Chantress

by Amy Butler Greenfield

  THE TOWER

  Under my shocked gaze, the pandemonium of soldiers resolved into a marching formation. A ring of men surrounded the cart.

  “To the Tower!” they bellowed. “To the Shadowgrims!”

  As the soldiers stepped smartly, the cart jerked forward, knocking Lady Helaine, Penebrygg, and Nat to its floor.

  I reached for my ruby and bit back a cry. How could I save them?

  Follow them to the Tower, a resolute voice inside me said. And then use your magic to rescue them.

  But what if that meant claiming the grimoire?

  Don’t think about that now.

  Just go.

  The cart rolled out the gate, guarded by soldiers.

  Yes, I would go.

  First, however, I must sing. The invisibility song-spell had ebbed so much that I could see not only my hands and feet but the outline of my skirts and bodice. Altering my appearance would cost me time, but there was no other choice.

  Retreating to the secret passage, I sang myself out of sight again. This time I drew on every bit of intensity and self-control I could muster, determined to weave the strongest possible magic. But as the last note left me, and I went toward the door again, it clicked open. Someone had come for me. One of Scargrave’s soldiers? One of his spies?

  I turned to run for the opposite door. Behind me, a cane tapped.

  “Miss Marlowe!” The softest of whispers, but I knew the voice. No soldier, this, but a friend.

  I spun around. “Sir Barnaby?”

  “The very same,” he said in the darkness. “I was in Lady Gadding’s room and heard you singing—faintly, my dear, only faintly—and I guessed where you must be.”

  “How did Scargrave find them?” I murmured.

  “I gather they were in the banqueting house. The servants say your godmother ran out the door into the garden, which I find hardly credible—”

  I did not. I could only imagine how much my flight had angered and upset her. If Nat and Penebrygg had approached her the wrong way, she might have done almost anything.

  “—but I wasn’t there to see it myself, or I’d have been taken prisoner too,” Sir Barnaby continued. “Scargrave has posted his soldiers about the house, but so far I have managed to elude them. And now that I have found you, I shall keep you safe, never fear. Come with me—”

  “I’m going to the Tower,” I said.

  “The Tower?” I could hear his dismay. “My dear Miss Marlowe, you cannot possibly. Not now, not when Scargrave is on the alert as never before. You could not hope to reach the grimoire safely.”

  “But I have to save our friends.”

  “No, Miss Marlowe. You do not.” He was emphatic. “Believe me when I say this: The only thing you must do is save yourself.”

  I was silent. Was he really telling me to abandon these people who meant so much to me?

  “They would agree with me,” he said. “All three of them. They have always known Scargrave would kill them if he could. What would destroy them—destroy all of us—would be if you, too, were killed. It would be the end of all our hopes, of everything we’ve worked for.”

  “I can’t simply walk away—”

  “That is precisely what you must do. Only I am afraid it won’t be so easy as that. I have sent messengers to our IC members. Most will escape the city immediately, taking your guardian with them, I should add—”

  Thank goodness for that. It would be easier to act, knowing that Norrie was being looked after.

  “—but a few of us will remain here to defend you. There are a few London boltholes, known only to myself, where we have a decent chance of hiding you. What would be better still would be if we could get you out of the city entirely. Now that you have this trick of turning invisible, I think it may be possible. For now, however, I am going to conduct you through one of our tunnels to . . .”

  I missed the rest of what he was saying. I was moving out of earshot, as swiftly and silently as I could.

  “Miss Marlowe?” A furious whisper. “Are you there?”

  I had reached the door. The peephole showed no one outside.

  “Miss Marlowe!” Sir Barnaby was coming after me, but his stick and the darkness slowed him down.

  Before he could reach me, I slipped out of the secret passage, my mind concentrated on the task ahead: invading the Tower.

  † † †

  By the time I reached the courtyard, Scargrave and his prisoners were gone.

  Despite my best efforts, I could not quite catch up with them. The soldiers marched down the main streets, but I had to pick my way carefully, taking the quieter alleys where I was less likely to bump into anyone.

  As I reached the Tower drawbridge, I saw the cart roll under the gatehouse arch, soldiers stationed on every side. I sprinted across the drawbridge but not fast enough. The Tower gates clanged shut before me.

  Afraid my slight shimmer would give me away, I pressed against the gatehouse wall. What was I to do now?

  Luck was with me. Already another company of men, this time mounted on horseback, was approaching the Tower. I slipped in behind them as they passed through the gate, hoping that an almost-invisible Chantress wouldn’t spook the horses. A few moments later, the gate slammed shut behind me, almost catching my skirts.

  But I was in.

  I followed the company through yet another guarded gate, but they outstripped me, and so I took shelter against a wall and surveyed the Tower Green. The Tower’s special guardians, the Warders, were everywhere, as were Scargrave’s soldiers, many of them the Ravens’ Own.

  Hastily I called to mind the Tower maps that Nat had made for me. Ahead of me was the centerpiece of the entire place, the massive White Tower for which the palace itself was named. And up its staircase, three prisoners were being carried: Nat, Penebrygg, and my godmother.

  As the door shut behind them, I stared up at the Tower. Stark and uncompromising, it had been built over five hundred years ago, and reinforced by a score of kings and queens since. It had never succumbed to attack, Nat had told me. And no wonder, for its implacable stone walls soared nearly one hundred feet high—a fact that had been overwhelming enough when I first heard it from Nat, but that seemed immeasurably more so as I stood at their foot, wondering how to get in.

  For it was into the White Tower I must go. Deep in its dungeons lay the Feeding Room, where my friends would be sent to await the Shadowgrims. And not far away lay Scargrave’s Chamber, where the grimoire itself was bound to the very foundation on which the Tower was built.

  Not that I wanted to claim the grimoire. Anything but that. But I would have to enter the White Tower if I were to learn what other possibilities of rescue existed.

  A bell chimed, marking the time. Sunset was barely three hours away. Above me, the Tower flags—black ravens against red—snapped in the wind, as if the Shadowgrims themselves were beating their wings in triumph.

  I could not let that happen.

  I pushed away from the wall and headed toward the White Tower as fast as I dared.

  † † †

  To my surprise, getting into the Tower proved easy enough. I merely had to follow on the heels of a company of men with the King himself at their center. The guards were so busy bowing and saluting his jeweled magnificence that they did not notice the slight shimmer well behind him.

  Once I was inside the Tower, however, my troubles began in earnest. Warders were everywhere, rushing about three and four abreast, their halberds and swords at the ready, and I had to flatten myself to breaking point to slip by them.

  Three false starts and five near-collisions later, I finally reached the staircase I was headed for, the only one in the Tower that led down to the dungeons. A Warder stood by it but not—I saw thankfully—in front of it.

  As I gauged how best to sidestep him, a weedy page scampered down the stairs and out past me.

  “Make way, make wa-a-y!”

  Behind him, a company of men poured out of the staircase. Ten m
en, a dozen? I did not wait to count them but retreated into a gap in the corner, underneath a rack of helmets.

  “Make way for the King and the Lord Protector!”

  Scargrave was here in the White Tower?

  My heart clattered as he entered the room, his voice heavy with irritation and anxiety. “Your Majesty, you should not be here. Please leave at once.”

  And Henry, apprehensive but determined: “A King must be allowed to attend his own Councils, my lord.”

  “Not so.” Scargrave did not hesitate to contradict him. “Not if his very life is in danger. And in danger you most certainly are, my Sovereign. Until it has been reported to me that the prisoners are locked away in the Feeding Room, you will best serve your kingdom by remaining safe in your own rooms, with your guards . . .”

  His attention was on Henry; everyone else’s attention was on him. I crept past them and took to the stairs.

  I have to save them.

  Moving swiftly and softly, I raced down the winding steps, breathing hard. When the steps opened out onto a dim passageway, I stopped short. I had gotten away. But where was I now?

  Heavy iron gates rose before me, blocking the way forward to the Feeding Room and Scargrave’s Chamber. I could sing them open but only at the cost of revealing that I was there. Better to wait for someone else to pass through them, especially since I could hear footsteps coming.

  I stepped back against the wall, then froze. I could see the haziest suggestion of fingertips on my left hand.

  Perhaps I should retreat. But no, more people were coming down the winding staircase; I could not go back now.

  I shoved my hand into my right sleeve and concentrated on sustaining the magic I had left. A few not-quite-translucent fingertips were not a disaster, not if I could keep the rest of the magic together until I could reach my friends and get them out. Please come quickly, I begged the footsteps.

  And they did. A dozen Warders running down the hall, keys at the ready. When they unlocked the gate, I ducked through before anyone else did. I took off down the hall . . .

  . . . and careened straight into a room that heaved with Warders. Reeling back, I watched them brandish their pikes and halberds in the half light of torches. At the center of the writhing, shouting melee, a high, scratchy scream was cut short.

  My throat went cold. The scream had sounded uncannily like Lady Helaine.

  Backing into the shadows, I searched for her figure, but I could not see it in the tumult. What I saw instead was a colossal black door yawning wide on the far side of the room, with a raven carved into the stone above it. Beyond it lay another set of doors, squat and square, that opened like a grave into darkness. I recognized it from Nat’s sketches: It was the entrance to the Feeding Room.

  For a too-long moment, I stood and stared at it, rooted to the spot, forgetting to breathe. And then, summoning all my power, I came back to myself. But I could feel that my magic was fading.

  Shouts and yells broke out. A Warder’s pike shot out at me.

  “A head! D’you see it? A head and hands, by God!”

  “It’s another Chantress!”

  “Capture her!”

  They were after me.

  Seeing no other chance of escape, I dove into the melee of Warders, going down on my hands and knees. I emerged by the door and found Nat in front of me, still bound and gagged and limp on the stone floor. Six men seized him and shoved him through the opening.

  Then they saw me.

  “What the—?”

  “Your life if she escapes!” came the cry from behind.

  Brutal hands snagged and squeezed me, and I felt my magic break. I was completely visible now. There was no time to sing another song; the gag went on before I could even draw breath. Rope sliced into my arms, binding them together, and the Warders slit my sleeve to see the Chantress mark.

  A cheer went up as they held a torch to it. “That’ll mean gold for us, my lads!”

  After trussing my legs, they tossed me into the dark hole like so much kindling. I hit the floor, and everything went black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  TRAPPED

  I woke to darkness and the sound of something rustling in the rancid straw. My godmother, Penebrygg, Nat? Or maybe something else . . .

  Rats?

  My stomach tightened. I would not let them find me on the floor, utterly at their mercy. Wrenching my tied-up arms and legs as best I could, I rolled until I was half sitting, half leaning against a wall. But the ropes around me were still tight as wire.

  Well, if the ropes wouldn’t yield, what about the gag? I rubbed it against the rough rock wall, trying to work it loose. But I only scraped my cheek raw.

  The rustling grew louder. Something was coming toward me, so close I could hear its breathing soft in the air next to me. I jerked my bound legs, hoping to frighten it away.

  “It’s me,” Nat whispered.

  His voice was astonishment enough, but then his hand brushed against my cloak, searching for the gag. I had a moment to think, He’s free, and then I flinched as the gag rope bit deeper into my cheek.

  “Easy now,” he said, and the gag slipped away. His fingers went to the knots around my wrists, though he avoided touching my skin. Was that because he knew it was chafed and sore—or because he was still determined not to come too close, even in these desperate circumstances?

  “How did you get free?” I whispered.

  “Tricks of the trade,” he said softly. “Bracing my muscles, knowing the knots they use. And a bit of luck. They weren’t quite as careful with me as they should have been. Maybe the bandage threw them off.”

  “Your hand,” I said, remembering. “They can’t have done it any good.”

  “It still works. That’s all that matters. And if it made them underestimate me, then I should count myself lucky it happened.” He gave my wrists a last tug. “There. That should do it.”

  As the rope slid off, he went to the bands around my legs.

  I stretched my numb arms and shook out my lifeless fingers. “How are the others?”

  “I’ve already undone Penebrygg’s knots,” Nat said. “But he’s still out cold. There’s a lump big as an egg on his head, and I don’t like the way he’s breathing.”

  The rope fell away from my legs, and I flexed my prickling feet. “And my godmother?”

  Nat said nothing.

  “You haven’t freed her yet?” I asked.

  When he still didn’t answer, I frowned. There was no love lost between them, I knew, but—

  “She’s gone,” Nat said.

  “Gone?” It took a moment for his meaning to hit me. “You mean . . . dead?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  “No.” My voice cracked.

  “Don’t let them hear you,” he warned in a voice barely louder than breathing.

  Heartsick, I murmured, “What happened?”

  “She panicked when we came up to the Feeding Room and buckled against the Warders. In the struggle, her gag got loose, and she shrieked.”

  I remembered the sound of that scream. I buried my head in my arms.

  “They thought she was singing,” said Nat. “They panicked and bashed her over the head. You could hear the bone crack. I think she was gone even before they threw her in here.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Lucy, don’t—”

  But I was scrabbling around in the dark already. I found the edge of her gown, and then her sleeve. “Lady Helaine?”

  No response. But it was only when I touched her cold, lifeless hand that I accepted Nat was right: She was gone. All the fire in her—all her rage and ambition and passion—had winked out.

  It seemed an age before Nat spoke. “Lucy? We need a plan.”

  “A plan?”

  “To get you to the grimoire.”

  Overwhelmed by loss, I almost spilled out the truth then and there: that I could only claim the grimoire, not destroy it. But something kept the words b
ack. Perhaps it was the cold weight of Lady Helaine’s hand, or perhaps just the fear of Nat’s reaction. For Nat would be angry; of that I was certain. He would think I’d deceived him. And he would be even angrier if he knew that I had reached the point where I was willing to make the grimoire mine.

  It was not desire that prompted me but desperation. Every other plan had failed. Scargrave was about to kill us all—and who knew how many others besides. Lady Helaine had been right: There was only one way forward, and I had to take it.

  Releasing her hand, I turned to Nat. “I’ll conceal myself again. I can sing softly, and these walls are thick—”

  “No,” he said. “They’ll hear you. There are airholes—”

  “If they hear me, so much the better; we won’t have to open the doors ourselves. When they come to see what’s wrong, I’ll slip out and go to the grimoire.”

  “Past two prison doors and two more iron gates, with the whole place packed with Warders?” Nat’s voice was rich with skepticism. “You’d never make it. They’re on the lookout for an invisible Chantress now. They’d take you down the moment they saw a single glimmer.”

  “I have to try,” I insisted.

  “It’s not worth the risk. Not when there’s another way.”

  “There’s another way?”

  “Yes,” Nat said. “But you’re not going to like it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  MADNESS

  He was right. I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  “Go through the Raven Pit? Are you mad?”

  “It’s the only other way out,” Nat said. “Remember the maps?”

  In the darkness, I recalled the line of three rooms he’d sketched out for me: the Feeding Room, the Pit, and Scargrave’s Chamber, where the grimoire was anchored in the wall.

  “There’s a door in here that opens into the Pit,” Nat said, “and on the other side of the Pit, there’s another door that leads to Scargrave’s Chamber. And the beauty of going this way is that there are no guards.”

  “Because they have the Shadowgrims instead,” I reminded him. “And that’s much, much worse.”

  “They won’t wake until sunset, and that must be a good hour away. Maybe two.”