The snowy roofs spread out before them, slashed by the dark river. Some neighborhoods remained hidden in the folds of the town, but the domed palace to the north of the town was easy to locate, and so was Heartworth and the House with its spires and the belfry. Already the Great Square milled with Sylverings, queuing at the popcorn carts or cocoa stands, or dancing in the pavilion. She thought she saw Pomeroy fussing over his gold-striped stand, but she couldn’t find Rufus in the crowd.
All of a sudden she had a feeling that she should leave immediately. It was almost like a push between the shoulders, or a whisper in her ear.
“Edvard Uriarte,” she murmured. “I think you might be right.”
Lin wasn’t going to wait on Doctor Kott’s steps. She was the Twistrose, and she would never solve her task if she didn’t spend her time more wisely. Using the belfry and Main Road as a guideline, she quickly located her destination. It wasn’t far at all. She could even be back before Rufus.
Quite pleased with her decision, she pulled her cardigan tight and started down the hill.
She did not think to look behind her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Soon she was standing under the quill sign in Peppersnap Nook. There was a heavy ring engraved with a fiery pattern on the door, and Lin used it to knock. She waited, kicked some ice off the steps, knocked again, and waited some more.
No one came.
Had everyone in this town gone to the feast? Carefully she tried the handle. Locked. But through the red glass window she could just make out a flickering light, and from the chimney by the turret there was a wisp of smoke. She was sure Teodor would not have left the house with candles and fires lit.
The backyard gate was ajar. She hesitated for a moment before she stepped through it, trying very hard not to appear like a trespasser.
“Teodor!” she called loudly. A quick peek inside Fabian’s stables revealed a rose-painted stall with lacy curtains and a gilded crib, but no Fabian. The belled harness hung on the wall; the sleigh with the carved fox masks stood dripping beneath it. Then they weren’t out driving.
She found the kitchen entrance to the house, and knocked three times before she entered. “Is anybody home? It’s me, Lin!”
The small kitchen was unlit, but the snow in the backyard reflected the light from the Wanderer through the doorway, outlining a plate of oatmeal cookies and Teodor’s porcelain cup on the table.
Lin left the door open in case of a quick retreat and sidled into the room. She removed her mittens and stuck a finger into the cup. The tea was cold.
“Teodor,” she called again. The only reply she got was a faint tick from the table clock in the library.
In the hallway, Lin discovered the source of the flickering light: a candle on a dresser. It had almost burned down, and the wax had spilled onto the tablecloth. A fire waiting to happen. She hurried over to the dresser and pursed her lips to blow it out . . . but didn’t.
It was most certainly risky to snoop around the house of someone who might turn up at any moment, especially when that someone was an old Wilder with a nasty temper. But she had come here for answers, and since Teodor wasn’t around, she should try to find one or two herself. She picked up the candle and walked into the library.
The armchairs cast black shadows across the carpet. The table clock on the desk showed four minutes past five. Lin lifted her light toward the bookcases that reached from floor to ceiling. There must be thousands of books in here, and many of them didn’t even have a title on the spine. She pulled one out at random, leaving a trail in the thick dust on the shelf. It was printed in an old-fashioned type that she couldn’t read. This was no good.
“Bring your brain to the party,” she muttered to herself. Where would Teodor keep books on magical items or Winterfyrst lore? Books that he perhaps wanted to keep secret from both her and Rufus? Not in the room where he had repeatedly left her alone tonight, to get milk and warm clothes and to check something in . . .
The turret.
Melting candle wax spilled over her hand as she crept up the stairs. “Teodor? Are you up there?” But she had a feeling he wasn’t, so she kept her voice to a whisper. When she passed the Twistrose girl of the painting, poised on the threshold to darkness, she nodded in silent recognition.
The turret chamber had windows facing in every direction, three round ones and one square. Under each of the round windows a three-leafed symbol had been carved into the wall, the same kind she knew from the Hall of Winter and the table clock. The east and south symbols were cracked and smudged by soot, and only the one to the north looked clean and whole.
Under the square window that faced the belfry and the lake beyond, the wide sill doubled as a desk. On it sat a single book, a fat tome with leather binding. Lin put the candle down and lifted the book gently.
The title page said The Book of Frost and Flame. On the next page, there was a little poem, written in beautiful longhand.
Ever bound, ever sworn,
To the Realms of the forlorn.
Frost and Flame,
One and same,
Hidden guards of Dream and Thorn.
Beneath the poem, two symbols were drawn, one above the other. Lin had seen them both before. The lower symbol showed three leaping flames, exactly like the stained-glass window in Teodor’s front door. The upper symbol showed three blue icicles, like the window in the Winterfyrst mansion. They fit perfectly together. How could she have missed that?
She skimmed through the first chapter. Frost and Flame was the name of a secret order founded nearly fifteen hundred years ago, sworn to protect the Realms. The servants of Frost were warriors called Frostriders. Their task was to protect caravans and border farms, walls and mountain passes, and if need be, to give their lives for others. The members of Flame were called Flamewatchers. They kept chronicles of everything that happened in the Realms, but they were also runemasters, which seemed to be some sort of sorcerer.
Lin lowered the book, wide-eyed.
Teodor was chief chronicler of Sylver. Could the glass painting in Teodor’s door mean that he was a Flamewatcher? If so, the old Wilder knew magic. And those three leaves of the carved symbols—could they not be leaping tongues of flame? Rufus would never get over this!
Down in the library, the table clock ticked. With a pang Lin imagined Rufus arriving at Doctor Kott’s house, only to find the street empty. It was silly of him to refuse coming here, but she didn’t want him to worry. She let the rest of the pages run through her fingers. Halfway in, she felt a snag in the flow, and when she saw what caused it, she caught her breath. At the end of a chapter on Frostrider artifacts, she read:
“‘Some number this magical ax among Frostrider heirlooms, but they are wrong. In truth, it belongs to our longstanding members, the Winterfyrsts of Sylver. The ax, which bears the name Frostfang, is not only a most powerful weapon of defense. It also unlocks the sacred Well of the Winterfyrsts.’”
The next page had been ripped out.
Lin brought out the illustration Isvan had taken to the Machine Vault. A match.
“So you were here too, Isvan,” Lin muttered. He must have snuck into the turret while Teodor was out, because Lin was pretty sure that Teodor would never have allowed anyone to damage his books.
“Sadly, old fox, you are not here for this, either.” She tore the other page out and tucked both of them into her right pocket. “One point to Miss Rosenquist!”
Somewhere in the house, there was a faint creak.
Lin started, knocking over the candle. It toppled off the desk and died, leaving her only the Wanderer to see by. She padded to the top of the stairs.
“Teodor? Is that you?”
She hurried down the steps, sorely tempted to bolt into the kitchen and out through the backyard. But she had already revealed herself, so it was probably best to try and explain. She hesi
tated on the library threshold. Over by the armchairs, she thought she saw a movement. “I . . . I found the back entrance open, and I only wanted to speak to you . . .”
The embers in the fireplace spat and flared, but there was no answer. Lin walked slowly over to the chairs, and there she discovered what they had concealed since she entered the house.
Teodor’s briefcase, which he had kept so well protected, lay on the floor. A letter stuck halfway out under the lid. It was addressed to Teodor and had already been opened. Lin eased it out of its envelope and read it. As she did so, the blood drained from her fingers and lips.
Dear Mr. Teodor,
Thank you so much for your letter, and for overcoming your doubts about my craft. We have wasted too much time quarreling when we should be combining our powers for the good of Sylver and all the Realms. Allow me to propose a Technocraft solution to the Winterfyrst plight.
For another client, I have been working on a design inspired by Heidelsneck’s classic Thorndripper. But I have improved the device so it fits the child instead of a sparrow’s chest. The Brain Tapper spikes will be inserted into Isvan’s skull until they touch his brain. When the spikes are charged, the Technocraft tension should bring forth the Winterfyrst knowledge locked inside his mind.
To save time, it might be best if you send the boy to me immediately so his skull can be properly measured. I enclose my drawings.
Your servant always
Rosana Zarka
Lin sank into the nearest armchair. She could hardly breathe.
The first drawing was titled “Thorndripper” and showed a little sparrow caught in a gruesome contraption, a metal ring with three slim thorns that pierced its chest. Blood leaked down the thorns and into a linked set of pots and tubes until it ended in a bulbous glass vial as a black, thick liquid.
The second drawing was titled “Brain Tapper” and showed a helmet of thin bands, much like the one Mrs. Zarka had worn when she operated the Machine. But instead of suction cups, this one had three long, sharp spikes that pointed toward the middle.
The third drawing showed how to use the helmet. It was strapped to the head of a boy, and the spikes were driven into his head. The boy was biting down on a piece of rubber. His eyeballs were white, yet he was sitting upright, writing on a piece of paper.
Horror sluiced through Lin’s veins. This was Mrs. Zarka’s secret experiment? And Teodor had ordered it? Rufus was certainly right not to trust him. Could Isvan have seen this letter? No wonder he had been scared of his so-called guardian!
She had just regained her breath when a voice sounded behind the armchair. It was silky on the surface, but so cold underneath that Lin’s spine was filled with ice.
“Little Lin. Little Rosenquist, hmmm? Oh yes, I heard your little cry of triumph up there, and now I know your full name. But don’t be so terrified! Come to Figenskar!”
And darkness fell from the ceiling and caught Lin like a mouse in a trap.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was no way out.
Lin flailed around, but all she felt was coarse, chafing fabric. It was a sack, she realized. A burlap sack big enough to fit her inside!
Something hit her shoulder and knocked her over. Down by her feet she spotted a glimmer of light that must be the opening. But even as Lin twisted around to reach it, it closed up with a hard tug.
Dust and fibers stuck in her throat, and her screams for help came out as stupid croaks. She could hardly hear them at all, her pulse pounded so loudly in her head. The sack opened up again, and Figenskar’s dusk-blue needle teeth appeared. “Easy now, little girl!”
He held her down and tied her hands tightly at the wrists. Then he brought out a wrinkled rag, spattered with some kind of dried-up, black ichor, and pushed it at Lin’s lips. It smelled sweet and cloying with a sting of liquor. Figenskar pinched her nose between two claws, and when she had to gasp for air, he jammed the rag into her mouth.
Cocking his head, he inspected his work. “What were you doing sneaking around in the chief chronicler’s home? Looking for signs of Isvan, hmmm? Did you find any?”
Lin glared at him.
“Cat caught your tongue? Don’t worry. You will have your chance to tell.” Figenskar’s grin grew wide and hard. “Oh yes, little Twistrose,” he murmured, pushing back Lin’s chaperon so he could study her face. “You may not think so now, but you will tell. Everyone sings before the Margrave!”
The Margrave! Lin made a mewling sound into the rag. Figenskar knew something about the soothsinger prophecy? His pleased expression was the last thing she saw before he closed the sack over her head.
The three steps of Teodor’s backyard stairs slammed mercilessly into Lin’s back. She was lifted onto something hard. Icy air seeped in through the weave of the burlap.
“We’re going for a little evening stroll,” Figenskar snarled next to her head. “But first I want you to know what will happen if you do any more squealing or squeaking or try to draw attention to yourself in any way. One night, when you are gone, I will pay a visit to Rufus’s grubby little den in Stitch Lane. He’s quick, I’ll give him that. But I am a Feline and a hunter. I can be quieter than the first light of dawn. I will bend over his pathetic sleeping pocket and take my time finding the weakest spot on his little Rodent neck. And with a simple snap . . . Pest control. Do you understand?”
Lin lay very still. She understood, but she couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t Teodor said that only creatures once loved by a child lived in Sylver? Who on Earth could have loved this dreadful cat?
The darkness deepened as a heavy cover was pulled over her body. Soon she heard the sound of snow beneath runners. A sled, then. Dread gathered into a lump in Lin’s throat. How would Rufus ever be able to track her down if there were no footprints in the snow? Come to think of it, how would he even know where to begin his search?
They moved fast, always uphill. Lin listened to the creaking of Figenskar’s boots in the snow, trying to guess where he was taking her. Several times she heard voices, but none close enough to be of any good to her. But at last someone called out, not far from the sled. “Figenskar!”
Lin knew that curt voice! It was Lass the gatherer. The sled and the footsteps stopped.
“Evening stroll, Figenskar?” the Canine said. She was very close now. Lin could hear her loll-tongued breaths right above her head.
“Stroll, yes,” Figenskar said smoothly. “What can I do for you, Gatherer?”
“I have gatherloot for Ursa Minor, but he has managed to fall off the map on his way to the Machine Vault. Have you seen him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I went to the vault. They were cleaning up after some sort of accident. I thought for sure it was Minor’s doing, but Nit said he never showed up.”
“You don’t say,” Figenskar said.
“And that’s not the only strange thing that has happened, either. I had a chat with Ronia at the Bowl and Biscuit. She told me that two different customers had seen a blue flash coming from old Teodor’s turret a little while ago. And afterward he came running out of the house, staring toward the mountains like he had seen a Nightmare. And he got on his horse and galloped off toward the woods!”
Figenskar didn’t answer. His tail lashed against the sled.
Inside the sack, Lin’s heart pounded. What would happen if she called for help? Lass would hear, even through the rag. But Figenskar knew where Rufus lived. Had been there, even, since he knew about the sleeping pocket. And he had promised to kill Rufus if she didn’t keep quiet. No, she couldn’t risk it.
Lass yawned. “Well. I’d best keep looking. See you in the Square.” The snow groaned under her feet as she turned to leave. But abruptly she stopped and snorted. “What’s this you’ve got on your sled, anyway? I could help you get it up the hill if you want. It’s a mighty climb to the Observatory.”
&nbs
p; Something brushed against Lin’s foot, and the heavy cover lifted ever so slightly. A pale sliver of light shone through the burlap somewhere by her left knee, and for a moment Lin thought she would be saved. But Figenskar briskly tugged the cover tight.
“A surprise,” he purred. “For Wanderer’s Eve. I’d best take care of it myself, hmmm?”
Lass hesitated another moment, but she said good-bye and hurried off.
Figenskar hissed softly. “Well done, little Rosenquist, for not squealing. You must like your Rodent more than he deserves.” He walked in silence for a little while before he added: “You can’t imagine my delight in finding you here this evening. You just might save both my deal and my tail. I’m sure the Margrave will find you to his liking. After all, you and he have much in common. You are kin, hmmm?”
Lin flinched. It had just dawned on her that the Margrave Figenskar spoke of was not at all the Wanderer called by a different name, but a person. And by the strain in Figenskar’s voice, the Feline was scared of him.
“Oh, you don’t think so?” Figenskar’s laugh had a brittle ring. “Well, you shall see for yourself before long.”
Lin didn’t respond, but in the darkness of the burlap sack, she wondered. See what? How could anyone in Sylver be her kin?
The air changed. It was crisper, no longer laced with woodsmoke. Lin chewed over Figenskar’s hints about the Margrave, but without more information, she couldn’t make them fit. Instead she turned her thoughts to a detail she could make use of. Light had shone through the burlap when Lass lifted the cover. Lin may not be able to run without risking Rufus’s life, but there was a tear in the sack, and that changed everything.
She felt around with her bound hands until she discovered the hole. It was small, but it would do. Inch by inch, she pulled the chewed, old drawstring out of her cardigan collar and tied a double knot. The troll-hunter signal for “I am here.” Holding her breath, she pushed the green string through the tear. There were creaky steps and sliding runners and her pulse whooshing in her ears, but no sign that Figenskar had noticed. Now all she could do was hope that Rufus would find her message.
The Twistrose Key Page 10