The Celestial Globe: The Kronos Chronicles: Book II

by Marie Rutkoski

  Tomik stepped in front of Neel.

  The prince tilted his head, evaluating Tomik’s glass blade. “That is a pretty toy.” He flicked a finger and a guard raised his heavy sword. It chopped through the air and struck Tomik’s knife.

  The glass shattered. Blood dripped from Tomik’s hand.

  “But it was nothing special,” the prince told Tomik consolingly, “and—really—so fragile.”

  MADINIA AND MARGARET’S skirts rustled as they took the wide oak stairs to the ground floor and turned down a long hallway. They had seen nothing of interest during their exploration of Cotton’s manor. Nothing, that is, until Madinia peeked around a corner and gasped.

  “What is it?” Margaret whispered anxiously.

  Madinia turned to her. “There are men,” she hissed. “One of them is dressed in clothes fit for a king. There are at least ten others with him, they’re armed to the teeth, and they’ve got Tomik and Neel.”

  “What?”

  “I just saw them marching past. Tomik’s and Neel’s hands are bound. Tomik’s bleeding.”

  Margaret thought of Petra, who always seemed so fearless. What would she do? “We have to help them,” Margaret said.

  “Are you crazy?” Madinia tugged at her twin’s hand, leading her back the way they had come. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Their soft-soled shoes padded over the rugs as they raced for the bedroom stairs and the Rift.

  “THIS WAY,” Kit told Petra. “The library’s here, on the ground floor, but we have to go through the greenhouse first.”

  How does he know that? Petra asked Astrophil, glad for his sharp grip on her ear. She lagged behind Kit as they passed through a dining room. Ghostly cloths covered the tables and chairs. I remember . . . when I sat in the carriage with Dee and Walsingham on the way to the river, Walsingham was rude to me. Dee told him he shouldn’t underestimate youth, and added, “What about Christopher Rhymer?” Walsingham said, “Kit has his uses.” Has, Astro, not had. As if Kit still works for Walsingham. What if Kit’s story about being fired by Walsingham was all a lie?

  “Come on, Petra!” Kit didn’t bother to hush his voice. He stood in front of a glass wall that looked like a jeweled box, and opened a brass-handled door. “Don’t be a coward! There’s nothing but plants inside. They won’t eat you.”

  Astrophil, who had bad memories of a certain Venus flytrap, shuddered under Petra’s hair. I think we should leave. Ariel told me to save my lady, and that is you, Petra. “Never trust a poet,” she said. What does a poet do, if not rhyme? And is not Kit’s full name Christopher Rhymer?

  Petra had a sick, sinking feeling. Her instincts told her that Astrophil was right, and that she should listen to him, but she didn’t want to. Her uncertainty warred against the tenderness she had held for Kit for months now.

  Petra had to know who Kit really was. She walked into the greenhouse.

  Panes of glass were fitted together into a peaked roof high over their heads. Petra could see the full moon. The air was hot, stifling, and humid.

  “Cotton loved plants.” Kit fingered an African violet. “He was obsessed with botany, and all because his last name was the same as that of a shrub. That’s self-centered, if you ask me. Do I go around rhyming every other word? Now, these are delicious. I love them.” He turned to a low, twisted tree and plucked a fruit. “Have one, Petra.” He tossed it to her.

  The fruit blurred as it spun through the air. Petra caught it. She knew, even before she opened her hand, that she held a small apple, and she didn’t need to cut it open to discover the color of its seeds. But as Kit picked another fruit and began eating, Petra pulled her dagger from her boot and sliced the apple in half.

  Its flesh was rosy, and its seeds were orange.

  That’s not proof, she argued with herself. But she gripped the dagger and braced herself to use it. She turned away from Kit, and began searching among the plants.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked. “Does it have something to do with the globe? Or that title page? Tell me, Petra.”

  But she ignored him, pushing aside enormous flaps of green leaves. She snagged her foot against a root, but did not fall. Ivy tangled around her arm. And all the while Kit followed at her heels, talking, talking, talking.

  Her throat burned. Finally, she shouted, “Shut up!”

  He did, because they were facing a small plant with pink petals.

  It was a cuckooflower.

  Petra’s eyes raged at Kit as she ripped off the first petal.

  “Robert Cotton!” named the plant.

  Petra tore another flower.

  “Francis Walsingham!”

  And again.

  “Christopher Rhymer!”

  30

  Damage

  BEHIND YOU! Astrophil warned.

  But Kit’s dagger was already at Petra’s throat. With his other hand, he reached for her wrist and pinched a nerve against the bone until she cried out and dropped her knife. He kicked it across the floor.

  “I swore no hurt would come to you,” Kit breathed, “and I don’t want to break my promise, but let’s admit that my word might not be worth much right now. Take that title page out of your pocket. Master Walsingham thinks that you know something that we don’t. Prove it to me. We’re going to the library, and you will find the Celestial Globe.”

  Petra swallowed against the blade. She bowed her head, then reached into her pocket, pulled out the wadded paper, and pressed it into Kit’s free hand.

  “Thank you,” he said, and relaxed the knife.

  Then Petra jerked her head back, slamming it into Kit’s face. She heard a cracking sound. Kit staggered and swore. Petra ducked down, away from the knife. She sprinted across the greenhouse, scraped past thorny rosebushes, and snatched up her fallen dagger. Good. She had put some distance between herself and Kit. Now she wheeled around to confront him.

  His nose was broken, and he was spitting blood, but he had drawn his sword, which was broader and heavier than Petra’s. Kit held a weapon in each hand now—his sword in his right hand, and his dagger in his left, just as Petra had practiced for months.

  But he had been doing this for years. “Petra, you’re fierce, and that’s one of the things I like about you, but there’s a difference between stubborn and stupid. What can you hope to do with that dagger? I’ll tell you, because I know better than anybody: nothing. Even on your best day, you couldn’t do anything against my two blades except prolong the inevitable. Slightly prolong it. Drop the knife. This isn’t a game or a lesson, and my sword is not blunt.”

  Petra shifted the dagger to her left hand, and drew the invisible rapier with her right.

  Kit recognized the harsh song of a sword being pulled from its scabbard. “What’s this?” he murmured, watching Petra crouch into a position he had taught her, one that could just as easily attack or defend. Her right hand was empty, but it acted as if it were not.

  With four quick strides, Kit was in front of her. He made the first move, feinting toward her right hip. She didn’t take the bait. When his feint turned into a true thrust, she twisted her right wrist. Kit heard and felt (even if he did not see) her parry the blow.

  And that was precisely what he wanted. He stepped forward and pressed his blade against the air, which couldn’t be just air. Kit raked his sword upward, testing the length of whatever Petra held in her right hand. When his blade reached the tip of her sword—and she had one, oh, she did—he swiftly fell back, on guard for an invisible attack.

  “That,” he declared, “is cheating.”

  “CAN’T YOU DO SOMETHING?” Tomik hissed at Neel in Romany as the prince’s men dragged them through Cotton’s dining room. Prince Rodolfo led the way.

  “Like what, exactly?”

  “Like use those ghost fingers you’re always bragging about.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, my hands are tied.”

  “Stretch your fingertips, I know you can. Untie my hands if you’re too
scared to untie your own.”

  Neel gave him a disdainful glance. “Fat lot of good that’ll do. There are eleven more of them than us. I’ll take my chances when I have one.”

  “Hey, what’re they talking about?” a Czech guard said to the man walking at his side.

  “Can’t tell. They’re talking Gypsy, I’ll bet. They sound just like the dogs they are.”

  “Woof,” said a third guard.

  “Arooo,” howled another.

  “Crawl for us, doggie.” One of them shoved Neel in the back, and he fell to his knees.

  “And you”—a guard yanked Tomik by his hair—“aren’t you Bohemian? Why are you babbling dog-speak? What’s wrong with Czech? Go on, then, bark and crawl like your brown friend.”

  “Silence!” ordered the prince. He was staring straight ahead. Suddenly, everyone could hear metal ringing against metal: the unmistakable sounds of a swordfight. He turned to the guards. “You can play with the prisoners later. Haul the Gypsy to his feet. Draw your weapons. Step quickly, and quietly, or I’ll have your tongues torn out to teach you how.”

  KIT PRESSED HIS ADVANTAGE, lunging forward. Petra blocked him with the dagger. He pulled back a fraction of an inch, just enough to throw her off balance. Then he beat against her dagger with a savage twist of his blade. Pain jolted up Petra’s arm. For the second time, she lost her knife. It clattered against the floor.

  What happens if your dagger is knocked away? Petra remembered her father’s words to her in the Okno forest. There’s room enough for your left hand as well as your right on this hilt. That will give your blows more force.

  Petra joined her hands on the rapier’s hilt. She dodged Kit’s steel and thrust toward his shoulder, putting her weight behind it.

  He ducked, and she propelled forward, stumbling until she regained her feet. “No, Petra,” he instructed. “Thrusts are supposed to be precise. A two-handed grip is only really useful for side-cuts. Like this, and this.” His blows were deliberately easy for Petra to block. He could have been mocking her, or he could have forgotten that they weren’t in Dee’s practice room, and that he wasn’t her friend or anything else but a traitor.

  “You’re toying with me,” she accused.

  “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

  She feinted, and feinted again, but he didn’t move. “I can’t see your blade,” he said, “but I can see your face. It tells me what you will do, and you can’t hide the movement of your hands. An invisible sword is a neat trick. But it’s only a trick. Its best advantage is surprise, and you’ve already lost that.”

  Determined to fool him this time, Petra started to swing her sword as if to deliver a coupe, a cut toward the head. But then she lunged past Kit’s side. Her blade whistled through the air, slashing toward his back.

  He spun around and caught the blow with his crossed sword and dagger. Using both blades, he shoved her away. “A sidecut to the back. Deadly, and dishonorable. Well done. Almost.”

  He hammered at her hands. Do you feel the swirls of steel arcing over the hilt? she recalled her father saying. That’s to protect your fingers, in case someone tries to make you drop the sword by hacking at them. Petra’s arms ached, but she held against the raining steel, her fingers curled safely under the hilt’s curves. She jumped back, out of Kit’s reach.

  Kit paused, and all the humor in his bloodied face vanished. “Let’s stop this,” he begged. “Can’t you see that all I want to do is disarm you? I care for you, Petra.”

  Betrayal burned in her heart like acid. She took a step back, but didn’t lower her sword.

  Kit thrust.

  She stepped back.

  And again.

  Stand your ground! Astrophil ordered. He is herding you! There is a row of palm trees behind you, and if you keep backing up, you will be trapped!

  Petra listened to him, and was still listening when Kit’s sword slipped under her guard and stabbed deep into her left shoulder.

  He pulled the sword out. Pain exploded through her. This was no little cut. Blood gushed from the wound, and in a heartbeat her shirt was sticky and wet. Petra looked down and saw thin red rivers trickling between her fingers. She gasped, not realizing until then that she had been holding her breath. This made the pain worse—jagged and bright.

  She faltered back. She leaned against a palm tree and stared up at its green fronds.

  “Yield,” Kit pleaded.

  Astrophil’s legs stroked her earlobe. Perhaps you should, he said sorrowfully.

  “It’s just a globe,” Kit said. “A round, painted ball. Don’t you know where it is?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Well, can’t you help me find it? If I give it to Master Walsingham, I’ll be wealthy and secure for life. Why go back to Bohemia, when you could stay in London with me?”

  Everything was confused. Why should she care about the globe? It had something to do with Cotton, Thorn, and Dee. But she didn’t understand how it all fit together. She did, once, but that was before her mind was ruled by agony.

  She looked at her sword as if it might give her an answer. As usual, she saw nothing.

  But she heard her father’s voice: This sword is meant to do damage, Petra, and I mean for you to do damage against anyone who tries to hurt you. Anyone.

  Petra raised her eyes to Kit’s face. She wasn’t afraid. Why should she be afraid? She knew what fear was: it was cold and gray and cruel. It was scaled skin and human eyes. It stank of death.

  Kit was just a boy.

  Petra sucked in her breath. She stood up, and circled away from the trees. Kit’s body tracked hers, shifting as she did.

  Allow me to explain what you are, Dee had told her, for truly there are few of your kind in this world.

  A chimera. Wasn’t Petra a rare thing? Powerful, even?

  She remembered Dee’s lessons, the hours she had spent guessing which hand he might raise. She looked at Kit. Left, she decided.

  His sword darted to the left.

  She blocked it.

  She advanced, her eyes half-shut. She didn’t need to see. She could feel Kit’s blows coming. She knew his feints for the naked lies they were, and countered his every move.

  His sword slashed and lunged. She danced away. She flowed like water, and leaned to kick against his dagger. Her mind reached for Kit’s blade against her boot. Fall, she told the dagger, and it did.

  Petra slid, swept, bowed, and leaped. She didn’t even bother noticing the mounting anxiety in Kit’s eyes. Not until her rapier snaked around his sword. Her mind felt the blades as if they were knotted strands of silk. Petra tugged, and Kit dropped his sword.

  “You yield,” she said, and pointed the rapier at his throat.

  31

  Tyrants

  THAT WAS HIGHLY ENTERTAINING, Petra Kronos. We’re all impressed. But now it’s time to be a good girl and lay down that fascinating weapon of yours.”

  Petra snapped her eyes away from Kit’s. There, standing several feet ahead in the frame of an open door that surely led to Cotton’s library, was Francis Walsingham, a torch blazing in his hand. He continued, “Kit belongs to me, you see, and I’ll be irritated if you hurt him. Your little friends won’t like it either. Will they, Your Highness?”

  “Not unless they enjoy being dead,” said someone behind Petra. She knew that voice all too well.

  She whirled around to see Prince Rodolfo watching her from the other end of the greenhouse, by the glass door she and Kit had passed through minutes before. The prince’s smile was as smooth as marble, and just as cold. A dozen guards ranged behind him. Several held torches. The others clutched Tomik and Neel.

  “I wonder,” said the prince, “for which one will you weep most? I doubt I am the only person curious to know. Shall we find out? No? Then come to me, Petra Kronos.”

  Numbly, Petra lifted the sword away from Kit, and crossed to stand before the prince. She glanced once at the faces of her friends, but that was worse than looking at t
he prince.

  “Give me your sword,” he commanded, “for we all know you have one, invisible though it may be.”

  “That’s a bad idea—” Tomik shouted at Petra. A guard backhanded him across the mouth.

  Neel, who thought it was a worse idea to say anything at all, watched Petra’s hands shift. She offered up the invisible rapier. Like a blind man, the prince delicately patted the air until his fingers closed around the hilt.

  “Now this is a work of art,” the prince told Tomik. “It is worth a thousand times more than your pathetic knife, and I believe I know who made it.”

  “Where is my father?” Petra whispered. “Is he all right?”

  “Mikal Kronos is perfectly well. He is better than ever, in fact. You have my noble word. You can see him for yourself after you return with me to Bohemia. Along the way, you can introduce me to your friends—the Gypsy, in particular. Why, I do not even know their names!”

  Petra pressed a hand against her throbbing wound. “You’ll kill me. You’ll kill them.”

  “I am not going to kill you, Petra. I am going to keep you. You will make a fine addition to my collection. As for the two boys, I might kill them, or I might not. That depends on you. Will you do me a small service? Walsingham was a little too impatient when questioning Robert Cotton about the location of the Celestial Globe. It seems Walsingham murdered him earlier than he intended, and the secret of the globe’s location died with Cotton. But thanks to information passed along by—what is his name? Kit?—we believe that Cotton hid the globe in his library. Why else would he print a copy of Mercator’s title page? Clearly, in Cotton’s mind, books and the globe went together. All you have to do, Petra, is find the globe and give it to me.”

  “But I don’t know where it is.”

  “Yet you are extraordinary, are you not? You continually do the impossible. Do it once more. If you find the globe, everyone returns to Bohemia safe and sound. I regret to say that you cannot go home, Petra, but there is nothing left for you there anyway. Salamander Castle will be your new home, and you will be treated with honor. You will intrigue the court, and that will entertain me.