Chantress

by Amy Butler Greenfield

  Lady Helaine shrugged. “An ordinary book can hardly be expected to last as long as a Chantress grimoire.”

  “There’s more to it than that, I think.”

  “Why should you?”

  “Because the song didn’t feel right.”

  Lady Helaine rolled her eyes. “No song ever feels right to you.”

  “This was different,” I tried to explain. “It didn’t feel the way a song of destruction should.”

  “How would you know? You haven’t the skill or training to tell.”

  It was true that I didn’t have the deep understanding of songs that a great Chantress would. But with every practice session, I was honing my ear as well as my skills, and there were constellations of notes that now held meaning for me.

  “There was so much life in the music,” I said. “Don’t you think that’s strange in a song of destruction? And there was something else odd about it.” I went silent for a moment, trying to put my finger on what it was that had bothered me. “Something that sounded almost . . . possessive.”

  I half expected my godmother to roll her eyes again. Instead, her face went very still, with an expression that was half-apprehensive and half-proud.

  “How very perceptive of you,” she finally said.

  “Perceptive?”

  “Sit,” she told me. “I have something to tell you.”

  Something I did not want to hear, I was suddenly certain. But I sat.

  “What do you know about the grimoire?” Lady Helaine asked.

  “Scargrave’s grimoire?”

  “Do not call it that,” Lady Helaine interrupted. “It was never Scargrave’s.”

  “But—”

  “He stole it, but that does not make it his. It is ours. It is the greatest-known compendium of Chantress Magic in existence—a treasure trove of Proven Magic. It was composed by one of our own kind, a Chantress who understood the songs of living creatures, and who used that knowledge to craft song-spells of great power. The song-spell for the Shadowgrims was but one of them. There are hundreds more, all set down in the grimoire—all tested and proven and safe for the singer. But the book has been lost to us for centuries.”

  “But it was only a little over seven years ago that Scargrave—”

  Lady Helaine shook her head impatiently. “It was not Scargrave who took it from us, not at first.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Some stories say it was the Chantress herself who sequestered it, for reasons of her own. Others say it was a council of Chantresses who spirited it away. Whichever it was, the stories agree that the grimoire was bound shut with a rare and powerful song-spell, one meant to last for at least twenty-one generations.” Lady Helaine shook her head in sorrow. “Of course, no Chantress in that Golden Age could conceive of the decline that was to come. By the time that twenty-first generation rolled around, the binding song-spells and much other lore had long since been forgotten. Even the grimoire itself was only a shadowy legend. By my calculations, I was born to the twenty-third generation, and no one took any interest in the old story except me.”

  I thought of the woman who had opened the grimoire for Scargrave. “And your cousin Agnes?”

  Lady Helaine paused. “Yes, you could say she took an interest too. But she never said a word about it to me, so I had to piece the history together for myself. I was twenty-five before I knew about the grimoire, but from that time on, I dedicated myself to searching for it.

  “I never succeeded in finding it, of course. But somehow Agnes did. And fool that she was, she opened the book to aid Scargrave—and gave our power away.” Lady Helaine crossed the room and put her hand on my shoulder. “You will right that wrong, goddaughter. The song I have taught you will not destroy the grimoire. Instead, it will do something far better: It will allow you to claim it.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “Claim it?”

  “Yes,” my godmother said, her rough voice deepening. “It is your heritage, your birthright.”

  I clutched at the chair arm as if I were drowning. And truly it felt as if the seas had closed over my head. “You lied.” I stood up. “You lied to me—to us—from start to finish.”

  “Of course. Those men would have stopped me otherwise.”

  “But you even lied to me!”

  “You might have blurted the truth out to that boy. You are too impulsive, goddaughter. And you trust too easily.”

  “Evidently,” I said. “Since I trusted you.”

  “Better me than anyone else,” Lady Helaine said. “Those people you call friends—they would have you risk death, and for what? To serve them and their interests? We can do better than that.”

  I searched her face. If she had lied to me before, perhaps she was still lying now. Or perhaps not lying exactly, but hoping and believing in something that wasn’t true. “How can you be sure that song is what you think it is? What if you’ve made a mistake? Oldville’s book came apart in my hands, remember?”

  “And wasn’t I glad of it!” Lady Helaine said. “I was furious with you for offering to sing for them. I didn’t know what the song would do, or whether hearing it might awaken doubts and suspicions in them. But I should have known that it would be beyond their understanding—and that it had such power that an ordinary book would be blasted to pieces by it. Have no doubts: When you sing that song, you will claim the grimoire. In that moment, its magic, past and present, will revert to you. Scargrave’s hold on the Shadowgrims will end; they will become yours instead.”

  The Shadowgrims, mine? Their jabbering cries once again inside my head? I put out my hands, as if pushing the grimoire itself away. “No!”

  “You do not want power?” Lady Helaine’s gravelly voice grew agitated. “Lucy, are you mad? Power protects us. Power keeps us alive. Without it we are at the mercy of our enemies. Surely that is not what you desire? The Chantress line is almost dead. We are hunted; we are prey; if you do not succeed, our kind will die out forever. Is that what you want?”

  As I stood there, speechless, she touched her bony hand to my cheek. “And you are my goddaughter, too, do not forget. I want you to have what your mother did not: a rich life, a powerful life, a life where no one dares harm you, or your daughters, or the many daughters who come after them. If you claim the grimoire, you will have all this. It will be the start of a new Golden Age for Chantresses. No one will dare stand against you.”

  Because I would have the Shadowgrims.

  “No,” I said again.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean, I don’t want these powers. I won’t claim the grimoire.” I pulled away from her. Had she thought she could box me in so easily? Well, I would show her I was no one’s pawn. Not hers, not anyone’s. “There must be some other way to defeat Scargrave.”

  “No,” Lady Helaine said harshly. “There is only one song. If you wish to defeat Scargrave, you must sing it—and claim the grimoire and its powers.”

  “But no magic is unbreakable, you said.” I recalled the lessons she had taught me. “An end is woven into everything.”

  “But sometimes it is beyond our powers to find it,” my godmother said. “And this is such a case. You must face facts, goddaughter: There is only one way forward, and that is to claim the grimoire.”

  “No,” I said stubbornly.

  Lady Helaine’s eyes darkened. “You are so like your mother.”

  “My mother?”

  “Yes. She balked at this too.”

  I stared at her relentless face. “You wanted my mother to claim the grimoire?”

  “No,” said Lady Helaine, lifting her chin. “It was I who knew the song; I who had the skill; I who wanted to take the book from Scargrave. But your mother stopped me—and then Scargrave came with his ravens, and we were lost.”

  Lady Helaine came toward me, her bone beads clicking as she walked. “I will not let that happen again. I will not be overruled. Do you understand me? You will sing that song, and you will claim the grimoire,
and you will make the name Chantress great again.”

  “No,” I whispered. I will be no one’s pawn. I backed away from her, my spine bumping against the wood panel of the door.

  Still she came toward me. “You will claim the grimoire and be glad.”

  “No.” I pressed the latch behind me.

  Her hands reached for me, and I bolted.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  PURSUIT

  I ran without heed, my only thought to put distance between my godmother and me. Behind me, I heard footsteps. Was she following me? I glanced back and saw the distant swirl of her gown. To shake her off, I went upward, ducking through dusty archways and climbing cobwebbed stairs. Higher and higher I rose in the house, until at last I reached the small storerooms in the attic.

  Stopping to catch my breath, I heard a commotion of men and horses in the courtyard below. As I went to see what was happening, my shoulder was seized from behind.

  “What in the devil’s name are you doing here?” Nat hissed. He did not wait for an answer but instead steered me toward the door. “Get back to the cellars as fast as you can.”

  I pulled away and confronted him. “Why should I?”

  “Because Scargrave is here.”

  I froze. “Here? In this house?”

  “A surprise visit,” Nat said grimly.

  “Does he suspect something?”

  “No one knows. He’s made visits without warning before, merely out of friendship. But this time he’s brought many more men than usual. They’re in the courtyard now, and Sir Barnaby is attempting to discover what it is they want. No—don’t look out the window at them! They might see you. Get yourself back downstairs, and stay out of danger.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oldville has already left, and Penebrygg and I will leave as soon as we safely can. It is you that we fear for.”

  “I’ll go, then,” I said, and then I stopped short.

  “What is it?” Nat asked.

  “Lady Helaine!” Angry as I was with her, I didn’t want her to fall into Scargrave’s hands.

  “What about her?”

  “I ran off, and she followed me. And she may still be wandering somewhere—”

  “You ran off? Why? No, never mind. There’s no time. Tell me: Where did you last see her?”

  “By the old river staircase.” I faltered as the implications hit me. “The one with the secret passage that connects to the banqueting house and the gardens. And I think she may have gone through the door . . .”

  Nat swore under his breath.

  “I’ll go and bring her back,” I said.

  “That’s the last thing we need,” Nat said. “Go back downstairs, and leave your godmother to me. It would be a disaster if Scargrave found either one of you.”

  “But if I sang the song of concealment—”

  “With servants running everywhere and Scargrave at the door? No,” said Nat. “That will only make matters more complicated. I will go search for your godmother. And if you’re quick, you can get downstairs without magic. That’s the quickest way to safety for all of us. But you’ll have to stop talking and go.”

  It pained me to admit it, but he had sense on his side.

  “All right, then,” I said. “I’m leaving. But my godmother—”

  “I’ll bring her to you.”

  † † †

  By the time I had descended the first staircase, it was clear that I’d already run out of time. The path that led to the secret staircases I needed was bustling with servants. As I watched from behind a tapestried alcove, housemaids and footmen rushed by, scurrying to and fro, making ready for the Lord Protector’s sudden visit. The tapestries fluttered in their wake, making me feel more exposed than ever.

  I wish I were invisible.

  Well, why not? I had invisibility in my power—or something very close to it. Nat had advised me against using it, of course. But then he was always wary of magic, and he had not appreciated quite how dangerous the house would be. If singing myself out of sight was a great risk, remaining in the open was an even greater one.

  I closed my eyes, calling to mind what I knew about this house from my explorations with Nat. The secret passage that opened into Lady Gadding’s sitting room—that would be the best place to work the song-spell. It was close by, and it had thick walls that would help block any faint strains of singing.

  Waiting for my moment, I darted into the next room, where the secret passage began. Once inside, I felt my way until I judged myself to be roughly in the middle of it. As quietly as I could—it was hardly more than a hum—I started to sing.

  The spell twined in soft loops around me, separating me from the rest of the world. I could feel myself dissolving into air.

  When the song ended, I slipped out again, smiling with relief. Though my lungs were already burning from the breathing required to maintain the song’s power, the song of concealment had never worked better. As I passed by the mirrors hanging on each side of the fireplace, I could see only the faintest shimmering in the air where my heart was. And though I listened out, I heard no sounds of alarm.

  I was almost safe home.

  Yet my disguise was not foolproof. If people bumped into me, they would know I was there. And ahead lay the busiest place in the house, the stairs that led to the kitchens, which buzzed like a hive. I would have to search out another, quieter way down—but to do that, I would first have to cross the minstrels’ gallery that overlooked the Great Hall. It was not ideal, for Sir Barnaby received guests in the hall, but I could see no other way forward.

  As I neared the gallery, deep voices resounded from below. Had Sir Barnaby’s guests come into the Great Hall already? Should I wait till they moved on to other rooms?

  No. The gallery itself was empty now; I must seize my chance.

  But as I edged onto it, a single voice separated from the rest and stopped me in my tracks. Shocking as a draught of powerful medicine, it was shatteringly familiar.

  With a whirling head, I glanced into the hall below and saw Scargrave standing on the black-and-white tiles. In his black cloak and riding boots, he looked like a king on a chessboard—a king who was winning the game.

  “You have no notion why I have come to you?” he said.

  “None at all, my dear Scargrave.” Sir Barnaby spoke with admirable coolness, his hand steady on his cane.

  Scargrave’s spurs grated on the floor. “Not one word of my news has reached you?”

  I clutched at the railing, certain of one thing only: I must get safe away.

  Before I could move, however, one of the men beneath my balcony—one of Scargrave’s escort—mumbled something about ravens’ eggs.

  “Hush, Giles!” his companion said.

  Was it the same Giles I had overheard in Scargrave’s library? The would-be Chantress-hunter? I leaned over the railing, hoping to hear more—and my foot slipped on something small and hard and round. Marbles? Nuts? Whatever they were, they made a terrible rattle as they rolled and dropped to the floor below.

  “What’s that?” Scargrave shot around, scanning the room. To my horror, his gaze ran along the gallery—and stopped at me. “Up there! Look! Something is shimmering.”

  I ducked down below the railing and made for the opposite gallery door. Below me, the Great Hall was in utter confusion.

  “A ghost,” one of Scargrave’s men moaned.

  “A devil,” said another.

  “A Chantress!” Scargrave bellowed. “After her!”

  As I ran through the doorway, an arrow thunked into the wood beside me.

  I pelted down the hall, making for the hanging staircase, only to be confronted by a detachment of Scargrave’s men rushing up toward me.

  “The first man to capture her wins ten thousand guineas!” their captain shouted behind them. “Be bold! And take her alive, if you can, so that we can give her to the ravens.”

  “I see something,” a man cried. “There, at the top of the stai
rs!”

  Another arrow whistled in the air.

  I ran so fast that my ruby slapped hard against my chest. Because I knew the house better than they did, I stayed one step ahead, but my overtaxed lungs were no longer breathing properly, and the concealment spell was ebbing. My left hand had become plainly visible, and my shadow could be seen on the floor. I had no chance of reaching the cellars now. Instead, I raced for the nearest shelter on offer: the secret passageway by the sitting room.

  I had only reached the screen in front of it when my pursuers entered the room.

  “Listen,” one of them called out. “Is that singing?”

  “She’s behind us,” another advised. “Go back.”

  “No, she’s here. I’m sure she’s here.”

  Although I was hidden by the screen, they were so close to me that I dared not push on the panel of the passageway. Indeed, I dared not move in any way.

  And then, as I waited there, rabbit-still, I heard a far-off cry.

  “What’s that?” said one of the men.

  A door opened, and another man reported, “The hunt’s been called off. They’ve found her!”

  Oh no, they haven’t, I thought.

  But the man was very sure of himself. “They need us below. Quick!”

  They left the room at a fast pace.

  Afraid that it was a trap, and that they might be lying in wait for me, I stayed silent behind the screen. But as I waited, I felt the house become still around me. Finally, I swung my stiff, ghostly limbs into action and peered out. No one was there.

  “Hurrah!” The cry came through a cracked-open window.

  Masking myself in the draperies to keep out of view, I peeped at the scene below. The courtyard was full of soldiers, with more arriving by the second. At Scargrave’s orders, they were herding three prisoners onto a cart.

  Gagged and bound as these captives were, I did not recognize them instantly. But when I did, my stomach twisted. My godmother, Penebrygg, and Nat—Scargrave had them all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR