A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire, Book Two) Page 4

  “We’re missing something.” I was missing something, but if I only worked a little harder…

  “He’s coughing black blood.” Fenswick pricked up his rabbit-like ears. “What further proof do you need?”

  No. No. I put my face in my hands.

  “We have to keep trying. Please.” I remembered being out on the moor with Rook that day when everything changed. Maybe if we hadn’t gone away from the school, if Gwen hadn’t found us, if Agrippa hadn’t saved us, if, if, if. Memories danced through my mind. The time we’d gone swimming in the miller’s pond, daring each other to leap into the cold water first. The day I’d revealed my powers at our meeting place on the moor, and the wonder on his face as he regarded the patch of scorched earth in front of me. Screaming as I erupted into flame when the shadow Familiars tried to take him away. His battle with Korozoth to save me. The apple he’d given me only a few days before. The moment in Agrippa’s kitchens when we’d nearly kissed—all those moments leading to nothing?

  No. I wouldn’t allow it. “Please,” I said again, with more force.

  “I doubt anything will change.” Fenswick began to stack some pewter bowls.

  “Then I think we should tell him what’s happening.” I’d had my fill of lying to those I cared about.

  “Don’t,” Fenswick warned. “Such honesty could prove fatal. Fear and anger accelerate the poison.”

  I cast a weary glance over the apothecary. The same herbs and fungi, the same bowls and bandages as always. We’d tried new remedies nearly every night for months, and nothing had changed.

  “Give him some peace,” Fenswick said with a sigh. “He deserves that.”

  “All right,” I muttered, rubbing my burning eyes. “Would you mind if I read in here for a while?” Fenswick’s ears flapped in surprise. Shivering, I said, “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Fine,” he said, gently.

  I went downstairs, gathered my papers from the library, and then let Lilly help me prepare for bed. It would be cruel to keep her up much later than this. Afterward, I took my wrap, lifted Mickelmas’s chest onto a cushion of air, and brought it upstairs to Fenswick’s apothecary. I was going to go through the whole damned thing if I could. Anything to keep my thoughts preoccupied.

  I read as the bells outside struck midnight. Tired, I cupped my chin in my hand and listened.

  Bells were a necessary part of my life now. After the ward fell, the Order agreed that it needed a way to signal to every sorcerer in the city simultaneously. The result was a system of bells, which would ring in simple patterns to instruct and assemble us. Two long, solemn tolls, three quick, light ones, and one more loud peal? That would mean R’hlem was on the outskirts of town. We’d not heard that pattern yet, thank God.

  Tonight, after the twelfth bell, I waited. And yes, four long, rolling chimes followed. A simple changing of the guard along the barriers. I’d have to take a shift tomorrow afternoon.

  Fenswick cleaned his spoons and measuring cups and lined up glass vials of fungi and unsavory-looking animal parts. He took such joy in all his little oddities, but seeing a dish filled with cold jellied goose intestine did make me a tad ill.

  “What exactly are you trying to find?” Fenswick asked an hour later as he poured me some hot black liquid that smelled like licorice. I took a sip, gagged, and swallowed the whole thing. It worked; the tiredness rushed out of my body. I felt as though I could climb several mountains in one go, and rummaged through the trunk again.

  “A clue.” Hissing, I sliced my finger on a paper, and a bead of blood welled on the tip. I laid my head on the table and forced myself not to start banging it.

  “Why should your magical trunk help you there?” Fenswick took a thimble of that licorice stuff for himself. “Surely whatever you want won’t simply spring to your fingertips.”

  His words struck me. Whatever you want. I grabbed my packet and fished out the note Mickelmas had left me. His last communication, two months ago, read: Never what you want, ever what you need, until we meet again.

  Perhaps it wasn’t simply a note. Trust that old devil to slip a spell in where I least expected it. Blood welled on the tip of my finger again, and I remembered one of the old pamphlets I’d read from Zachariah Hatch, Queen Anne’s favorite magician: Blood oils the hinge of reality, swinging open the door between what is wished for and what is.

  I bled onto Mickelmas’s note, then grabbed Porridge—it sat on the table beside me, as I never went anywhere without it—and laid the bloodstained note into the red velvet lining of the trunk. I shut the lid and started swirling Porridge in slow circles. This was a standard sorcerer move, one that I found helpful when trying a new spell. The more basic the stave movement, the greater clarity I had in working the magic.

  I’d been practicing in secret over the past two months. Seeking out little spells from Mickelmas’s trunk, I’d continued my unusual education in mixing sorcerer and magician magic. Words didn’t work for me, unlike most magicians. Perhaps it had to do with my stave. But finding the proper movement and focusing my will tended to help.

  Now, instinctively, I sent Porridge in a slow, gliding figure eight over the lid. This was a maneuver designed to bring something up out of the depths of the water. I focused on the Ancients. Images of hideous Molochoron, a great moldy lump of jelly; fierce On-Tez, with her black wings and sharp teeth; Callax, with his great height and muscled arms; fire-breathing Zem; Nemneris, the giant glittering spider—visions of all the monsters coursed through my brain. Tingling began, starting in my elbows, shooting down to my hands. My blood and magic were responding.

  How could I beat them?

  My focus narrowed to R’hlem. I could feel it again, the slimy, bloody coldness of his hand on my throat. My feet slipping for purchase, and the way he squeezed and squeezed, choking the life out of me. The burning ugliness of his yellow eye, taking in my face as he strangled me.

  A bloom of hatred warmed my blood. Embers sizzled against the lines of my hands. I imagined slamming a knife hilt-deep into his bloody chest.

  How? How? Where do I start?

  Porridge pulsed, and the lid swung open on its own. It had worked. With a cry of excitement, I looked inside to find a rolled-up canvas.

  Not a book. Not a knife. If I was supposed to battle the forces of darkness with an oil painting of some lively spring countryside, I was going to hurt somebody.

  “What are you?” I grumbled, unfurling the thing. “A portrait of dogs dressed in amusing outfits?”

  “I love those,” Fenswick said, brightening at once.

  I looked down at the painting…and my body went numb. Hastily, I knocked some bowls out of the way and laid the canvas out on the table.

  Dear God.

  “What in the Undergrowth?” Fenswick murmured, twisting his head back and forth to get a better look.

  “The Imperator needs to see this.” My voice shook with excitement as I rolled the picture up and tucked it beneath my arm.

  —

  UNFORTUNATELY, WHITECHURCH WAS IN DEVON ON business, so I had to wait. Two days later, the Imperator sat in his chamber in the obsidian cathedral, the painting open on the table before him. His thin, veined hands traced the canvas. First, he flipped to the back, as I had, to make certain he’d read it right. Portrait of Ralph Strangewayes, at his home in Cornwall. Taming the bird. 1526–1540 or thereabouts.

  He turned the painting over. It showed a bushy-bearded man, dressed in standard clothes of the Tudor era. He was a long-faced fellow with a gold-beaded cap and a doublet of forest green.

  This was Ralph Strangewayes, the founder of magician craft in England.

  Strangewayes stood in the foreground. Behind him, there was a small house, the magician’s home. The house wasn’t what had captured my attention, though.

  It was On-Tez, the Vulture Lady. I knew the sight of her immediately: a large black vulture’s body with the head of a sharp-toothed, hook-nosed old woman. She flew high in the air above Stran
gewayes. Her horrible sharp teeth were bared in a dreadful grimace, her black wings fully extended.

  Strangewayes didn’t appear discomfited by this at all. In fact, he was blithely holding a chain—a chain that stretched all the way up to connect to On-Tez’s ankle.

  Here was a painting of one of the Ancients three hundred years before the war began. And Ralph Strangewayes, father of all English magicianship, apparently had not only dealt with the Ancients but been able to control them. To keep them, like pets.

  Taming the bird, indeed.

  I waited for Whitechurch’s response, trying not to bob up and down with excitement. After all, he could be angry with me for disobeying his orders. Well, they hadn’t been orders exactly, had they? More like suggestions. That’s what I’d told Blackwood on our way down here; he’d insisted on coming, in case he needed to speak up for me.

  He waited by the doorway like a disapproving shadow.

  “Where did you say you found this?” Whitechurch finally looked up at me.

  “In my father’s collection, sir.” Blackwood lied easily. I hated that he had to do it, but mentioning Mickelmas’s chest was impossible.

  “Mmm.” Whitechurch rolled up the painting. I held my breath. “Are you certain of the date?” he asked us quietly, looking from one to the other.

  “I’m no expert, sir, but it looks real. I researched Ralph Strangewayes’s Cornwall home,” I said. No need to tell him my information came from one of Mickelmas’s books, The Ascent of Magic. “It’s in Tintagel.”

  “You want to go there.” Whitechurch leaned back in his chair, absently stroking his chin.

  “Yes,” I said. He stayed silent. Oh dear. “Strangewayes must have been able to control these creatures, if this painting is anything to go by. If there’s something we can learn…”

  “You had better do it.” Whitechurch nodded. “Blackwood, you are in charge of this particular assignment. Go with Howel.”

  I shut up at once, stunned. That had been far easier than I’d expected. Even though I was the one who’d found the blasted painting in the first place, I found I couldn’t get too frustrated that Blackwood had been given the lead. At least we’d be doing this together.

  “When should we leave, sir?” Blackwood said. He sounded rather dumbfounded. But if the Imperator assigned him something, he’d get it done.

  “The Queen Charlotte is stationed in St. Katharine’s Docks. She leaves to patrol Cornwall against the Spider today, I believe. I’ll write to Caius and have him wait upon you.”

  Today. I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to Rook before I left—I’d missed him at breakfast. Fear of returning from a mission to find Rook gone reared its head. But if there were some key in Cornwall to end this madness, then it would be worth it.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, sir, I can’t believe you’re allowing this,” I blurted out.

  “I might not have, but for the letters I’ve received.” He looked rather uncomfortable. “Word has spread amongst the queen’s government. They are petitioning Her Majesty to give in to R’hlem’s demands.”

  Parliament would hand me over on a silver platter if it could, no doubt. Bloody cowards. The government and the prime minister, Lord Melbourne, did not like me. They blamed me for opening their city to slaughter and the queen to danger. Once again, I imagined cool water running down my hands, calming myself.

  Perhaps leaving London was a good idea.

  —

  “YOU SHOULD BE AT HOME,” BLACKWOOD told Eliza, sounding exasperated as our carriage pulled up to the docks.

  Eliza plumped the large emerald silk bow of her bonnet. In a forest-green velvet gown that highlighted her beautiful eyes, she’d dressed especially nicely to see us off.

  “Honestly, George, you make me feel as though I shouldn’t care about your going to war at all,” she said.

  “Eliza’s right. You should be more charitable,” I said.

  Eliza beamed at me, and Blackwood grumbled as he got out of the carriage and handed us down. On the ground, I waited for the coachman to set my satchel on the dock, then hefted it onto my shoulder—despite Blackwood’s trying to take it—and walked. It banged against my back with every step. I’d attempted to pack light, but I hadn’t been sure what I’d need. The journey to Cornwall would take at least five days by boat if the weather stayed good. Even if we had extraordinary luck in finding Strangewayes’s house, this whole expedition would last the better part of two weeks.

  Two weeks away from Rook. My stomach lurched to think of it. I’d left a note for him before I’d gone, hastily scribbling it while Blackwood waited.

  I have to attend to the Order’s business. I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.

  I’d sat there a full two minutes, debating whether to write the word love, and how to write it. Blackwood had had to remind me that the tide waited for no one.

  The cool breeze snatched at my skirts as I walked along. Ships were anchored and waiting in the water, their sails tied up. Men climbed up and down the rigging, while barrels and other cargo were loaded. Sailors swarmed the decks, their sleeves rolled to show sunburned arms decorated with tattoos of frolicking mermaids or rude parrots. One of them caught me looking and winked.

  Was it my imagination, or was the dock moving beneath my feet? My stomach rippled. I’d never been sailing before. My father was supposed to have drowned at sea, after all, which hadn’t made me especially keen on it. But then Mickelmas had denied that story, right before he’d vanished that terrible night in St. Paul’s Cathedral, when the world fell down around our ears.

  Bloody Mickelmas.

  I’d tried writing letters to him, putting them in his chest and hoping that they’d reach him. I’d kept asking what on earth he’d meant about my father, but nothing ever came of it. I wasn’t sure if he’d received the notes, or if he simply didn’t care.

  Speaking of the chest, I touched the strings of the reticule at my wrist. I’d brought a few magician spells. Not all of them, of course, but one never knew when they could come in handy.

  “There,” Blackwood said by my ear, pointing to a rather grand vessel. She was lacquered black and trimmed in gold along the sides, sporting enough masts to seem a veritable forest. “Queen Charlotte.”

  “We’re looking for Captain Ambrose, yes?” I asked as we dodged around a pair of men wheeling a barrow. One of them looked after Eliza and muttered something I hoped I hadn’t understood.

  “Whitechurch said they’d have someone assigned to help us.”

  “To take us to the cliffs, or all the way to Strangewayes’s house?” I asked as we arrived at the—what was it called? Gangplank? Really, my knowledge of all things nautical could fill a small thimble.

  “All the way. He’s supposed to be a great soldier.”

  “Bless my soul,” a familiar voice cried.

  Blackwood’s head snapped up as Magnus sauntered down the walkway toward us. “Is this a reunion? We should have invited all of Master Agrippa’s former Incumbents. Though I believe Dee vomits at sea.”

  Magnus stepped onto the dock, smiling easily. He hadn’t changed a bit in the months since I’d seen him. His hair was still a shining mass of auburn curls, and his gray eyes still sparkled with irreverence. Yes, he’d the same square jaw, broad shoulders, and infuriatingly informal expression. My spirits plummeted. Blackwood looked as though he’d swallowed a raw turnip. Eliza was the only one who appeared delighted.

  “You’re here?” Blackwood sounded exasperated already.

  “I am, Blacky, though I appreciate the philosophy of the question. After all, are we any of us here? Can existence be truly proven? You’ve given me much to think about.” Magnus sketched me a short bow. “Howel. A pleasure.”

  “Yes,” I said stiffly. Magnus wore a tightly fitted blue naval coat with tan breeches. Looking more closely, I noticed his hair sported streaks of gold. His tan face had reddened a bit at the tip of his nose and the sharp lines of his cheeks; his body had grown leaner. Perh
aps he had changed in the months we’d been apart. The boy I’d known in Agrippa’s house had experienced only the briefest moments of combat. He’d been far busier helping me train, showing me the city, and growing closer than I should have allowed. He’d kissed me one night, quickly reminding me that I could only ever be a toy for him—he was already engaged, after all.

  True, Magnus had come to aid me in the final battle against Korozoth, and I’d wanted us to start over as friends. But the last time I’d seen him, he’d held my hand and whispered that he couldn’t let me go. I’d walked away and hadn’t seen him since.

  I’d been perfectly comfortable with that.

  “Oh, Mr. Magnus,” Eliza cooed, extending her hand. “I’d no idea you’d be here.” The over-the-top way she said it indicated that she’d perhaps had an inkling. Her insistence on coming to see us off made a great deal more sense now. Blackwood’s whole face seemed to contract as Magnus kissed Eliza’s hand.

  “My lady, you are more charming than ever. Is it possible you’re still not sixteen?” He tsked. “Inconceivable.”

  Eliza giggled. “We’re planning a splendid party for my birthday. I hope you’ll be one of the guests?”

  Blackwood and I exchanged a look. As if this expedition weren’t stressful enough.

  “How could I refuse such an invitation?” He all but winked at her. Right. He hadn’t changed at all.

  “Come along,” Blackwood muttered, taking Eliza’s arm and practically dragging her back to the coach.

  “Goodbye, Eliza.” I waved to her.

  “Goodbye!” She smiled at me, and then, “Farewell!” she cried to Magnus. I wondered if she’d toss him her handkerchief as a keepsake. Magnus kept grinning roguishly. Bloody fool.

  “Don’t worry, Howel,” he said, turning to me. “You get me all to yourself on the boat.”

  I wanted to strangle him.

  “How is Miss Winslow?” I asked. At the mention of his fiancée, Magnus’s face fell, but only slightly.

  “She’s well. And Rook?” The humor vanished from his voice. He knew about Rook’s “condition.” Granted, he didn’t know everything. Part of me wanted to tell him what was happening, to tell someone.