Ravencliffe (Blythewood series)

by Carol Goodman

  “The girl’s right,” Master Quill said, his eyes glittering. “It would be a terrible shame to ruin such a masterpiece. The book has become a living thing. I believe it was meant to bond with a Darkling’s wings in just this way. It says so here.” He touched his quill to one of Falco’s feather and read aloud from it: “And so shall the page become the wing, and it shall lead us home.”

  “What does that mean?” Raven asked. “Is it all written in riddles like that?”

  “Oh, that’s one of the clearer lines,” Quill said, chuckling. “It will take me days—weeks!—to read it all.”

  “But you can read it?” Merlinus asked. “And transcribe it?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Quill answered, all the feathers stuck in his hair trembling in his excitement. “It would be an honor—the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “We don’t have a lifetime, Quill,” Wren told the old man firmly. “If the Shadow Master wants this book he’ll have his tenebrae searching for it. The wards of Ravencliffe will conceal Falco and the book for only so long. If there’s something in this book that will lift our curse and defeat the Shadow Master, we must learn it before he finds it and destroys us all.”

  Wren’s speech cast a somber pall over the room. I looked around and saw the fledglings looking nervously at each other. But then my father spoke up, his voice ringing clear in the vaulted tower.

  “The book will tell us how to lift the curse and much more. Although I could not read it because I am not gifted in the old languages as Master Quill is”—he bowed his head to the old scribe, who quivered with delight at the compliment—“since the book has bonded with my wings, I have had dreams. I can hear it speaking to me. I believe that the end of our curse lies in its pages, and much more.” He looked toward me, and I felt the sadness in his eyes echo in my heart. “I believe that the book will heal the rift between us and the Order.”

  I saw Gos begin to object, but Merlinus silenced him. “We must see about that,” he said. “First, let you and Master Quill repair to the scriptorium”—he pointed up to the very highest ledge of the tower—“to transcribe the book. When it is done we three will read it and consult to reach a decision together.”

  “You won’t hurt him?” I asked, pushing my way through the flock to stand in front of the scribe.

  Master Quill tore his eyes away from Falco’s wings and gave me an appalled look. “Hurt him? Of course not! Your father has become the living repository of our most precious lore and history. I will treat him with the same respect with which I treat our oldest tomes.”

  I wasn’t exactly reassured by this. “He’s a person, not a book,” I told Master Quill. “He’s my father, and I’ve just gotten him back.”

  Falco’s eyes glittered at my speech, and he stepped forward to touch my hand. “It will be all right, dearling. I trust Master Quill, and this is something I must do for my people and for yours. The rift between them must be healed, or else you will be torn apart.” His gaze traveled from me to Raven, and I blushed, guessing his meaning. “I do not want you to suffer the same fate that befell your mother and me.”

  I squeezed his hand and then looked up at Merlinus. “Can I at least visit him while he’s being . . . transcribed?”

  Merlinus surprised me by looking to Quill. “Will it disturb your work?” he asked the scribe.

  “Not at all. I have always welcomed young people to my scriptorium. Few enough”—he cast a disparaging look up at the fledglings—“darken its ledge.”

  “Very well, then,” Merlinus said with finality. “Raven will bring the half-bloodling to the scriptorium once a week. And,” he added with a stern look at Raven, “to our chambers afterward for dinner. It’s about time I became better acquainted with my son’s flying mate.”

  “You didn’t tell me Merlinus was your father,” I complained to Raven on the flight back to Blythewood.

  “Would it have made a difference?” he asked.

  I thought about it. “I suppose it would have made me even more nervous meeting him.”

  “Exactly. He’s not . . . an easy man. But I think he liked you.”

  “Really? How could you tell?”

  “He didn’t order your wings clipped and toss you in the dungeons, for one thing.”

  “Oh,” I replied, trying to swallow. “I suppose that’s a start. Is Wren your mother?”

  “Yes.” Raven smiled. “She definitely liked you. She told me so when we were leaving.”

  “I didn’t hear—” I began, but then I recalled that she and Raven had exchanged a series of whistles when we left that must have been their way of communicating. “At least we know my father likes you. Thank you for finding him.”

  Instead of responding, Raven dipped his wings and landed us on a sturdy, ice-limned branch near the top of an old oak tree. He turned me toward him and cupped my face in his hand. In the moonlight his face looked different—older than it had a few weeks ago.

  “When I saw you suffering with the soul-sickness, I felt . . .” He paused, looked away, his dark eyes glittering fiercely. He squeezed my arms. “I felt as though a piece of my soul was missing. I had no choice but to find your father and make you whole again, because”—he looked back at me—“I would never be whole without you.”

  I stared at him, taking in the force of his words. “I feel the same, only—”

  “Only?” He pounced on the word, his voice making the whole tree quake, shaking icicles loose and scattering them to the forest floor.

  I forced myself to go on. “Only, you could be banished for loving me, Raven. Are you sure you want to take that risk?”

  “To lose you would be a worse exile,” he replied without hesitation. “If I am banished I would take you with me . . . that is, if you would be willing to share my exile.”

  He said the words with a formality that made me feel that we had both grown suddenly older. The trees of the forest arching above us, their branches filled with milky white moonlight, felt like a chapel. I felt as if the whole woods had stilled to listen to my reply. Before I could answer, though, I heard a shriek coming from below us—a girl’s voice. Raven instantly tensed and crouched on the branch to look down through the tree limbs.

  “It’s Etta,” he said. “Stay here while I see what’s wrong.” He flexed his wings and dove . . . and I followed him. He’d just told me that he’d go into exile for me; I wasn’t about to sit on a tree branch while he plunged into danger. I was still too weak to use my wings, but I scrambled down the tree, nearly sliding off the ice-slick branches, and falling the last dozen feet to land in a tumble beside him. I saw that we were in the Rowan Circle. Raven had his arm around Etta, who was weeping. I whirled around, searching for an attacker, but the circle was empty and still, sealed by icicles that hung from the rowan trees so thickly they formed a sort of jagged circular portcullis. No one could have passed through it unless they were as tiny as Etta.

  “What is it, Etta?” I asked. “What are you doing out here alone at night?”

  “I—I heard the branches br-breaking and saw the ice storm,” she stammered, shivering and sobbing. “I started thinking about what it would mean for the changelings.”

  Guiltily I remembered that I had wondered the same thing—and then quickly forgotten about them. But Etta hadn’t.

  “I knew they were still traveling back and forth on the river looking for Rue. One told me just yesterday that they were infiltrating a mansion on the river that they thought might be where she was hidden—and then this ice storm came out of nowhere! The temperature dropped thirty degrees in less than an hour. It didn’t feel natural. So I came out here to talk to them—there are always a few here in the woods keeping a circle the others can come back to—and this is what I found!”

  She pointed at the icicles hanging from the rowan trees. I stepped closer to look . . . and gasped. Each icicle had a shimmery red glow, lik
e a flame behind glass, only these flames had faces flickering at their hearts.

  “It’s the changelings,” Etta said. “They’re trapped inside the ice.”

  We stayed in the Rowan Circle for nearly an hour trying to communicate with the trapped changelings. A few lampsprites appeared, beating their wings against the icy shrouds, but when they brushed their wings against our faces we heard them say, “We cannot hear them, nor they us.” Featherbell tried blowing flames onto the ice, but instead of melting, the ice sprayed over her wings and she dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Etta grabbed her and held her in her hand until she recovered.

  “This is no ordinary ice,” Raven said, picking up one of the shards that had fallen to the ground. As he lifted the shard I saw a shadow flickering inside it, reminding me of the shadow crow I saw inside the splinter of broken mirror inside the fun house—the crow that had bitten me.

  “Drop it!” I cried. “There are tenebrae inside the ice.”

  I looked around at the ice-covered woods with a new horror. I thought I could see shadows moving under the surface of the ice, like dark water under a frozen stream.

  “We have to get out of here,” Raven said.

  “But I can’t leave them!” Etta cried.

  “You can’t help them now,” Raven told her sternly. And then in a gentler voice, “You’ll be frozen yourself if I don’t get you back. And Ava’s still weak.”

  Etta looked worriedly between me and the changelings, but then Featherbell brushed against her face. She listened to her chatter and then nodded solemnly. “Featherbell says the lampsprites will stay in the circle guarding the changelings.”

  Without waiting for her to change her mind, Raven gathered Etta into his arms and carried her up into the trees to cross over the frozen barrier around the Rowan Circle. As I waited for him to come back for me, I saw something out of the corner of my eye—something dark. I turned to catch what it was, but it moved as I moved. I spun around, following the movement. It looked like the edge of a cloak trailing behind a fleeing figure—like the figure of van Drood I’d glimpsed in the fun house. He was here, his consciousness moving through the ice. I could hear him in the chime of frozen branches clattering together.

  Ava, he called, his voice brittle as cracking ice, I see you survived the kraken. Do you think you emerged with your soul intact?

  “Yes!” I cried. “My father—”

  The excited clatter of ice made me stop. I couldn’t give away my father’s location to van Drood.

  Aahh, he crooned, an icy breath lapping against my face. So your father’s come back to you, has he? Has he told you why he abandoned you?

  I bit back a reply. I couldn’t tell van Drood about my father. A mist had risen in the grove. Where it touched my skin it turned into ice crystals that spread over my arms and face, creeping its way inside me. How? I wondered. The Rowan Circle was supposed to be protected—

  Against fairies, Drood’s icy voice whispered inside my mind. Not those of us trained in the Order.

  He was inside my mind, creeping in with the ice. I tried to shake off the glaze that was spreading over my skin, but I couldn’t move.

  Ah, he told you he didn’t know about you, that he stayed away for your mother’s own good—and you believed him! Poor little Ava, so happy to have her daddy back she’ll believe anything.

  Tears pricked my eyes, but they froze before they could fall. I had to find a way to break van Drood’s spell over me before he found out where my father was and I became a frozen statue like the changelings. I fumbled numb fingers over my coat looking for my repeater, but it wasn’t in my pocket—Raven hadn’t put it there when he dressed me. All I found was one of his feathers clinging to the wool.

  But if he really loved your mother, would he have been able to stay away? I know I couldn’t. The Order exiled me, too, Ava, but I returned. Doesn’t that mean I loved your mother more?

  I squeezed Raven’s feather in my hand to keep from shouting out at him—and felt a bit of the ice melt. I remembered how I had used a Darkling feather mixed with lampsprite dust to start a fire—could I use it now to break van Drood’s hold on me?

  Can a Darkling really love with all the darkness inside them? he was asking now. Can you love, Ava? Why didn’t you answer Raven when he declared his love for you?

  The thought that van Drood had been listening to us in the trees made me feel sick—and then angry. I gripped the feather tighter and felt the ice begin to melt.

  “We were interrupted,” I said through gritted teeth. “I was about to say that I’d follow him into exile—”

  As your mother would have. Why didn’t Falco take her? No, Ava, he abandoned your mother. He abandoned you, as he will again. But I never let your mother go, as I will never let you go.

  “You abandoned your own son!”

  The words were out before I knew I meant to say them. A great stillness came over the forest; the clatter of frozen branches stopped, the creak of ice shushed. I knew suddenly that van Drood did not know that Nathan was his son.

  Until now.

  I tried to clear my mind of all thought, but he’d already found it.

  Nathan.

  A gale swept through the woods, coming straight toward me. I wrenched up the feather and willed it into flame.

  “You can’t have him!” I screamed at the ice gale rushing toward me. The crystals formed into a face—van Drood’s face, eyes black caverns, mouth open in a horrible scream.

  “I will have him—and you, and everything you hold dear. I will bring the Order to its knees for everything it stole from me!”

  I felt his icy breath on my face; worse, I felt his mind touching my mind. Smoke gushed from the cavernous maw and rushed into my mouth and nose. I felt the stealthy tentacles of the tenebrae squirming into my brain, searching for the tender spots to cling onto. There, they sighed when they found a spot of envy. Ah, they cried when they latched onto a barb of jealousy. Yes! van Drood crooned inside my brain. Who do they think they are, lording it over you because you were once poor?

  I was swept into a vision of swirling color and gay laughter. I was at a grand ball like the one at the Montmorencys’. I was seeing the dancing men and women through van Drood’s eyes, and he was seething with anger and resentment. Yes, I found myself thinking, they think they’re better than us because they still have their riches. We’ll show them, won’t we?

  Suddenly, the music changed to the all-too-familiar strains of Die Puppenfee. The dancers’ movements became jerky, like automatons, and their expressions were glassy. I saw a woman who looked like Dame Beckwith clutching her partner’s hand so tightly her fingernails had sunk into his skin and blood was dripping down their joined arms. Tears streaked her face. I looked down and saw that blood dripped from her dancing shoes.

  They’ll dance to my tune, van Drood hissed inside my head, until they run out of time.

  Beneath the dripping shoes, the dance floor was designed to resemble a giant clock face. I could see the gears moving below it, controlling the pattern of the dance, counting down the minutes . . . but to what?

  I couldn’t see that far into van Drood’s mind. I hadn’t wanted to see into his mind at all. I had braced against his intrusion, but now I pushed further.

  I felt his shock—he hadn’t known I could do that!—and saw a glimpse of clock gears and then a blast of fire that annihilated everything.

  Then I was on the forest floor alone—no, not alone. Raven was beside me. I had banished van Drood from my head, or he had banished me, I wasn’t sure which. But it didn’t matter now.

  “Come on,” I said to Raven. “We’ve got to stop van Drood.”

  25

  RAVEN TOOK ME to the edge of the woods where Etta was waiting. On the way I told him about my encounter with van Drood and what I suspected he was trying to do, before we bid each other a hasty good-b
ye.

  Only when he had turned to leave did I remember that I had not answered his question. I wanted to call him back to tell him that I would gladly share his exile, but somehow it felt as though the moment had been marred. Besides, I had to get Etta back to the castle to warn Dame Beckwith.

  The sun was coming up, turning the frozen lawn into a sheet of fire. Jagged icicles hung from every eave and windowsill of the castle, giving Blythewood the appearance of a fortress bristling with bloody spikes. It looked like it was armed for battle. I hoped it was.

  We slipped in the side door unobserved.

  “I have to go to Dame Beckwith’s office,” I told Etta. “You should go straight to your room and get out of your wet things.”

  “So should you, Avaleh. You’re covered in ice.”

  I looked down at myself and saw she was right. I remembered van Drood blowing icy mist at me. It had clung to my clothes and skin. I suddenly wanted very badly to get out of these clothes and into a hot bath where I could scrub all residue of the encounter away. Dame Beckwith might not even be awake yet, and if I woke her up looking like this she would think I was still hallucinating.

  Maybe I was, I thought as Etta and I climbed to the fourth floor. The vision I’d seen inside van Drood’s brain was crazy. Dancers moving to a tune of his making like puppets, dancing until their feet bled, dancing even to their deaths . . . that couldn’t happen here at Blythewood. We were too strong, the school too powerfully protected. Dame Beckwith wouldn’t let it happen!

  I left Etta at her room and went on to mine. Halfway down the hallway I heard someone humming the waltz from Die Puppenfee and my blood ran cold. I ran down the hall and wrenched open the door just as Helen was going out.

  “Thank the Bells!” she cried when she saw me. “When I woke to find you gone I thought you’d run off with Raven for good.”

  I gave Helen a hug that surprised both of us. “We have to tell Dame Beckwith to cancel the dance.”

  “It’s too late,” Helen said. “It’s tonight.”