Do not take great risks,” Christopher Linnet urged. “If you are exposed, we are lost.”

  From the anxious murmur behind him, I gathered that many members agreed.

  Ignoring them, Oldville regarded me with a calculating eye. “Tell me, Miss Marlowe: Would you be prepared to make the experiment at our next meeting—or sooner, if need be?”

  There was something about his gaze that made me feel like running away. But I did not want him to know that. “Of course, sir.”

  A clock chimed.

  “Good gad!” Sir Barnaby exclaimed. “Is it that late already? We must begin to disperse this instant, else some of you will be walking home in the dark.” He waved a hand in the air. “You know what to do.”

  It seemed they did, for they were already gathering up their belongings and organizing into groups.

  “We stage the departures so that our exodus will not be too noticeable,” Penebrygg told me. “But do not fear. We ourselves will be among the first to go.”

  As I adjusted my kerchief to hide my necklace, I saw Nat coming toward us, his face somber as a funeral. When his eyes met mine, he stopped short, then stepped back.

  Others in the room might have changed their minds about me. But evidently he had not.

  “Go in safety, and be of good cheer,” Sir Barnaby called out as we readied ourselves. “There is much that must still be done, and many dangers that must be faced. But we have seen great wonders tonight—and with Miss Marlowe on our side, no doubt we shall soon see even more.”

  Penebrygg beamed at me, his smile full of pride. But Nat looked more troubled than ever.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


  A STEP TOO FAR

  On our journey back, we joined the anxious throng trying to get to their homes before sunset. Though no one in particular stopped to stare at us, I felt wary as we approached the alley where I had seen the woman with the gleaming eyes. No one was there this time, but as we passed, I had the dreadful sense that someone was watching me.

  The feeling faded quickly, however, and we reached Penebrygg’s house in safety. As Nat shot the bolts home, I sighed and tugged off my cloak. Now that the strain of the afternoon was over, I felt shivery and spent—and strangely let down, too.

  Penebrygg’s response, as usual, was to suggest food. “A meal, that’s what we need. Nat, come to the kitchen and help me prepare it.” He nodded at me. “You go up and rest, my dear. We’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  Grateful for the offer, I leaned forward to hang my cloak up and almost crossed paths with Nat. He pulled back so abruptly that my face flamed.

  You would think I was a leper, I thought, but I was too tired to argue about it. Instead, I climbed the stairs away from him. Each step seemed an effort, but I couldn’t stop at the bedchamber, not when I knew that the bed I’d be resting on was Nat’s. Pushing on, I climbed still higher, to the attic.

  The long, high room was still bright, even at this late hour—but through the west window, I saw the sun sinking toward the rooftops, its molten glow setting the city alight.

  How long till dusk? A half hour? Perhaps less? On the island I would have known for certain, but not here. Unnerved by the prospect of imminent nightfall, I almost retreated downstairs, back to lights and company and the courage to be found in numbers. But I didn’t want to look like a coward in front of Nat.

  Instead, I forced myself to remain where I was. If a Shadowgrim were to perch on the roof again, I told myself, I would just ride the fear out. The ravens didn’t know I was here; they couldn’t touch me. Anyway, they weren’t even awake yet. For now I was perfectly secure.

  To be on the safe side, however, I allowed myself to shutter the attic windows and to shut the chimney damper. The shutters were simple enough to work, I found, and the draperies that covered them slid easily on their rods. I stopped only to light a candle on the last remnants of the smoldering fire, so that I would not be left in the dark.

  Once I had shut out the coming night, I felt safer. Yet as I set my candlestick down, I felt the pangs of homesickness. Was it only yesterday that Norrie and I had been together on the island? Truly, it felt more like a year.

  Oh, Norrie, where are you?

  Though Sir Barnaby had assured me that the Invisible College would do its best to find her, I knew their inquiries might well come to nothing. And there seemed to be no way that I myself could help find her . . . .

  Or was there? With rising excitement, I thought of the moonbriar song. If it had allowed me to reach the King, perhaps I could use it to reach Norrie, too. Except that I had nothing that belonged to Norrie here: no lock of hair, no possessions of any sort.

  Could I reach her without that, given how close we were?

  Unlikely, perhaps, but I had to try.

  Slowly, deliberately, I took off the ruby and set it on the table beside me. The room glimmered with beguiling notes: When I listened carefully, I could even hear the moonbriar seeds that Penebrygg had locked away in three nested coffers. By now, I knew their song very well, but to be absolutely sure I sang it correctly, I held the coffer to my ear. Their song was very soft indeed, but it was powerful all the same. I sang it, then tried to see my way to Norrie.

  It was no use. Norrie was unreachable.

  Trying not to think what “unreachable” might mean, I put the ruby back on again and went in search of more light.

  Cradling my flickering candle, I looked around for a proper lantern. Spying one by Nat’s desk, I held my candle to it and waited for its wick to catch fire. When it did, the warm light illumined the moss-green cover of the book on Nat’s desk.

  Scargrave’s book.

  I stared at it. Yes, it was Scargrave’s, beyond a doubt. It had the same device on its spine that I had seen on the ring: a raven strutting, talons out.

  Of course, an image alone was not enough to connect me to Scargrave. That much I knew already, from the ring. But I remembered what had been said at the meeting, and I wondered if perhaps there was something inside—some writing, or perhaps even that strand of hair that Oldville was hoping for—that would be of more service.

  I looked again at the book—and shivered.

  Don’t be silly, I told myself. A book can’t hurt you. And neither can a piece of hair. They’re tools, nothing more. You needn’t use them until you’re ready.

  Gingerly, I took up the book.

  There. That wasn’t so terrible, was it?

  As my confidence grew, I felt curiosity stirring inside me, and with it my sense of adventure. Perhaps I ought to wait for Nat and Penebrygg, but what I really wanted to do was to experiment with the book on my own, without Nat glowering at me. I was learning that there was something to be said for facing your fears directly—and discovering that you were strong enough to handle them. So why not face a few more? Why not go in search of Scargrave myself?

  Before my courage could desert me, I stripped off the ruby and opened the volume. There on the frontispiece was the proof of ownership, a signature written in a strong, slashing hand: Lucian Richard Arthur Ravendon. I placed my fingers squarely on it.

  Without warning, darkness swept over me, thick and suffocating as a shroud. I felt myself growing colder and colder and colder. And then the darkness lifted . . .

  A book. I was looking at a book.

  Not the one I had just been holding, but another, much older one, its ivory cover mottled with spots and stains and veining, like a human hand. A multitude of silvery chains bound it to the stone wall.

  The grimoire, I realized. I was looking at the grimoire through Scargrave’s eyes. A sense of exultation filled me, bolstered by the mood of anticipation in Scargrave himself.

  Anticipation of what? I tried to burrow deeper and find out, but the details eluded me. It was as if I were standing outside a guarded room, lacking the passwords to let myself in. All I had were the images I saw through his eyes—the book, the chains, the stone wall—and a few emotions: the anticipation I had felt earlier, and now a creeping sense of being watched . . .

  “Who’s there?”

  It was Scargrave himself who uttered the words. But they felt almost as if they had come from my own lungs.

  I began to feel very afraid. Before this, a core part of me had always stayed separate during mind-reading. However strongly I felt the other person’s feelings, I had been aware that they were not quite my feelings. But this was different. Still locked out of parts of Scargrave’s mind, I nevertheless felt myself falling deeper and deeper into the rest of him.

  “Who’s there?” he called again, and this time it was a whisper.

  The fear of being watched, the fear of being found out: I felt them as if they were my own. And then the sliver of me that was still separate realized what was happening: Scargrave wasn’t sensing the presence of an ordinary intruder. Whether he knew it or not, he was sensing me.

  I silenced my fear and let myself thin out as if I had no existence, no substance. In response, I felt his throat ease, his pulse calm—felt this as if it were my own body.

  But in hiding from him, I had lost something essential: The boundaries between us had all but disappeared.

  A hand hovered over the silver-threaded book. His hand? My hand? Was there any difference now?

  There must be, some submerged part of me tried to say. There must be. But the rest of me was lost in sensation: the flutter of anticipation rising again; the hush of the tomblike room; a chill like ice as the hand neared the book . . .

  Hand and book met. A searing flash, like the heat of a thousand suns, and silence split into sound: croaking and cawing and a cacophony of screams.

  The ravens, reporting to
their master.

  No! I did not want to know, did not want to hear . . .

  The shock had brought me back to myself, but I had gone too far, and I could not pull myself free. The jabbering Shadowgrims circled, my body burned, and the fiery darkness claimed me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DARKNESS

  It was like death, that darkness—a velvet shroud wrapped hot and thick around me, holding me silent, suspending me beyond time and reason. In the depths of that vast, sweltering silence, I felt the Shadowgrims hovering at the edges of my mind.

  Then, out of the darkness, a single intelligible phrase:

  “Three days it’s been, and she still hasn’t responded.”

  A determined speaker, young and strong. After endless moments, the name came to me: Nat.

  Had the ravens caught him, too?

  I strained to open my eyes.

  “Did you see that?” It was Nat again, a note of excitement in his voice. “She blinked. I’m sure of it.”

  “So she did.” It was Penebrygg.

  “That must be a good sign.”

  “Let’s hope so, Nat. But I confess I’ve never seen a fever quite like this.” Penebrygg came closer. “None of us has.”

  My eyelids were heavy as headstones, but at last I raised them. Yet when I tried to focus, it was like looking through a crooked piece of glass half melted by flames. In it, I saw sunlight picking out the crooked timbers of Nat’s bedchamber, and Nat and Penebrygg curving over me.

  “Look! She’s coming round.”

  “God be praised,” Penebrygg said heavily. “My dear, can you speak?”

  I tried to make a sound, any sound, but I could do nothing but shiver and burn.

  “I’ll fetch another blanket,” Nat said.

  By the time he was back, I was able, with great effort, to murmur my thanks.

  “She spoke.” I had never heard him sound so pleased.