Chantress (7 page)

I could remember nothing more. But the fear in my mother’s voice stole my breath away.

“In the library, Lord Scargrave spoke of the Shadowgrims.” I forced myself to say the word out loud, though it left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. “And I think I remember my mother mentioning them. But I don’t know what they are.”

“Count yourself lucky, then,” Nat said.

It was left to Penebrygg to give me a proper answer. “In the
beginning, they were ravens, a type bred by the Ravendon family since ancient times, and which Scargrave brought with him to the Tower of London: clever black birds, large as a man’s head, with mocking eyes and dagger-sharp beaks.” He paused and added softly. “But now they are something else entirely, and all because of the Chantress’s song.”

“What did she do?” I asked.

Nat jabbed his knife into the carving. “She made a stupid mistake.”

“A grave one, certainly,” Penebrygg said. “Her intention, or so she said, was to create truth seekers who would help Lord Scargrave find the true culprits behind the Great Devastation. But instead, her song-spell turned the birds into instruments of torture. By day, they sleep—an enchanted sleep from which none can wake them—but by night, they are hunters like none the world has ever known.”

“It’s like being in a nightmare,” Nat said, his knife still. “The kind where you’re caught so fast you can’t even scream for help. The terror seizes you first, and then comes the heat, smoky and suffocating, pressing at you from every direction.”

My hand went to my mouth. The terror I had felt in the cart, the burning fear . . . had that been the Shadowgrims?

I put the question to Nat and Penebrygg. Nat nodded. “We were near home when two Shadowgrims spotted us. One Shadowgrim swooped down and hovered over us, and the other went to summon the Watchmen. We were out after curfew, you see.”

“Weren’t you frightened?” I asked.

“Enough that it wasn’t easy to talk,” Nat said. “Or move. But the ravens kept back while the Watchmen checked us out, and I knew they would only come close if the Watchmen called them down, or if I tried to bolt. Since we had a proper pass—well, almost proper—I thought it would be all right. And it was.”

I tried not to stare at his confident face. How could he be so matter-of-fact about an encounter that had terrified me?

Penebrygg guessed what I was thinking. “Nat’s more resilient than most,” he explained. “I’d not let him go out in the night otherwise. But you shouldn’t feel you need to match him. For most of us, the fear is crippling. And it’s most paralyzing of all, they say, for Chantresses.”

He meant to make me feel better, I knew. Instead, I felt worse.

“I wouldn’t have been resilient if the Shadowgrims had come closer,” Nat said. “No one can stand up against that. And I would’ve been more afraid if I’d known you were there. But I didn’t.”

“Thanks be that the Watchmen accepted your pass,” Penebrygg said, “and that nothing more dire happened.”

“What
could
have happened?” I asked.

“You really want to know?” Nat met my eyes squarely.

A shiver went through me. “Yes.”

Penebrygg shook his head. “Nat, I’m not sure this is the best time . . .”

“She ought to know,” Nat said. “She’s a Chantress, and she’s already felt their fear. Someone should tell her the rest.”

Penebrygg bowed his head. “I suppose you are right.”

To me, Nat said, “The Shadowgrims kept their distance this time. But if someone tries to run from the Watchmen, or if the Watchmen want to make an arrest, the Shadowgrims come close. And when they do, you feel hotter and hotter, and you hear their wings fanning the flames. Then you’re taken prisoner—and if Scargrave wants to know what’s in your mind, he orders them to attack.”

“And attack they do,” Penebrygg said. “But not with beaks and talons. They brush their feathers against your skin, feeding on your thoughts as they once fed on carrion and flesh. Their touch is like fire, scorching and searing you. The terror scalds your very soul. And as you burn, the Shadowgrims pick at your mind, stripping away thoughts they later share with Scargrave.”

“They can
speak
?” I said.

“To their master, yes,” Penebrygg said. “Not with their raven croak, you understand, but in their own peculiar way, from mind to mind. Memory by memory, thought by thought, they rob you of everything that makes you human, and everything that you hold dear, until at last their dark fire consumes you.”

The smoke from the hearth seemed to thicken around me. “You mean, you die?”

“The fortunate ones do,” Penebrygg said. “They become nothing more than a pile of ash. But now and again, people live through it—in body, at least. And when that happens, they belong to the Spymaster from then on. Their own minds are gone, and their only thought is to do his bidding. Scargrave has found them very useful as Warders at the Tower, and as Watchmen to
guard the city, for they are not paralyzed by the Shadowgrims as the rest of us are, and they obey every command he gives.”

“You can see it in their eyes, if you get close,” Nat added. “There’s a dullness there that tells you they’re the Ravens’ Own.”

I remembered how they had looked in my eyes out in the shed, and how Penebrygg had reported they were normal.

“Why didn’t the Chantress undo the spell, or stop it somehow?” I asked.

“To her credit, she tried to undo her handiwork,” Penebrygg said. “But when she sang, she stumbled and seemed confused, and the song did not work. Before she could sing another note, Scargrave ordered the ravens to flock around her face. She became their very first victim.”

The hairs on my neck rose. Nat, however, was unmoved. “Done in by her own magic,” he said. “There’s justice for you.”

Penebrygg frowned. “Have pity, Nat. No one deserves such a death.”

“Maybe not. But she oughtn’t to have interfered.” Nat chipped off another bit of wood. “She did terrible harm.”

“Well, on that we can agree, at least.” Penebrygg said to me, “After she died, the Reign of Terror began. Not that many saw it that way back then. Magic workers were deeply mistrusted, and Scargrave was applauded for his quick action against the Chantress. In those early days, he used his new powers with restraint. He caged his ravens in the depths of the Tower—even today, that is where they roost—and he deployed them primarily against those suspected of treason.”

“The way people talked, you’d have thought Scargrave was a hero,” Nat said in disgust.

“Little wonder, since the Shadowgrims helped him to locate the traitors who had caused the Devastation.” To me, Penebrygg explained, “Once they’ve been in the grip of raven fear, most people will do anything rather than be shut up in their company. And those who resist have their secrets taken from them anyway, once they become raven pickings. So names were supplied, details shared—and within a fortnight, the knaves were found: a clockmaker and his cousins, as it turned out. Nothing to do with magic.”

“Why did they do it?” I asked.

“Because they considered King Charles a tyrant, and they wanted to be rid of him,” Penebrygg said.

“Was he?” It felt strange to be asking questions like this about my own country, but I had no other way of telling.

“Yes,” Nat said. “Not like Scargrave, not with magic at his command. But bad enough in his own way. He bankrupted the country, and he crushed anyone who opposed him. He even did away with Parliament, so the people had no voice.”

The whirring in the room echoed in my ears. Clocks everywhere around me . . .

“And it was a clockmaker who killed him?” I said uncomfortably.

“Yes,” said Penebrygg. “A member of our own guild, as it happened.”

“
Your
guild? Did you know him?”

“Not to speak to,” Nat said.

It was not quite the answer I’d hoped for, but Penebrygg’s response was more reassuring. “We knew him by reputation, my dear, but no more. If anyone in the guild had guessed what violence he planned, you can be sure we would have done our best to put a stop to it. But he and his cousins kept to themselves. They might never have been discovered if it hadn’t been for the Shadowgrims. So people were grateful.”

Nat flicked away a shaving of wood. “But it didn’t end there. Magic never does.”

Penebrygg sighed. “Yes, sad to say, that first hunt served only to whet Scargrave’s appetite for more searches and more arrests. None of us could understand it—the Scargrave of old would never have done such a thing—but losing his family like that must have turned his mind. He started sending patrols of Shadowgrims out by night, to ferret out malcontents and agitators and other potential threats to the Crown. If you were to look over London right now, you would see them gliding over rooftops, darting into alleys, crouching under eaves. Though, of course, it’s the ones you don’t see that you most need to worry about.”

I glanced uneasily at the nearest window. “What if the Shadowgrims are perched outside? Could they hear us?”

“Through double solid-oak shutters and two heavy wool curtains?” Nat dismissed my worry. “Not likely. Not if we keep our voices low. Anyhow, if there was a Shadowgrim so close, you would know it. You’re a Chantress. Your hair would be standing on end.”

If he’d meant this as reassurance, it failed. Indeed, my skin
began to prickle as he spoke. And Penebrygg’s next words did nothing to soothe me.

“If the Shadowgrims were all we had to worry about, that would be bad enough. But Scargrave has also established a vast web of human spies—”

“Oh!” I gasped.

Penebrygg tensed. “What is it?”

Fear rushed over me. “My skin—it’s burning.”

“Is this a joke?” Nat said, annoyed.

“A jest? Hardly.” Penebrygg was already out of his chair. “Look at her, Nat. Something is very wrong.”

The heat and the panic were fast overwhelming me; I could barely choke out any words now. “It feels like . . . the cart.”

“Shadowgrims, then.” Penebrygg spoke hardly above a whisper.

“They’re flocking here?” Nat was alarmed now too.

“No. If they were, I would feel it. Even you would be growing uneasy. And no doubt we’d have Watchmen battering at our door as well,” Penebrygg said. “No, I suspect this is just a Shadowgrim alighting nearby, nothing more.”

Nat glanced back at me. “And that’s enough to do this to her?”

“Evidently.”

How could they not be burned? The flames were everywhere, I thought dizzily.

“Let’s get her downstairs, and see if that helps,” Penebrygg
said. “Can you stand, my dear? No, I see you can’t. Nat, can you carry her?”

Nat had me halfway out of the chair when the burning stopped. One moment I was clutching his shoulders, aware of nothing except the fear and heat in my head; the next, I was meeting his eyes in confusion and jerking away.

As I bounded to my feet, he had to grab at the chair behind him for balance.

“I’m feeling better,” I said.

“So I gathered.” He rubbed his elbow and moved away.

Penebrygg took my arm, as if to support me. “My dear, are you truly all right?”

“I think so.” The terror was gone, almost as if it had never been there. Moments later, however, a wave of exhaustion hit me, and I sat back down.

“I’ve double-checked, and all the windows are secure,” Nat reported to Penebrygg. “And the chimney damper’s only open a crack, as usual.”

Penebrygg looked over at the fireplace. “Ah, yes, the chimney. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It’s never been a problem before,” Nat said doubtfully.

“But perhaps even a tiny crack is a problem for a Chantress,” Penebrygg said. “Especially if a Shadowgrim happened to perch right by the chimney itself.”

“Could it have heard us?” I asked in dismay. “Does it know I’m with you?” Even now it might be winging its way back to Scargrave . . .

“No.” Penebrygg hastened to reassure me. “It was here so briefly, and we were talking too softly to be heard through such a small crack.”

“But perhaps it could sense my presence—”

“No,” Penebrygg said again. “You can feel the Shadowgrims, but they can’t feel you. Everything we know about them proves that point. It’s their one saving grace—that, and the fact that they sleep by day.”

I was deeply relieved by his answer.

Nat moved to the fireplace. “So we’ll shut the damper, then?”

“Yes, do,” Penebrygg said. “And then we’ll go downstairs. I think our guest has had enough of the attic for one night.”

By the time we settled by the smoking embers of the kitchen fire, I was feeling stronger.

“Where were we?” Penebrygg asked.

“We were talking about Scargrave’s spies,” Nat said from the bench opposite mine.

“Ah, yes, indeed,” Penebrygg said. “His great web, over which he reigns as Spymaster, with the ravens at his side.” He straightened his spectacles and looked at me. “I’m afraid that informers are everywhere, my dear. Fear is in the very air we breathe. There is no room for dissent, no freedom to speak one’s mind. Even the most innocent acts are now considered sedition and can land a man in front of the ravens.”

“Last week a neighbor of ours complained about the price of bread,” Nat said. “He was arrested within the hour.”

“As if grumbling about prices were gravest treason!”
Penebrygg said, shaking his head. “But no one dares to rise up against Scargrave while he has the Shadowgrims in his command, not even King Henry.”

“But why?” I asked. “He’s the King, isn’t he? Surely Scargrave wouldn’t throw
him
to the ravens.”

“He would if it suited him,” Nat said.

“I think not,” Penebrygg said. “The King is not yet eighteen, and he has been led by Scargrave for most of his life. Moreover, he is one of those people who is particularly susceptible to the Shadowgrims, and he lives very near the Tower dungeon in which they are housed. Little wonder he is quiet and melancholy, and he does whatever Scargrave advises.”

“Their magic takes some people that way,” Nat said. “It’s horrible to see.”

“Yes,” Penebrygg agreed. “The mere existence of the Shadowgrims is enough to unsettle many—especially those who are impressionable, or have little practice in dealing with fear. You can see it in their faces, even in the way they speak and stand. They are easily frightened and easily led, and even by day, when the Shadowgrims can do them no harm, they blindly follow Scargrave because he promises to make them safer.”