We quickly made our way out of the street. Thanks to the Faerie roads, we’d returned to London in record time. Now I could feel how odd we must look, with scythes and flutes strapped to our backs, daggers and swords dangling from our belts, a bone whistle around my neck, and a glowing, slightly sinister lantern in my hand.
“What do we do now?” Magnus said. He smiled at the crowd.
“We send word to Whitechurch and the queen,” Blackwood replied, adjusting the scythe across his back. The sharp teeth that hung from the edge of the blade were dangerously close to his head. Perhaps putting these weapons down would be a good idea. “First, we go home.”
Back in Blackwood’s front hall, we sloughed off packs and unbuckled weapons with sighs of gratitude. The footmen said nothing as they helped us, but I watched their expressions of shock as they managed the curling swords and daggers. I checked my pack; yes, Strangewayes’s book was still in there.
The moment I’d removed the weapons, I scanned the hall, hoping for a glimpse of Rook. Unfortunately, there was none to be had.
“Is Rook here?” I asked the butler.
“I believe he’s out, miss,” the man replied, holding the lantern as far from his body as possible. Rook was at work, most likely. Damn.
Maria slipped quietly to the sidelines, watching all of this with wide, wary eyes. She shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“Make yourself at home,” Blackwood told her, sounding distant as he walked away. I imagined he was already composing a letter to Whitechurch in his mind. Dear Imperator, we found a museum of monsters and Strangewayes’s skeleton. What would you like us to do with the weapons?
Then again, perhaps he would take a subtler approach.
Maria went to Magnus. “I should see to your arm,” she told him, but he shook his head.
“It doesn’t hurt, and I need to be off to see my mother. She’ll want to know I’ve returned.” He nodded. “Send word when Whitechurch replies,” he told me, and left. The front door closed, and the hall was quiet once more.
Now it was just Maria and I. In this grand room, among polished brass fixtures and rich velvet hangings, I supposed she felt out of place. Indeed, her next words were, “I should be on my way.”
“Where will you go?” I tried not to sound too interested.
“Might head east, then north. Point is to keep moving.” She shrugged.
“By yourself?” I crossed my fingers. “Isn’t there anything that could persuade you to stay?”
“Your gracious, brooding Lordship might not approve.” She blushed. “Besides, I don’t feel comfortable. No disrespect intended.” She glanced at the stately surroundings as though they would attack her, a look I understood all too well.
“I felt the same when I first came to London, you know. I used to teach at a charity school,” I said.
“Oh? So you were not always a great lady?” She meant it sincerely. I shouldn’t have laughed.
“I used to get ten lashings for imperfect penmanship. I’m far from a great lady.”
“You were beaten?” Maria’s face cleared in surprise. Now was the time to act.
“May I show you something?” I asked.
She followed me upstairs to the very top of the house, down the corridor toward Fenswick’s apartments. I opened the apothecary door and led her inside. At the sight of the dried herbs and flowers, the pots and bowls and pestles, the copper spoons and pans, Maria’s whole expression changed. She knelt on a bench and studied the mashed herbs that lay before her.
“Is this powdered primrose? I can tell by the scent.” She gave a gleeful shriek. “Whoever’s chopping this has a fine hand. Why should she be playing with stinging nettle, though?”
“Who said anything about a she?” Fenswick grumbled, entering with a loop of garlic cloves twined around his neck. He hopped on a bench and then pulled himself onto the table, slapping pollen from his trousers. “How on earth did you recognize the nettle?”
“Smell’s too sharp to be anything else.” Maria leaned her elbows on the table. Cradling her face in her hands, she beamed in delight. “You’re a hobgoblin, are you not?”
“And you’re a red-haired miscreant,” Fenswick said, ears flattening on either side of his head. He thought Maria was poking fun.
“They say hobgoblins know the secrets of every plant under the sun and the moon. Marvelous healers.”
That seemed to do the trick. Fenswick scuffed his shoes with pride while Maria moved around the room, touching a curling loop of tendrils that sprouted from a hanging planter. “Most sorcerers don’t have such apothecaries. Too much like—”
“Witchcraft?” I finished for her. Here it was. I felt the tingling of embers blooming in the lines of my palms, a warning to be careful. Maria went still, like an animal trying to decide whether to fight or to flee.
“Wouldn’t know,” she said cautiously.
Fenswick looked up from chopping the garlic. Maria’s fingers trailed to the ax at her side.
I forged ahead quickly. “I need your help.”
“Meaning what?” All the friendly light was gone from her brown eyes.
“Someone dear to me is sick.” I moved before the door, in case she tried to bolt.
“Dying?” Maria’s look softened by a degree.
“Worse,” I whispered. Maria snorted at that.
“What’s worse than dying?”
“Henrietta.” Fenswick’s voice had a note of warning, but for Rook, I could not stop.
“Transformation.” Quickly, I told about my own path to London, my fire abilities, about being found and brought here. I told her about discovering my magician roots, the fear of being found out, my brief imprisonment and betrayal. And I told her about Rook, his shadow powers, and what Fenswick and I had done for him.
While I relayed the story, Maria sat down, and Fenswick brewed lingonberry tea, bitter but refreshing. My cup cooled beside me while I talked. When I’d finished, Maria was silent for a while. “You’re not their chosen one, then?” She sounded amazed. “And you think I can save your friend?”
“I saw you heal yourself of the Familiar’s venom,” I said.
She shuddered. “My…gifts…are natural. The Ancients’ aren’t.”
God, I couldn’t lose her. Thinking fast, I said, “Listen. The road outside is dangerous. It’s a miracle you’ve stayed clear of the Ancients thus far.” I stepped closer. “What happens if you meet one, use your power, and someone sees? Sorcerers are not the only ones against witchcraft.” Indeed, after Mary Willoughby’s treachery had been revealed, the common folk had rioted, particularly in the north. They had done things that, well, made the sorcerers’ burnings look restrained.
Maria chewed on her bottom lip. I could see she was weighing what I said.
“No one will discover you here. If you help me, I’ll give you anything you want in return.”
Just then the door opened, and Rook rushed inside. He was breathing fast, as if he’d been running up the stairs. The color in his cheeks was bright. When he saw me, a wide smile stole over his face.
“You’re back.” His arms were around me in an instant, and he lifted my feet from the floor. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the sunlight on his skin. His embrace lasted too brief a moment. “Thank God,” he said, putting me down. Rook noticed Maria and quickly bowed. “Apologies. Didn’t know a, er, lady was present,” he said, scanning her trousers.
I saw her notice the few visible scars that peeked out of his sleeve at the wrist. Today, they were red and inflamed.
“Maria Templeton,” she said curtly. “Beg your pardon.” She made her way around Rook and out the door. Damn. I followed and closed the door behind us, ready to beg—
“I’ll help him.” She folded her arms tight across her chest.
“You will?” My voice rose in excitement, and she shushed me.
“There are things we might try, if the hobgoblin allows it.”
“He will,” I said quickly.
>
“One more thing. I’d like a cot up here. I wouldn’t feel comfortable in one of your grand rooms downstairs.”
“Of course.” I’d give her half my own blood if it would make her stay. “Why did you change your mind?” Apart from my brilliant reasoning, obviously.
“You love him.” She said it boldly, without question. My face flushed. “There are few who love the Unclean in this world. Makes me feel I can trust you.” She extended her hand. “Congratulations. You’ve the services of a very skilled witch.”
—
WHITECHURCH REPLIED TO BLACKWOOD WITHIN HOURS. The ink on the letter was spattered, the words smeared—evidently, he’d written it hastily and shoved it into a messenger’s hand without bothering to blot it. Even though it was afternoon, bordering on evening, Her Majesty had invited us all to meet at Buckingham Palace immediately. Blackwood and I pulled up to the palace to find Magnus already there, pacing outside the entrance with his hat in his hand.
Fae warriors and a unit of sorcerers guarded Her Majesty’s door. The faeries were of the same rank as the Goodfellow, moss and lichen covering their wooden faces, carrying wooden shields and clubs studded with wicked-looking thorns. They said nothing as we passed them by.
The queen’s private sitting room had an ornately carved wooden ceiling and shuttered windows to keep out the now-waning afternoon light. Lamps had already been lit, and in the corner, beneath a painting of the old king, a bell-shaped brass cage sheltered a pair of singing yellow canaries.
The queen was seated on a velvet sofa; Whitechurch stood behind her. I couldn’t find a clue to his mood in his blank expression. His eyes, however, regarded each of us keenly.
Blackwood, Magnus, and I stood side by side and waited on the queen’s command.
“Show us,” she said at last.
Together, we laid Strangewayes’s weapons out on a long, polished table. Her Majesty got up and drew nearer, staring at the weapons in astonishment. The lantern especially interested her. She picked it up before putting it down again quickly, as though it would bite. Finally, I placed Strangewayes’s book.
Now what would she do? What would she say? It was one thing to discover these oddities, and quite another to be allowed to use them. Anticipation welled up inside me.
Whitechurch frowned as he studied our strange wares, but the queen looked excited. She touched a finger to one of the orange-gold daggers, her mouth forming a soft O of surprise. In a lavender gown, with her hair pulled back in a simple style, she looked less like a sovereign at the head of a terrible war and more like a young woman admiring a carnival trick.
“Tell us about these,” Whitechurch said, sweeping his hand over the assorted objects. Magnus and Blackwood allowed me to answer for all of us. It was no secret that the queen seemed to favor me. I tried not to let that go to my head.
“This is Ralph Strangewayes, and his otherworldly assistant,” I said, unrolling the painting delicately. The queen gasped at the sight of the monster. On the back, elegant handwriting declared this was Ralph (“R.S.”) and his servant Azureus, the Latin for “blue.” Aptly named, as the creature was the color of a high summer sky.
“And this book details the Ancients?” Queen Victoria flipped through the journal, using only the tip of her finger to turn the pages.
“How could Strangewayes have had such knowledge?” Whitechurch didn’t sound pleased. Damn. He wouldn’t love what I was about to suggest.
“I believe magician craft comes from the Ancients’ world,” I said. The queen dropped the bone whistle. “We know that Strangewayes was trying to give King Henry a son, and discovered a source of unnatural magic.” I crossed my fingers. “He must have found a path into the Ancients’ domain. These weapons are specifically designed for creatures not of this earth.”
“What are you proposing?” Whitechurch asked, though I could tell he knew and did not like it.
“We must learn how to use these weapons,” Blackwood said, though he did not sound enthused.
Already, Whitechurch was shaking his head. “This is how it begins,” he warned. Her Majesty remained silent. “This is how magicians gain a foothold in our society.”
Was that so terribly wrong? I had to bite my tongue.
“Sir, we’ve battled these creatures for over a decade,” Blackwood continued. “What if these weapons do contain the key to R’hlem’s destruction?”
Whitechurch frowned deeper than ever. Here it was, our potential salvation, and he didn’t want it because magicians could not be trusted? I had to stifle the urge to start shouting.
“Howel,” the queen said, her voice soft. “Do you know how to use these?”
“Not yet, Majesty,” I replied. Please, let her see how important this was. Let her agree. “Your Majesty said that I was a sorcerer.” I decided to blunder ahead; it was time to be bold. “I am. But I used sorcerer and magician magic the night we defeated Korozoth, and Your Majesty said that I must control both sides of my power.”
“I believe I said control, not use.” The queen wasn’t smiling.
“This could be our best chance,” I said. Standing before the queen, I recalled once more the servant dead at the foot of her bed. His blood had been used as a message to me; I had to answer it. I had to strike at R’hlem, chosen one or not.
Whitechurch’s power stirred. I could feel it on my skin, and it made me light-headed. “This is not our way,” he thundered.
“But it might be the best way,” the queen said. That stopped the Imperator. “This is dangerous, Howel.” For one moment, I held my breath. Finally, she sighed. “Who would assist you in this?”
Oh, thank God and Strangewayes and even bloody Mickelmas.
“I would, Your Majesty,” Magnus said. “Captain Ambrose doesn’t want me back on board until my arm is fully recovered. Allow me to be of service.”
“And I, Majesty,” Blackwood said, though he sounded far more reluctant.
“There might be others who would agree,” I said. I’d write to the boys, Dee and Wolff and Lambe. There was a small, selfish part of me that wanted us all together again.
“Very well,” the queen said. Whitechurch kept silent, though I could read his disapproving thoughts. “But these weapons must work. If they don’t, you will put them aside.” She closed the book’s cover. “Or you will face dire consequences.”
“Yes, Majesty,” I breathed.
Once again, I was playing with fire.
The next day, Blackwood and I arrived at the Camden Town barracks with the weaponry and the few scratchings of a plan. The barracks themselves were two stables remodeled into sleeping quarters, with a wide, oval-shaped training yard for practice. Apart from a select few—Blackwood and myself included, since I couldn’t well sleep in bunks with men all about—this was where the younger, unmarried sorcerers lived, trained, and waited to be called for battle.
Men ran drills as we entered, lunging forward seven, eight, ten times on command. Squadron leaders blew whistles, sending their men into different formations: the diamond patterns best suited for weaving nets of flame, the circles that anchored sorcerers as they made the earth tremble and shake. I blushed watching; it was a humid day at the end of summer, and some of them had their coats off. Even after all the weeks of living in Agrippa’s house, I’d not got used to men without proper dress. If Agrippa were here, he’d say…
He wasn’t, though.
Agrippa betrayed you. Those were the words I repeated to myself whenever the pain of missing him grew too great. I had tried to hate him, but his betrayal had been partly my own fault: I had not trusted him, and that had made him not trust me.
And now I was stuck with an annoyed-looking Valens coming over to meet us.
“There you are.” His mouth tightened at the sight of the magician weapons. “The others are already arrived.” He led us around the buildings to a smaller, more secluded area. This yard was walled, the cobblestones small and unevenly laid.
I held a packet of papers i
n my hand, instruction sheets I’d spent the night working up. Reading through Strangewayes’s book had proven slow going; the ink had become blurred in many places, and the language and spelling were antiquated. Still, I’d done my best. Strangewayes’s “introduction” had been particularly interesting:
In approaching these beasts, one must remember: they are not cattle, nor deer, nor anything that can be cudgeled or cajoled into obedience. They are monsters from the depths of nightmares. No mercy must be shown them, no compassion, and no hesitation if death is the only option. Whip the creatures until the blood flows, beacon them into a stupor, pipe until they are at the brink of despairing madness, but do not stop. Do not yield. One cannot look into the Devil’s eyes and expect to glimpse his soul.
Not the cheeriest language. The very back of the book wasn’t uplifting either, for Strangewayes had written in it when he’d gone well past the brink of despairing madness himself. A thick black circle had been drawn over and over again, with such strength that the pen had broken through the paper in some places. The stars are black, he’d written above it, along with mentions of that Kindly Emperor, the maker and unmaker of worlds.
WITNESS HIS SMILE was scrawled over three pages. I’d decided to leave these sections out of our training.
Dee was seated on a bench against the wall, examining one of the daggers. Magnus stood in the center of the yard and kept trying to get his corkscrew sword to behave itself. Whenever he tried swinging it, it whined in the air like a sick dog.
“I believe I’m an expert,” he called. He’d already taken his arm out of its sling. Now it was bandaged tightly, and he winced when he moved it. Hopefully, he’d let Maria take another look at it.
“Some things never change.” Blackwood went to lay the scythe against the wall. He would not be in an approving mood for any of this. Still, he’d sat with me in the library, helping to make copies of the instructions. He’d seen the weapons loaded carefully this morning, checking each in turn. Duty. He’d told me once that was his lifeblood. His queen gave an order, and he would see it done.
A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire, Book Two) Page 9