Chantress Alchemy (7 page)

It hurt to see his dismay. We stared at each other a moment more. Then, with an expression of pain, he bowed his head. It seemed I had won the argument. But at what cost?

It can all be sorted out later
, I told myself.
As long as we come through this.

I pushed back my chair and stood. “You said you had the seeds, Your Majesty?”

“They will be brought here now,” the King said.

Sir Isaac and Wrexham rose from the table and left the room. When they returned, they were carrying a locked, gold-studded coffer, which they set before the King. Each man then produced a key—brass for Sir Isaac, silver for Wrexham, and gold for the King—and inserted it into the matching lock. Three clicks, and the coffer opened.

The King took hold of the stoppered glass vial inside it. “Here they are.” He raised the vial to the light, illuminating the tiny seeds within it. “The sole store of moonbriar left in the world. The rest has been destroyed, as I’m sure you know.”

I nodded. I had heard that the Council had taken this decision, and I approved of it. Moonbriar seed was one of the last things in the world that I wanted to see distributed widely.

For a fascinated moment, the King stared at the seeds. Then he lowered the vial and asked me, “Are you ready?”

“You have not told me which minds I am to read.”

“Why, the minds of those without alibis,” the King said. “I thought that was clear.”

“Yes, but where am I to start?”

“Here.” Wrexham did not hesitate. “With the Council. If there are any vipers here, we’ll roust them out now.”

“I find it hard to believe that anyone here would betray us, but I suppose it is well to be sure,” the King said. “Who among you shall go first? Wrexham has an alibi, but most of the rest of you do not.”

The question was met by unhappy silence. Everyone except Wrexham kept his head down.

Nat stood up. “Let it be me.”

I gaped at him. He’d been completely against using the moonbriar seeds, and I knew for a fact that he loathed having his mind read. Why on earth was he volunteering for this? Was it a bluff?

It was only when he came toward me, and I saw the desperate concern in his eyes, that I realized the truth: there was no bluff here, no subterfuge. Nat was simply trying to protect me in the
only way he knew how, the only way he had left.
If you have to walk into someone’s mind, let it be mine
, his eyes said.
You know I would never harm you.

I couldn’t reach out to him; I couldn’t thank him. Too many people were watching us. Afraid they would read my emotions in my face, I looked down at the floor.

“Well, well,” said Wrexham. “You surprise me, young Walbrook. And it seems you have surprised the Chantress as well.”

“Well done,” the King said to Nat. “Now tell us, Chantress, what do we do next?”

“We prepare ourselves.” I pushed back my chair and turned to Nat, still not daring to touch him, or even to look straight at him. I backed away from the table and motioned to a spot an arm’s length away. “Could you stand here?”

To the King, I explained, “Once I have sung, I must touch the person whose mind I wish to read. Or, at the very least, touch something that belongs to him. But having the person close by is especially helpful.”

The other Council members came away from the table and assembled around us. The King handed the vial of moonbriar seeds to me. “You will sing now?”

“Yes.” I tried not to let my hands tremble on the smooth glass. Moonbriar, like all magic things, had music that was especially potent—and sometimes especially deceptive as well. Where would it take me this time? Would I be its master? Or would it overmaster me?

I eased the stopper a fraction upward, listening for the first
faint strains of moonbriar song. The only music I heard was a muted strain from the Thames—and even that was surprisingly soft, given how close the river was. The walls here must be very thick.

Ignoring the Thames, I pulled the stopper all the way out. This time an acrid smell and a soft melody twined up to meet me.

I brought the open vial closer. Yes, there was a song here—but was it the right one? I didn’t recall it twisting and turning this way.

“There’s something odd about the music,” I told the Council.

“If it sounds wrong, then don’t sing it,” Nat said.

The King, however, simply gave me a long, hard glance. “Are you saying you can’t proceed?”

“I’m saying it might be risky, Your Majesty.”

Wrexham growled. “We all have to take chances, Chantress.”

Reluctant as I was to admit it, there was something in what he said. And in truth, I couldn’t be sure there really was anything wrong with the song. Memory wasn’t all that reliable where song-spells were concerned. That was one reason why I’d needed the seeds themselves to do this work. And these seeds were older and drier than the ones I’d used before. That alone might account for the difference in the songs. I just wished the melody were clearer and simpler, so that I could understand its subtleties more clearly.

Well, perhaps I’d understand it better once I started to sing it. It worked that way sometimes. I bent over the vial of moonbriar seeds and let the song spin into me.

Nat didn’t try to stop me. Perhaps he sensed that it would be hard to turn back now.

Catching hold of the tangled tune, I gave voice to the first trill. The sinuous lines looped around and around, and as I sang them, I relaxed, lulled by their smooth sound. I’d been wrong to worry: the song was still a mystery to me, but nothing bad had happened so far—

The seeds sizzled.

I stopped in alarm.

The vial erupted into flame.

Fiery tendrils shot out of the glass, thickening and swirling like a burning vine. Shocked, I dropped the vial, but the matting cushioned its fall, and the vine only grew faster. A monstrous plant took shape before us: a moonbriar bush made of flame. Flowers bloomed on its branches, scorching my face and dress.

The King drew back. Councillors bellowed and shouted.

“Look out!” Nat leaped toward the heart of the fire and flung his leather coat over the vial. Smothered, the flames went out. Only a ghastly smoke remained, smelling of rotten moonbriar fruit. Through it, the King and Council peered at me, aghast.

“What in heaven’s name was that?” The King’s light freckles stood out like copper constellations against his white face.

“I—I don’t know,” I said. “It’s never happened before.”

“You
made
it happen,” Wrexham accused. His hand was on the jeweled hilt of his dagger, I was alarmed to see.

“I never meant to,” I said. “I swear I didn’t.”

Sir Isaac, Sir Samuel, and Nat were kneeling over the half-charred coat and the vial underneath it.

“The seeds are gone,” Sir Samuel cried out. “The fire’s consumed them!”

As cries of consternation filled the room, Wrexham’s hand slammed into the table. “God’s blood, Chantress! Are you playing with us?”

My hands tensed into fists. “Of course not, Lord Wrexham.”

“So you say. But you were against mind-reading from the first . . . and now, suddenly, the moonbriar seeds are gone. How fortunate for you.”

The room had gone quiet again. Everyone was waiting for my answer. I glanced at the King, who looked back at me with troubled eyes. Why was he allowing Wrexham to hector me like this? Did he, too, think I was guilty?

“I told you the song sounded wrong,” I reminded him. “I told you at the start.”

The King acknowledged this with a thoughtful nod. “It’s true: you did warn us that something wasn’t right.” He looked more sure of me now. “Tell me, Chantress: Is it possible someone tampered with the seeds somehow—by magic or other means? Would that change their song?”

“I suppose so.” I didn’t have much experience in such matters, but something had clearly altered the moonbriar song.

Sir Isaac wrapped a handkerchief around the vial and set it on the table. The glass was cracked and misshapen by the heat.
“Did you notice anything else that wasn’t right about the seeds, Chantress? Their appearance? Their scent?”

“They had a strange smell,” I remembered. “A bit like vinegar, only more bitter.”

“Ah!” Sir Isaac seemed intrigued. “Most unusual. So perhaps someone did tamper with them, then. It remains to be seen, however, whether the change was effected by chemical or magical means.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Wrexham demanded, swinging closer to me.

“I have no idea,” I said. Without thinking, I looked at Nat—not to accuse him, but out of a foolish instinct to seek his help when I was in trouble.

The others in the room followed my gaze.

“I see,” said the King. “He has never been happy about the existence of moonbriar, has he? And he would do almost anything to protect you.” He spoke with distress, as if the idea pained him, but also with growing conviction.

“He didn’t do it,” I said quickly, raising my voice as I saw how many others were leaping to the same conclusion. “He wouldn’t. He’s not like that.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Nat said hotly. “I’m not sorry the confounded seeds are gone. But I wouldn’t go behind everyone’s backs that way.”

I wished he’d left out the bit about not being sorry. But that was Nat all over: he was forthright to a fault. It was hard for him to follow his own advice to keep quiet, to be discreet.

Not that I found it easy to follow, either. I couldn’t help defending him. “He objected to my using the moonbriar seeds,” I pointed out to the Council. “Why would he have bothered to do that if he’d known the seeds were going to burn up?”

“The Chantress speaks sense.” Penebrygg’s voice was calm, but he was stroking his beard in a way he only did when very worried.

Lord Roxburgh shrugged. “Maybe Walbrook wanted to throw us off the scent.”

“But how could I have done anything to the moonbriar seeds?” Nat countered. “I don’t have a single one of the three keys, and you need them all to open the coffer.”

“We do,” Wrexham said. “But a thief wouldn’t.”

Nat’s eyes flared. “I’m not a thief.”

“You stole things from Scargrave, did you not?” Wrexham said.

“To help defeat him, yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m a thief.”

The other members of the Invisible College and I backed him up.

“He was a spy,” I said. “That’s entirely different.”

“Quite correct,” Sir Isaac confirmed. “Nat did steal on occasion, but only at the direction of the Invisible College, and only to aid the resistance.”

“A more honorable lad would be hard to find,” Penebrygg said.

“Couldn’t have succeeded without him,” Sir Samuel agreed.

Wrexham ignored us. “Once a thief, always a thief,” he said, and the meeting dissolved into shouts.

“Order,” the King cried. “Order!” When the room quieted, he said wearily, “And you wonder why it is that I do not call a full
Council more often. Please let us return to our seats and try to conduct our business without breaking into a brawl.”

The Council members went back to their chairs, Nat more slowly than the rest. I sat too. Once we were settled, the King gestured across the table. “Sir Isaac, you wish to say something?”

“Only that the coffer possesses a most unusual and intricate set of locks,” Sir Isaac said. “Even if Nat could force them—and however great his skill, I’m not sure he could—the attempt would have left scratches and damaged the mechanism. And the locks show no such signs. So that, by itself, should defend him against idle accusations.”

Wrexham looked set to interrupt again, but Sir Isaac wasn’t finished. “Not only that, but Nat had no way of reaching the coffer. Aside from this meeting, it has been kept in the Treasury at all times, under guard.”

“With the crucible?” I asked.

“Yes.” The King looked at Sir Isaac. “Are you suggesting—”

“I am.” Sir Isaac tapped his fingertips together. “Whoever stole the crucible may have tampered with the moonbriar seeds too, in hopes of forestalling our efforts to find him.”

“But the keys,” the King said. “He wouldn’t have had the keys.”

“There aren’t any copies?” I asked.

“No,” the King said.

“There might be,” Sir Isaac said more slowly. “The one person who would know for certain is the man who had the coffer made: Sir Barnaby Gadding.”

The King looked alarmed. “Then we must send someone to him at once.”

“It won’t be that easy,” Sir Isaac warned. “You will remember, Your Majesty, that after Sir Barnaby was taken ill last autumn, he retreated to his estate in Devon, in the hopes of improving his health. Sadly, I had a letter less than a fortnight ago from Lady Gadding, who tells me Sir Barnaby’s condition has worsened. He lives, it seems, but he cannot speak, or even understand most questions.”

“We shall send someone to him regardless,” the King said. “If he cannot help us, perhaps Lady Gadding can, or one of his servants.”

“It sounds like a wild goose chase to me, Your Majesty,” Wrexham griped. “The guilty party is certain to be here, not in Devon. We would do better to take action here and now.”

“We cannot act without evidence.” The King, I was glad to see, was not in Wrexham’s pocket, even if he did allow him more latitude than I would have liked. “All we can do is what we’ve done so far: allow no one to leave the palace until the crucible is found and the mystery is solved.” He turned to me. “Chantress, you must remain here for now.”

“I understand,” I said, but it was a blow. I had hoped for a speedy return to Norrie and Norfolk. Instead, I had to contend with a theft, a murderer, and a Council that mistrusted me.

“The moonbriar magic has failed,” the King said, “but you must have other enchantments that can help us. I understand, for instance, that you can sing yourself invisible?”

I had once had that power, yes. But it had come to me through Proven Magic, not Wild Magic, and so it had vanished when my ruby had cracked. I was loath to explain as much, however. After
my failure with the moonbriar, it would make me look very weak indeed. “That would not be the best way forward, Your Majesty,” I temporized. “You have set me a difficult problem, and I will need some time to consider how to approach it.”