Chantress (29 page)

“I will not sing such songs. Not ever.”

Not even if you are afraid?
the grimoire asked softly.

Fear slammed into me—a deep, sickening fear that made my
heart lurch and my knees buckle. The flame of the grimoire leaped and whirled around me as I fought to stay standing, to breathe . . . .

A ripple of pleasure, almost like laughter, radiated from the grimoire.
There. I think that makes my point.

As it spoke, the fear slackened. I unclenched my body and gulped at the sweet air.

A very effective means of control, fear,
the grimoire mused.
It worked well with Scargrave, too.

For the first time ever, I felt a flash of compassion for the Lord Protector. Had the grimoire tortured him like this too?

I could not reach him as well as I can reach you, however. And, of course, you have much more power. We will make good partners, you and I.

“No.” I did not want the kind of partnership the grimoire had in mind.

You have no choice.

I clamped my hands on its pages. “I am your mistress.”

Are you?

Terror battered me again, bending my body like a bow. Everything in the room seemed to writhe. Pleading, screaming, sobbing, weeping—the sound of fear came at me from every direction, even from the grimoire itself.

Yes, even the grimoire.

Suddenly my own fear diminished. “You are frightened,” I gasped.

No. I am never afraid.

But I was listening now with sudden hope. And in the
undertow of the throb of fear that racked the room, I heard at last what the grimoire wanted to obscure: a fleeting hint of a melody that would lead to its own destruction. And trilling high above it, the grimoire’s great fear: that I would find this Wild Magic and use it.

Could I? Would I? Merely taking off my ruby to hear the song properly would be a terrible risk. And there was no guarantee that the song was the right one, or that it would work.

You wouldn’t dare,
the grimoire said quickly.

As it spoke, my fear of Wild Magic flared. How could I even be thinking of this? My ruby was my key to safety: What if I lost it forever?

But if fear almost stopped me, it also showed me the way forward: For why would the grimoire be so frightened unless it thought I could succeed?

Wrenching a hand free from the grimoire, I pulled off the ruby. As it fell onto the open pages of the grimoire, a fearful music enveloped me like a great wind. A thousand perverse melodies howled in my ear, desperate for me to sing them. But I plunged down and found the song I was looking for, tolling like a dirge beneath the others: the song that would destroy the grimoire.

As I let it sink into my mind, the full force of the grimoire’s rage came barreling at me.

If you destroy me, you destroy yourself. The people in this room hate you. They will cut you down when I am gone.

I closed my eyes, wanting not to believe this, but achingly afraid it was true.

They are your enemies, all of them. The King—

“He has a good heart,” I said weakly. “I could feel it when I was in his mind. He does not want to rule by fear.”

He was raised to hate Chantresses. He was raised to hunt and kill them. If you do not have my powers, he will hunt and kill you.

A tremor ran through me. Was the grimoire right?

And those men who helped you, that so-called college—do you think they trust you? Do you think they admire you? Oh no. If they could, they would dissect you like an insect and take your magic from you. Even the boy Nat. He hates magic; he told you so. Which means he hates you. They are clever men, he and his companions. To control them will require all our power.

The world seemed to spin before me. Was the grimoire crazy for suspecting Nat and his friends? Or was I the crazy one, for trusting them?

Nothing is safe.

No one can be trusted.

Destroy me, and you will die.

Overcome by fear, I sank to my knees, clutching the grimoire. Dimly I remembered that I had found a song that would destroy it. But that made no sense. Why would I destroy the one thing in all the world that could keep me safe?

And then, beyond the fire of the grimoire, I caught a glimpse of Nat’s hands. The hands that had brought me through the Raven Pit. The hands that had saved me. The hands that had pulled me into his mind and sheltered me there and given me strength . . .

My head cleared.

Nat did not hate me.

Which meant the grimoire was telling lies to save itself. While my mind was still clear, I must try to put an end to it in the only way I knew how.

Destroy me, and you destroy your own stone,
the grimoire hissed.
You will never be safe again.

My breath caught. Was this the truth? Perhaps. But there was another truth the grimoire was trying to hide from me: that some kinds of safety were not worth having.

Without waiting any longer, I plunged into song.

It was like diving down to the ocean depths. I clung to the notes, following the cool, dark line of the magic. And as I sang, I could feel the white heat of the grimoire fighting me.

Do not destroy me. Do not destroy us both.

The song drew on everything inside me—my hopes, my strength, my full self. Alongside my fear and my desperation, I felt a rising exhilaration. Whatever it might cost me, this kind of wild singing felt powerful and true and right. It was what I was born to do.

No,
the grimoire wailed.

I sang on, and after a time, the wail died away. The grimoire was weakening. Colder and colder it became, till I felt as if I were holding not a book but a block of ice.

Only when the song curved toward its end did the grimoire speak again, this time in a whisper:

Do not sing me into darkness.

As I sang out the very last note, long and deep, the book turned
clear and brittle; my stone slid from its pages, glowing like pure fire. The Shadowgrims quieted, their power ebbing. To my shock, one man was strong enough to break free of them: Scargrave.

He lunged—not at me but at the grimoire. Was it fear that drove him? Greed? Perhaps even grief? Whatever it was, it was his undoing. When he touched the grimoire, it shattered like ice, taking him with it. For an instant, tiny, glittering shards hung in the air like silver stars, before vanishing like snowflakes in summer.

The ravens’ whispers ceased.

Dazed, I saw Nat look at me, the dreadful agony on his face replaced by confused joy. Behind him, the Ravens’ Own dropped their swords and blinked their eyes as if seeing the world anew. But it was the King who appeared most transformed. His air of anxiety and fretfulness vanished, leaving him looking amiable, bewildered, and a little bit shy.

The grimoire had said that the King hated Chantresses, but he did not appear—I thought—as if he hated me. I scooped up my stone. Its chain was mangled, but the stone itself seemed intact. Had the grimoire lied about this, too? Another tiny crack was all I could see, surely not a fatal flaw. Rejoicing, I set the ruby back into its place over my heart.

“Come and see, Your Majesty!” One of the Ravens’ Own, standing at the Raven Pit door, waved jubilantly. “They’re ravens now—just ravens.”

King Henry blinked and turned to me for confirmation. “The Shadowgrims are gone?”

“Yes,” I told him. “Gone for good.”

“And Lord Scargrave? He is gone too?”

“I believe so.”

Sorrow and relief warred in his face. And then, hesitantly, he asked me, “Am I still King?”

From his look of awe, I ought to have known immediately what he was thinking, but it took me a moment to piece it together.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said gently. “You are King. I have no desire to rule. I wish only to live in peace.”

He received this in silence. Did he understand that I was not a threat?

As I stood there, wondering how to reassure him, two soldiers ran in, boots and armor clattering. When they saw me, they drew their swords. “The Chantress!”

Henry’s own sword flashed. “Touch one hair of her head, and I shall have your own heads for it.”

The soldiers dropped their weapons.

“She is beyond reproach,” the King told them. “She has done what no one else could do: She has freed us from the Shadowgrims.” To me, he added, “My father used to say that if anyone is to be trusted, it is not the person who seizes power. It is the person who turns it down.”

I drew a breath of relief. It seemed I had been right to trust in his good intentions.

Raising his voice in full regal formality, the King announced,
“This lady has our gratitude—and be assured that she enjoys our royal favor and protection.” Less certainly, he added to me, “If you have need of it, that is.”

Behind the King, Nat stirred. I knew what was on his mind, for it was also on mine. “Your Majesty, what I most need right now is help for a friend who lies injured in the Feeding Room—”

“Guardsmen, see to it that the Chantress has every form of aid she desires,” King Henry commanded. “Food, drink, surgeons: whatever she requires.”

With Nat at my side, I went to the Raven Pit door. The ravens were clicking and cawing, a softer sound than I had ever heard from them, a sound without malice.

They are only birds, Nat had said. Only birds. And now it was true.

I walked past their beating wings without fear.

† † †

The next hour was a busy one. Never had anyone had so many doctors at his bedside as Penebrygg did. The guards carried him by stretcher to a luxurious chamber upstairs, where he quickly regained consciousness, to my great relief. Even so, the doctors kept taking his pulse and checking his eyes and examining the purple lump on his head. At last, however, the Royal Physician pronounced himself optimistic. “Your man has a broken ankle as well as a broken head,” he cautioned us, “and he’ll need rest and care. But in the end, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t make a full recovery.”

A page careered into the room and planted himself in front of me. “The King salutes the Lady Chantress, and would she please join him in the Great Hall, on a matter of urgency.”

What could it be? Fearful of renewed trouble, I excused myself and followed the page to a grand room, where I found the King in conversation with Sir Barnaby.

“A proclamation has already gone out, announcing the end of the Shadowgrims and the Protectorate,” the King was saying. “And we’ll want to restore Parliament as soon as possible.”

“Wonderful!” Sir Barnaby looked as if he were about to dance a jig, cane and all.

“Lucy!” From the other side of the room, Norrie rushed forward and enveloped me in a terrific hug. “My lamb. You’re safe. Oh, thank Providence, you’re safe.”

“More than safe, madam,” a deep voice behind us said. “Indeed, Miss Marlowe has saved us all.”

I looked up and saw Oldville regarding me with warm approval for the first time. At his side, Samuel Deeps bobbed up and down in fine array, a huge grin on his face. He started a chorus of loud huzzahs, backed by Christopher Linnet and others of the Invisible College, all of them jubilant.

“Come up to the roof,” the King urged me.

“Oh yes,” Norrie said. “Oh, Lucy, you must see.”

“See what?” I asked.

She wouldn’t tell me, nor would the King or any of the others. Mystified, I followed them up to the top of the White Tower, and only when I gazed down from the parapet did I understand.

“Lights!” I whispered. “Oh, look at them.”

It was night, and yet all across London the lights blazed: lights in churches, lights in taverns, lights in homes. I saw what looked to be great bonfires in the parks, and yet more blazes on the hills above and beyond the city walls. Even on the River Thames, hundreds of small lanterns glowed and bobbed, illuminating the ferries and barges and boats that carried them.

“They’re celebrating,” Norrie told me. “We came through the streets on the way here, Lucy, and you should have seen it. They’re all out celebrating the end of the Shadowgrims.”

I clutched at her hand. “Norrie, Lady Helaine—”

I couldn’t say the rest: how she’d died, how I’d held her cold hand, how my kerchief had floated down over her face before the guards had carried her out.

“I know,” Norrie said. “I’m so sorry—for you and for her. But look out there, Lucy: Look at what you’ve done. You’ve freed a kingdom. She would be so proud of you.”

Maybe not, I thought. Yet as I gazed out over the shining city, I was comforted all the same.

“Listen,” Norrie called out to everyone.

The crowd on the roof went quiet. And then I heard it, out there in the city: music drifting up to the stars.

“They’re
singing
,” I said.

“Singing for joy.” Norrie hugged me. “There, now, aren’t you proud?”

† † †

I spent the next few days in the Tower—not as a prisoner, this time, but as the King’s most favored guest. A fortunate post, I knew, and yet it turned out to be a burdensome one too, for he wanted me at hand as he set the kingdom to rights. When I wasn’t with him, I spent most of my time besieged by courtiers. I hardly saw Nat. But finally, on the fourth night, we had a moment alone, as we kept vigil together in Penebrygg’s room.

“How was he today?” I asked.

“The physicians say he’s out of danger.” Nat watched Penebrygg’s face, now slack with sleep. “Of course, his head still aches, and the ankle will take weeks to knit together. But he talked like his old self for much of the afternoon.”

“Thank heaven,” I said.

“And your godmother?” he asked.

“Her funeral is tomorrow.” It hurt me to think of it, not only because Lady Helaine was gone but also because I was still shaken by how she had lied to me. Yet I wanted to honor her anyway. For better or worse, she had helped shape me, and she had been right about more things than I cared to admit. “We’ve kept it very quiet. I’m not expecting many mourners.”