by Kevin Sands
Your first payment is the life of Marin Chastellain. No, he did not die from his illness. I poisoned him—and in doing so, I left you a clue. Before you go searching for it, I want you to know that I did not kill him because he was any threat to me. I did it because I knew it would hurt Blackthorn, and, in turn, hurt you. It is, after all, much more sporting to face an opponent who understands the stakes of the game.
I am going to do to you what I should have done to Blackthorn years ago: I am going to make you suffer. I will do this by taking away the things you love, one by one, until there is only you and me. And then, once I have stripped your life bare, you will understand.
Find the clue I’ve left for you. Ponder it. Then reflect on what it might mean. There’s no need to rush; I have several plans in motion that must be completed before our game can truly begin. So, until then, be well, Christopher. Savor your life, while you still have some of it left. For when I am ready, I will come for you.
The Raven
And I could hear the bird from my dreams.
YOU
BELONG
TO
ME
“Are you all right?”
I looked over at Tom. Moppet, wrapped in a blanket and dripping wet, sat in his lap as he brushed her hair with a silver comb borrowed from Sally. Both were watching me.
I had to clasp my hands together to keep them steady. A coppery taste stained my mouth.
“What do we know about this man?” I said. “The Raven?”
“Almost nothing. We met him in Paris, but he was using a false name. He’s fairly old, probably somewhere in his fifties. Other than that . . .”
Tom told me about the murder of Marin Chastellain, an old friend of my master’s, and how the death had left all of us—including Marin’s nephew, Simon—devastated. “Does Simon know anything about the Raven?” I asked.
Tom shook his head. “He doesn’t even know the Raven exists. You didn’t tell him what that letter said.”
“Why not?”
“Simon’s kind of hotheaded. You were afraid he’d go hunting after the man and get himself killed. Which is probably true.” Tom paused. “But I think you mostly didn’t tell him because you were ashamed. You blamed yourself for Marin’s death.”
It was hard to read that letter and not think the same. The Raven had murdered Marin to hurt me. Which meant the more people I called my friends . . . the more people the Raven would take. And I would be to blame. Like I had been in my dream.
I betrayed no one! I’d cried.
BUT YOU DID, the bird had said.
“Why do you keep asking about the Raven?” Tom said.
“Because I think he did this to me,” I said. “I think the Raven stole my memories.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “How?”
That was the question. Did he send a demon to steal them, like Robert thought? Or was it something else?
I ran my fingers over my master’s books. Poisons, I thought.
Had I been poisoned?
And if so, by which one? I knew of poisons that could kill, or ones that could weaken, or drive the victim mad—
I stopped.
Is that what had happened to me? Was I going mad?
The Voice. Was I really hearing it? Or was I just imagining things?
You’re not going mad, it said.
A voice in my head, telling me I hadn’t gone crazy.
Talk to Tom, it insisted. You can trust him.
“Christopher?”
Look at him, the Voice said.
I did. He seemed scared.
Look closer.
I did that, too. And I saw: He was scared. But as he held Moppet in his arms, I saw deeper, I saw the truth. He was scared, but not of me. He was scared for me. What would it take, I wondered, to scour the coast of England—in a snowstorm—searching for someone who almost certainly had to be dead?
I took a deep breath. “Robert, at the farm,” I began, and those first words broke the dam that held them all back. “He told me I was taken by a demon. He said the demon stole my soul, and that’s why I don’t have any memories of my life.”
Tom’s lips went white.
The words rushed out now, so fast my tongue stumbled. “I’ve . . . I’ve been having nightmares. I see myself, trapped . . . I’m trapped in hell. I’m frozen in Cocytus, the ninth circle, where betrayers go. It’s my punishment. My punishment for Marin Chastellain. And there’s a bird there. It’s a demon, but it’s in the shape of a raven. And it has the children. They’re trapped with me, buried under the ice.
“And then, when I’m awake, I hear . . . something talks to me. In my head. It tells me things.”
Tom’s voice was strangled. “Bad things?”
“No,” I said. “It pushes me to . . . to think, I guess. To think harder about what’s happening to me. To the children. I know it sounds mad, but I think . . . I think it’s trying to help.”
“This voice. What does it sound like?”
“Like a man, I guess. An older man. It’s a deep voice, and—”
“That’s Master Benedict!”
My old master? “Really?”
“Yes.” Tom slumped in relief. “He loves you. He watches over you. He wouldn’t leave you for anything.”
Is that true? I said in my head. Are you Master Benedict?
Yes, the Voice said.
Why didn’t you tell me who you were? I asked. Why didn’t you tell me who I was?
But no answer came.
• • •
Telling Tom the truth made me feel worlds better. But he didn’t have any ideas what to do about it, and it didn’t do a thing to help me remember. I skimmed Master Benedict’s books about poisons, but other than madness, I couldn’t find anything the Raven might have used that would explain my condition. I read his letter again, and one passage stood out like a beacon.
I called Sally into our room to join us. “Look at this,” I said.
I am going to do to you what I should have done to Blackthorn years ago: I am going to make you suffer. I will do this by taking away the things you love, one by one, until there is only you and me. And then, once I have stripped your life bare, you will understand.
“This is what he’s done,” I said. “He took my memories—and with them, all the things I love.”
Tom shivered at the thought. Sally wasn’t so sure. “The letter said he wouldn’t come for you right away. It’s been barely three weeks since we left Paris.”
“So he lied,” Tom said. He was scrubbing Moppet’s clothes in the tub, trying to get some of the dirt out, while the girl lounged against him, still wrapped in her blanket, playing with Bridget. “He is a deceiver.”
Sally shook her head. “He didn’t lie once in this letter. He even told you things you weren’t aware of. When he comes for you, I think you’ll know it. He wants you to know.”
“Maybe he already has told me,” I said. “In my dreams.”
“That’s black magic,” Tom said, and Sally didn’t have an answer for that.
“The Raven said he’d left me a clue. Did I find it?”
“You thought so.” Sally untied the knots on the leather bag I’d found in the cherrywood box and tipped out the two things inside. One was a gold coin. The other, the one Sally handed me, was a salt-and-pepper-speckled feather.
I looked over at Bridget, in Moppet’s arms. “A pigeon feather? This was the Raven’s clue?”
“You found it under Marin Chastellain’s bed,” Sally said. “After his body was taken away. That feather was tucked between the mattresses.”
“What does it mean?”
She shrugged. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t figure it out.”
I turned the feather over, examining it. It might have been Bridget’s, but it could also have come from any pigeon with similar coloring. Beyond that, I couldn’t see anything special about it; it seemed like an ordinary feather.
As for the coin, that was something special. It was over
five hundred years old. Baldvinus Rex de Ierusalem, it said: King Baldwin of Jerusalem, whose royal decree founded the Knights Templar. Its center was stamped with an equal-armed, flared cross—the Templar cross.
“Is this what I think it is?” I said.
Tom nodded. “That was the Templars’ gift to you. A blessing for someone who’d served them well.”
“Does it do anything?”
“I think it marks you as an ally. You’d probably be able to use it to call for help.”
If there was one thing I needed, it was help. “How do I get in touch with them?”
“I have no idea. Everything they do is secret.”
“Then what’s the point of the coin?”
Tom shrugged.
Sally looked pensive. “If you want help,” she said, “what about Lord Ashcombe? You might write to him, let him know what’s happened to you.”
Tom was shocked. “We can’t call on him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s the King’s Warden. We don’t have the right.”
“Of course we do,” Sally said. “He sent us to Paris. He gave Christopher his own name as an identity. And he cares about him. If anyone has the right, it’s us.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. I didn’t know what Lord Ashcombe could do, anyway. “He can’t give me back my missing memories,” I said.
“No, but he can send a carriage to take us to London once we’re finished here. Besides, he probably thinks we’re dead. You might at least let him know we’re not.”
“Why didn’t you send for a carriage, then?”
“We didn’t want to go to London. We were looking for you, remember? Write him a letter.”
“How would we send it?” Tom said.
“I’m sure we could hire someone in the village to carry it.”
“What about the fort on the coast?” I said. “We could give a letter to the soldiers.”
“The fort’s empty. Willoughby told us when we came. The new garrison was supposed to arrive, but with the weather . . .”
I still didn’t see the point. Sally insisted. “Even if Lord Ashcombe only sends a letter back, it’ll be a wonderful support for your disguise. Just do it, Christopher. The worst he can do is say no.”
“That’s hardly the worst he can do,” Tom grumbled, but I gave in. I used the ink and quill from my sash and paper from the innkeeper for the message. Sally read over my shoulder as I wrote.
To my lord, the Marquess of Chillingham
“No, no, no,” Sally said. “That’s too formal. You’re supposed to be his grandson.”
I frowned. “I’m pretty sure he remembers I’m not.”
“And what if someone else reads the letter? You have to stay in disguise all the time.”
This was absurd. I tried again.
Dearest Grandfather,
I need your help. The Lady Grace and I were in a shipwreck, and now we’re stranded in the village of Seaton. Strange things are happening, Grandfather: Children are disappearing from the local villages, and
Sally stopped me. “Don’t say you lost your memory. You don’t know who might read this.”
and I’m very sick. I’m staying at the Blue Boar Inn. We need a carriage to take us home. Please, please send help.
Your devoted Christopher
“Perfect,” Sally said.
“Ridiculous,” Tom said.
I agreed with him, but it was done now. I checked with Willoughby for a courier.
“It’ll be hard to find someone to carry this to Oxford with all the snow,” he said, “but I think I might know a boy. Let me see what I can do. In the meantime, you must be hungry?”
Tom looked so happy that we were finally getting a meal. I had Willoughby send up a supper of spiced mutton wrapped in mint leaves. Sally dined with us, then returned to her room. I lay on my bed, pleasantly stuffed, the warmth of the fire leaving me drowsy.
I wasn’t the only one. Moppet had begun to doze on Tom’s shoulder. He held her, still wrapped in the blanket. He rocked her back and forth and began to sing.
Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child
Bye bye, lully, lullay
Thou little tiny child
Bye bye, lully, lullay
His voice was warm and soft, and though he wasn’t a good singer—at all—the lullaby was soothing.
O sisters, too, how may we do
For to preserve this day
This poor youngling for whom we sing
Bye bye, lully, lullay
The girl nestled into him. His song was having the same effect on me now. I could barely keep my eyes open.
It’s all right, the Voice—Master Benedict—said.
I didn’t want to sleep. I was scared. I was scared of the dreams.
Herod the king, in his raging
Chargèd he hath this day
His men of might in his own sight
All young children to slay
I was floating. I fell into blackness, and inside, a part of me screamed. Please. I don’t want to go.
It’s all right, Master Benedict said again. Tom is here. I am here, too.
And, for the first time since I’d awoken, I found peace. I drifted away, but this time, there was no ice, no slate-gray sky, and no Raven. Just the words of the song, fading away.
That woe is me, poor child, for thee
And ever mourn and may
For thy parting nor say nor sing
Bye bye, lully, lullay
CHAPTER
17
A HAND SHOOK ME AWAKE.
“The courier’s here, my lord,” Tom said.
I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. The courier—a skinny boy of seventeen, face covered in pimples—was already standing in the doorway, with Willoughby behind him. The boy’s boots were wet from the snow.
I handed him the letter. “You can take this to Oxford?”
“Certainly, my lord,” he said.
“Hand it directly to the Marquess of Chillingham. Then return here immediately.” I gave him several écu as payment. “Any chance you’ll be back by the end of the week?”
The courier looked at Willoughby, confused. The innkeeper shifted, uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“It won’t be a week, my lord,” the boy said.
“How long, then?”
“More like four.”
“Four days?”
Now the courier looked nervous, too. “Four weeks.”
My jaw dropped. “Four weeks? To Oxford? Why?”
“The snow, my lord,” he said apologetically. “The roads are impassable. I’ll not be able to sleep outside; I’ll need to find shelter every night. And if any more snow falls, I’ll have to wait it out. I’ll be lucky to get ten miles a day.”
Willoughby had told us the safest route to Oxford covered 150 miles. So, a fortnight to get there, and a fortnight to return. Nearly a month before we’d get a carriage home—and how would a carriage even get through the snow?
My spirits sank. We were going to be stuck here all winter. “Is there nothing you can do to go faster?”
The courier thought about it. “The quickest route would be by boat. Sail up the coast to Southampton, then travel north to Oxford from there. The roads’ll be better, too. Probably take a week to get there, and another week back.”
Two weeks, then. Still longer than I’d hoped, but better than the alternative. “That’s fine. Go by boat.”
He hesitated again. “Uh . . .”
“What is it now?”
“Well, I’ll need a boat for that.”
“The harbor’s full of them.”
“Yes, but . . .” He ducked his head in apology. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I doubt I could convince anyone to sail now. The storms, you see. Everyone’s afraid. Even the fishermen are staying ashore.”
This was getting worse by the second. “Is there no one who could be convinced to go? I have money.”
Willoughb
y exchanged a glance with the courier. “There may be one man who’d dare the passage.”
“That’s perfect,” I said. “I’ll use him.”
“Well . . .,” Willoughby said.
“What’s the problem? I said I’d pay him.”
“Oh, you’ll definitely need to pay him, my lord. It’s more . . . well . . . the man himself. The captain, I mean. Roger Haddock. I’m not sure he’s all that trustworthy.”
“Why not? Is he a drunk or something?”
“They’re all drunks in the winter, my lord.”
“Is he not a worthy seaman?”
“No, he’s one of the best.”
The innkeeper’s caginess was making me lose my temper. I wanted out of here. “So then what’s the problem with Captain Haddock?”
The courier cleared his throat. “He’s a pirate.”
CHAPTER
18
I WASN’T SURE I’D HEARD him right.
“A pirate?” I said. “You have a pirate in port?”
“He’s not a pirate,” Willoughby said quickly. “I mean, he is. But he’s our pirate.”
Now I understood. “You mean he’s a privateer.”
A privateer was . . . well, a pirate. But a privateer had a letter of marque from the Lord High Admiral that permitted him to attack enemies of England. So, like Willoughby had said, he worked for our side. “Who are we fighting now?”
They looked at me strangely. Sally laughed. “The Dutch, silly. Or have you forgotten the war already?”
I flushed. This was why I didn’t want to do the talking.
“His ship’s laid up for the winter,” Willoughby said, “so I doubt you’ll get him out of port. But he’d be the one to ask.”
“Which vessel is his?”
“The Manticore. It’s the galleon in the harbor.”
I remembered it. So it was either send the courier by land and wait a month for help from Lord Ashcombe, or shorten that to a fortnight by talking to Captain Haddock.
It appeared we were off to see a pirate.
• • •
Willoughby warned us about Haddock’s preferred choice of lodging. “It’s the Blood and Barrel, down at the docks.” He turned to Sally. “Apologies, but it’s no place for a lady, and certainly not fit for a child.”