Chantress Fury

by Amy Butler Greenfield

  Yet if you had the eyes to see, you could imagine what it had been like once, back when it had belonged to my godmother. There were two oriel windows and light poured in where the shutters were broken. Not an inch of wall or ceiling had gone undecorated. You could even make out the original designs: carved circles that overlapped and interlocked.

  When I looked more closely, I saw that over half those circles were made of snakes.

  Norrie was right. They were everywhere.

  Gabriel looked to me for direction. “So what do we do now?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Investigate the snakes, I suppose. Norrie said there were hidden doors behind some of them.”

  We wandered from panel to panel, pushing, pressing, fiddling with heads and tails. Nothing sprung out or slid back. When we knocked, nothing sounded hollow.

  I lifted my head to the high ceiling. “There are dozens more up there.”

  Gabriel peered into the next room. “And even more in here.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating. The walls positively writhed with snakes.

  I felt overwhelmed. “It could be any of them.”

  “Your magic isn’t telling you anything?”

  I shook my head. Now that the walls of Audelin House stood between me and the river, I’d been letting myself listen for magic, but I hadn’t heard anything yet. Perhaps Scargrave had destroyed every trace of it.

  “What if we take a quick walk around the whole house?” Gabriel suggested. “Maybe something will stand out.”

  That sounded sensible enough. But by the time we’d finished surveying the floor we were on, we had a rough count of three hundred snake circles.

  “And I’ll wager there are even more behind this,” Gabriel said, working at the lock of a heavy door in the back of the house. “Are you certain there’s no magic keeping it shut?”

  There was so much magic in the air this morning that it was a little hard to tell, but I couldn’t smell anything. “I don’t think so. It’s probably just mechanics—or rust. Let’s not waste any more time on it. We still have the whole upstairs to see.”

  Gabriel poked at the lock again with one of the keys he’d grabbed from other doors. When it didn’t yield, he followed me up the staircase.

  Upstairs the rooms were much darker. As we walked into yet another dim, snake-ridden room—this one with only a few damaged window slats to let in light—I started to regret the impulse that had brought me to Audelin House. “There’s no end to them,” I said to Gabriel. “And look at those scorch marks on the walls. For all we know, Scargrave burned away the circle we need.”

  “Keep going,” Gabriel urged. “The right one might be just around the corner.” He cracked open a door in the darkest part of the room. “Or then again, maybe not.”

  His voice sounded odd. I hurried over. “What’s wrong? What did you see?”

  “Not a thing. The room’s too confounded dark.” He pulled back the door, revealing an opening as black as pitch. “The room doesn’t have any windows, I gather. Or if it does, they’ve been shuttered over.”

  The darkness in that room seemed to be more than a matter of shutters. There was a stillness there that I hadn’t felt elsewhere, a watchfulness. It felt as if the darkness were waiting for us.

  Part of me wanted to slam the door shut. But what if the right snake was somewhere in there?

  If only I could still conjure up a light to see by, as my godmother had taught me. But like all other Proven Magic, that song was now out of my reach—and I’d yet to find a reliable way of controlling fire with Wild Magic. Here in Audelin House, with its history of burning, I thought I’d better resort to more prosaic means of making light, even if it took more time.

  “I’ve got a tinderbox,” I said, digging into my sack. “And candles.”

  “Hand them over,” Gabriel said. “No one can strike a flame faster than I can. Not even you, Chantress.”

  I’d long since discovered that kindling flame from a tinderbox was not half so interesting as kindling one from song, so I was happy enough to let him have the honors. But evidently my tinder­box was not what he was used to, because he took a long time over the job. While he fussed with the flint, I investigated some of the snake circles on the blackened walls.

  “When did you last use this tinderbox?” he finally asked me.

  “Last spring, I think. Maybe longer.” Traveling as I did with my own men, I was rarely called upon to light a fire.

  “Well, you need a new charcloth. It’s smothering the sparks, not catching them. We’ll need some other kindling.” He stood up, tinderbox in hand. “There was some straw by that door downstairs, the one that wouldn’t open. That would do. And I might have another quick look at that lock while I’m at it.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “No need—unless you want to.”

  “Then I’ll stay here and keep checking this wall of snakes.”

  “All right, then. I’ll be back soon.”

  After he left, I peered into the dark room again. Beyond the dim shadows at the door, the darkness was so complete that I felt for a moment as if I were looking out on nothing at all. A desolate chill went right through me. There was something more than mere darkness here.

  I reached to pull the door shut, but as I did, I heard music coming from somewhere deep inside the room—a sweet, golden song that sounded familiar. A song sung by someone I never expected to hear again.

  My mother.

  It wasn’t a living voice, of course. The Shadowgrims had turned my mother to ash. But a Chantress could sometimes leave a song behind her—a song-spell only another Chantress could hear. My mother had done that in a letter she’d written to me on the eve of her death. It contained not only her wisest advice but also the very sound of her voice, forever echoing in a song-spell of protection around it. For a long time I’d listened to that letter every day. And here was that same voice, singing to me now.

  Without a second thought, I crossed the threshold and plunged into the darkness. Blind now, I had a moment of panic. But then I heard the song again, a little louder this time. Groping with both hands outstretched, I followed it deep into the shivering blackness of that room, stumbling over warped boards, and even once falling to my knees.

  Eventually my fingertips touched stone. Beneath a heavy lip, there was a hollow and the bitter scent of smoke. A fireplace, cold as death—and the singing came from inside it.

  I ducked down and followed the song to the very back of the hearth. Ashes crumbled against my fingertips, and the smell of soot choked me. But as I ran my hands up over the iron fireback, I felt a familiar curve, the circle of snakes. When I brushed my fingers against their heads, the golden music swelled and the upper part of the fireback swung loose.

  There was a hole here, smelling of magic. Inside it, my fingers touched stiff vellum—the cover of a book.

  I snatched it up and retreated to the outer room—a place that had seemed barely lit before but that now appeared as bright as day after the darkness. Stopping to peek through a broken slat in the shutter, I was reassured to see that the waters hadn’t risen noticeably higher. I had a little time, then—and now I could see my prize plainly: a dove-gray book streaked with soot, about as wide as my hand and somewhat taller. The song wafted up from its pages, sweet and fresh, as if my mother had just sung the tune.

  The book might be smeared with ashes, but I couldn’t help hugging it. I had so little of my mother left to me. Bad enough that she should have died when I was eight—but even worse, she’d sung a song that had taken away most of my memories of her. She’d done it to protect me, to keep me safe from Scargrave, but even now, all these years later, I still felt a colossal sense of loss.

  Had I known this book was hidden here, I would have come to Audelin House long ago. And perhaps I should have suspected something of hers might be here. Lady Helaine had been my mother’s guardian, after all. But like everyone else, I’d heard that there was nothing left in Audel
in House, that Scargrave had taken it all.

  And all this time, this book had been waiting for me to pull it out of the fire.

  Still rejoicing in my mother’s music, I rubbed my grubby fingers clean on my petticoat and turned to the first page. In the letter, my mother’s writing had been so faded as to be illegible, but this book was blank—or nearly so. Only if I turned it in exactly the right way could I see something shimmering there.

  This was a stronger spell than the one she’d used for my letter. Still, I expected it worked more or less the same way.

  I closed my eyes and let myself sink into the music. I knew I had to be careful, because this meant opening myself up a bit more to all music, including the river’s strange songs. Could I keep them apart in my mind?

  It seemed I could. There were no holes in the windows here; the river’s music was muffled. Cautiously, I picked out the notes of my mother’s song. As I sang it back to the book, faint writing appeared, then darkened, page after page of it, until at last I knew what I held in my hands.

  My mother’s diary.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  IN HER OWN WORDS

  Some diaries are merely ledgers of daily activities. Some record only the weather. But not this one. Judging from the scattered dates, my mother had kept it when she’d been about my own age—and she had poured her heart into the writing. As I flipped quickly through the pages, the emotions leaped out at me.

  She’d been frustrated with Lady Helaine’s rigid teachings:

  I shall go mad if that woman makes me practice another scale.

  She treats me like an imbecile. Again, she says. Again. Again.

  She’d been overjoyed to discover Wild Magic:

  Everyone is wrong about the stones. I was so weary of following rules all day that I took mine off last night, just to see what it felt like. Instantly I heard the most glorious music—melodies everywhere, as thick and bright as stars in the night. Oh, the beauty of them! I sang one, and the dew leaped into my hand. And Lady H. still has me singing scales. What would she say if she knew? . . .

  Did more experiments with Wild Magic tonight. It’s hard to control. I have to listen very carefully, and even then it can sometimes go horribly wrong. But there’s far more power in it than the Proven Magic that Lady H. has taught me.

  I don’t think fire likes me. But water—oh, water is my friend. And every day I understand it better.

  And when Lady Helaine tried to stop her, my mother was furious:

  She found me out today. As always, I waited till I was sure she was fast asleep before I took my stone off, but this time she woke up and smelled my Wild Magic and came down on me like the old dragon she is. I’ve never seen her so furious! She shouted at me and grabbed my stone and half-choked me when she shoved it back over my head. I must never take off my stone again, she says. If I do, then Wild Magic will be the death of me. According to her, everything in the world has a song, and some of those songs are not safe for Chantresses to sing. But I don’t believe her. It’s all just a ploy to make me do what she wants. And I won’t give Wild Magic up. I won’t.

  I shut my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. When I’d opened this diary, I’d expected to find the gentle mother I dimly remembered: wise, patient, ever watchful. But the girl who’d kept this diary was someone else entirely. Someone much more fiery and stubborn and impulsive. Someone much more vulnerable. Some­one who seemed to be speaking just to me.

  I too had chafed at Lady Helaine’s strictures. I too had found the lure of Wild Magic irresistible. And I too had found water a friend.

  My mother had been gone for ten years, and yet I was still finding new ways to miss her.

  I opened my eyes, wishing that I could see her just one more time. But at least I had the next-best thing—her book, open on my lap, and her words echoing in this quiet room.

  I knew that time was going by and we should probably leave for the safety of high ground. But it was hard to close the diary when my mother’s words were calling to me.

  I couldn’t help reading just a few pages more.

  . . . she knows I’m defying her, but she hasn’t caught me at it yet. When she questions me, I deny everything.

  She says my stone will crack if I keep doing Wild Magic, that I won’t ever be able to do Proven Magic again. As if I cared about that! Thank goodness Auntie Rose has written and asked that I visit her. I have to get away from here.

  Auntie Rose. I hadn’t heard the name for a couple of years, but I knew who she was. Her real name was Agnes Roser, and she wasn’t a true aunt but my mother’s much older cousin. I’d met her once, when I was small—a doughy woman with puffy hands and a kindly smile, who’d patted my face and offered me gingerbread. A cozy woman, easily underestimated. Only much later had I learned that she had been the guardian of some extra­ordinary Chantress secrets.

  Had she said anything to my mother that might be useful to me now? I started to read more carefully.

  Lady H. told her about the Wild Magic, and even Auntie Rose wants me to stop. But instead of screaming at me the way Lady H. does, she sat me down and said that she was going to tell me something that most Chantresses had forgotten, something that even Lady H. doesn’t know. And then Auntie Rose said that the real reason Chantresses wear stones is to protect us from the music of the Others.

  I’d never heard of the Others before, but Auntie Rose says that they’re our ancestresses, our ancient Mothers. What some call faeries or fae or elementals. And the ones who come from our line—from water stock—are the most dangerous ones.

  So Penebrygg was right. The Others, the Mothers, the faeries, the elementals—they were all one. And the greatest danger came from the water spirits.

  Was that the enemy we were facing now? Still searching for answers, I dipped back into the diary.

  I asked why the Others would want to hurt us. After all, we’re their descendants—their own kin. Auntie Rose doesn’t really know. All she could tell me was that centuries ago the Others decided it was a mistake that any of their kind had ever bred with humans. They made it their mission to destroy us. And they were powerful enough to twist the songs of Wild Magic and use them to lure Chantresses to their deaths.

  But the Chantresses fought back.

  First, they stopped practicing Wild Magic. Then they created the stones to deafen us to it. Auntie Rose says it was Melusine herself, the great Chantress who was raised in the world of the Others, who worked out how to make the stones. She invented Proven Magic, too. (Which means she’s the one to blame for all those safe songs I hate so much.)

  But even the stones and Proven Magic weren’t enough to hold back the Others. They kept finding new ways to attack us. So the Chantresses had to strengthen the wall between us.

  The wall. My heart beat faster.

  Auntie Rose says there always was a wall between the worlds, but it waxed and waned with the seasons. If you were clever and you timed it right, you could get through. But the Chantresses made the wall so strong that the Others couldn’t cross it anymore. Even Chantresses couldn’t pass through it. Ever since then, we’ve been sealed off from each other.

  When Auntie Rose told me this, I was delighted. I thought it meant that Wild Magic was safe now.

  But Auntie Rose looked very stern when I told her this. “No, no,” she said. “Quite the contrary. Chantress lore is very clear on that point. The wall can’t be broken by the Others, or by ordinary humans, or even by Proven Magic. But it can be broken by Wild Magic. I don’t know exactly what kind of Wild Magic it would have to be, but I do know that the Chantresses back then feared it could happen by accident. And they decided we must all avoid Wild Magic forever. So you must stop, Viviane. Not just for your sake but for us all. If you break that wall down, then there will be nothing to stop the Others from rising up against us . . .”

  I stopped reading. Heart pounding, I went back again to read the last few sentences.

  Was Auntie Rose right? Was it possible for a Chantr
ess to break the wall between the worlds by accident?

  If so, then maybe we really were at war with the Others. And maybe the person who had broken the wall—the person who had let them through—was me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  KEYS

  I turned back to the diary, desperate for answers. Could I really have taken the wall down—and not even known it?

  My mother’s account of the conversation with Auntie Rose ended there. Maybe something had interrupted her as she’d written? I scanned the next pages quickly. It seemed my mother hadn’t been sure whether to believe what Auntie Rose had said about the wall, but for a while she’d stopped working Wild Magic—

  Was that a shout from below? I broke off from reading. Yes, and now quick footsteps . . .

  Apprehensive, I shut the diary. As I stood up, Gabriel dashed in, breathing hard, his dark eyes alarmed. Barely stopping to touch my hand with his ring, he beckoned me forward. “I think we’d better go, Chantress. There’s trouble outside. A mob. They must have heard you singing.”

  How loud had my song been? Truth to tell, I had been too entranced to notice. Such a stupid mistake. “Where are they?”

  “Banging on the windows at the back, trying to break in. They’re too afraid to go around to the front, because that’s where the river is. So we’d better go out that way ourselves. It’s our best chance.”

  Even from here I could smell the river’s magic. Was it really wise to go rushing out toward it? “Couldn’t we just stay here?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “If we do, we’ll be trapped. The water’s rising fast. We really need to get out of here now.”

  “Just give me a moment.” I reached around to put the diary into my sack.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “My mother’s diary.”

  His eyes flared with interest, and I wished I hadn’t been so frank. I wasn’t ready to share the diary yet. But all he said was, “Come on. We need to get out of here before the mob gets in.” He raced to the door.