The Unicorn Quest

by Kamilla Benko

  and pull …

  and pull.

  The blade of grass was growing longer and larger, going from the length of some floss to shoelace size in a matter of seconds.

  Claire gasped in wonder. “How are you doing that?”

  “I added a drop of Mile High Potion.” The boy kept tugging, but his eyes darted toward her. “It’s not quite as strong as my last batch, though. I’ll need to add more redwood bark to set an example for the other plants, but it’s a fine line. Too much redwood, and the grass will be as inflexible as a trunk, but too little, and it won’t grow tall enough.”

  He concentrated on the grass, as if his explanation of Mile High Potion and example-setting bark had made any sense.

  “What?” Claire asked. “I don’t understand.”

  Nett frowned. “It’s just basic Tilling. What don’t you get?”

  Claire stared at him. “Basic what?”

  “Ah, I forgot,” Nett said, his air of puzzlement lifting. “Sophie didn’t know anything either. I’m a Tiller and I Till. It means I work with all that grows from the earth. I can shape the magic within plants.”

  “Magic?!” Claire’s mouth dropped open, even though Sophie always told her it made her look like a hippo. A boy her age had just spoken about magic as though it were something as normal as making toast.

  She stared hard at Nett. He stared back, unfazed.

  “Can everyone do that here?” she asked faintly.

  “Anyone in the Tiller Guild can do what I do,” Nett said. “But the magic in the other three guilds is different, of course.”

  “Other guilds?”

  Nett sighed. “There are four guilds of magic,” he said as he continued to pull the grass like taffy. “Sena’s a Forger, and she can do the same kinds of things I can, but with metal. Gemmers work with rocks and gems, and Spinners weave magic from thread—”

  “That’s long enough,” Sena interrupted. “We’re going to be late!”

  Claire’s mind was a whirl of confusion as Nett gave a last yank, and the grass blade—now as long and thick as a jump rope—tore from the ground.

  Soon, the grass rope bound Claire’s wrists together in front of her, as if she were a prisoner. Which, apparently, she was.

  Sandwiched between Sena and Nett, Claire was maneuvered out of the walled garden. For the first time, she could see that the ruins and its sprawling grounds were on the top of a high hill that overlooked a meadow.

  Across the meadow, yellow rooftops clustered in the middle of carefully maintained fields that stretched to a black line of forest. Claire guessed that this must be Greenwood, and from what Nett had said, it sounded like the village was just one of many places in Arden.

  Panic fluttered in Claire’s chest. The world up the chimney was not only real, but it was much bigger than a castle ruin and an old stone well. How was she ever going to find Sophie?

  The grass rope cut into her wrists, and she felt her temper rise.

  “Why are you tying me up? All I did was climb a ladder to find my sister,” Claire said, trying to sound calm even though Sena’s glare frightened her. “That’s not illegal—so just tell me what happened to Sophie, and let me go!”

  “We don’t know what happened to her because we don’t know where she is,” Nett said, tugging the ends of his shaggy black hair. “She disappeared last night. The entire village has been looking for her since dawn, and no one’s found her yet.”

  Fear rang through Claire’s whole body now.

  No one could find her sister.

  She shook her head, trying to concentrate. “The entire village is looking for her? Why?”

  “Don’t tell her anything,” Sena ordered Nett. “She’s our prisoner!”

  Nett glowered. “It’s not like I was going to say anything about the Unicorn Harp.”

  “Nett!” Sena yelled.

  “The what?” Claire asked.

  Sena groaned. “You may as well tell her now,” she said grudgingly.

  “The Unicorn Harp,” Nett said, ignoring Sena’s eye roll, “is one of the few unicorn artifacts left in Arden. It’s carved from mahogany and strung with hairs from the mane of a unicorn. And no one was supposed to know that we had it here in Greenwood Village.”

  “ ‘Mane of a …,’ ” Claire repeated, astounded. The conversation was sliding around like a slab of butter in a frying pan—she couldn’t grasp anything they were saying. “Are there unicorns here?” She thought of the statue in Great-Aunt Diana’s gallery.

  “Well, once,” Nett said, adjusting the rucksack on his shoulder, “they used to be common in Arden, but then about three hundred years ago, they began to die out. It was during the Guild War, so no one really noticed until it was too late to do anything about it. In Records of Arden and Its Territories, Timor the Verbose had several interesting theories about—”

  “No one’s interested in what Timbore thinks,” Sena interrupted. “Stop showing off.”

  Claire’s head spun. This place not only had ruins, and guilds, and magic, but it had a history. A history complete with its own records and wars. And unicorns.

  Nett made a face at Sena. “Anyway, the harp is made with unicorn mane, and that’s what matters. That’s what makes the magic.”

  “I don’t get it,” Claire said, frustrated. “What do you mean it ‘makes the magic’?”

  Sena sighed. “Well, it doesn’t make it, exactly …”

  “Our magic, guild magic, only extends to what’s around us,” Nett interjected. “The magic doesn’t come from within us, but from the things around us—plants, rocks, thread, metal. All we do is encourage the magic that naturally exists in those things, to make plants grow bigger and faster and stronger, for instance.”

  “Or,” Sena cut in, “if you’re a Forger like me, then to help make mirrors so shiny that they can reflect the future, or forge swords that will never lose a fight.” She sounded like she was bragging.

  In a way, it was lucky Claire was sandwiched between the two kids. If she wasn’t being supported, she might have had to sit down.

  Nett nodded. “But the unicorns, they were pure magic. They made every kind of guild magic stronger. With the unicorns gone, we depend on the unicorn artifacts to increase our own abilities.”

  “Please,” Claire said, completely overwhelmed, “what does any of this have to do with Sophie?”

  “I’ll tell you what it has to do with Sophie,” Sena replied. “Your sister came as a guest and how did she repay us? She stole the Unicorn Harp.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  There had to be a mistake.

  “Sophie wouldn’t steal,” Claire protested, nearly tripping as Sena pulled her along. They were nearing the village now. “She doesn’t even know how to play a harp!”

  Sena pursed her lips. “People don’t usually want the Unicorn Harp for music,” she said. “And besides, it’s too much of a coincidence. What are the chances Sophie and the harp disappeared at the same time?”

  “Maybe it’s exactly that,” Claire argued. “A terrible coincidence!”

  Sena and Nett exchanged an uneasy glance. Their silence was as frustrating for Claire as a pencil line she couldn’t get right. She was opening her mouth to argue again, when a loud, rhythmic beat resonated from somewhere inside the village.

  “Slug soot!” Sena swore. “The drums—we’re late!” She broke into a run, forcing Claire and Nett to lurch after her.

  By the time they stumbled into the yellow-roofed village, Claire’s slippered feet ached, and her head rattled with words she’d only just learned: Forgers, Tillers, guilds of magic. She tried to take deep, calming breaths as she took in the squat wooden houses on either side of the road. Each structure had a plot of land in front of it, with vegetable gardens so green it almost looked like someone had taken a marker and colored them in.

  But even though Claire saw signs of life everywhere—shovels on the ground, carts next to houses, footprints in the dust—she saw only one other p
erson. A blond-haired boy hunched over as he weeded an herb patch.

  “The hearing must have already started,” Nett murmured. They turned a corner, entering the village’s cobbled square. Claire gasped.

  In front of her was the most wondrous building she could ever have imagined—a building that looked more grown than built.

  It was as though a small forest had come together to form a cathedral. Towering trees with silvery bark grew side by side, forming thick walls of trunks and roots, then somewhere far above Claire’s head, they leaned inward, their branches intertwining to form a roof. As Claire stared up in wonder, a woodpecker alighted on one of the many circular windows and began to peck at the treewall.

  Sophie would love this. The thought came to Claire quickly, and with it her fear returned. Claire didn’t believe that her sister had stolen anything, but what had she done to make everyone suspect her?

  Sena was walking them quickly toward the entrance when Nett stopped short.

  “Wait, you can’t go in looking that,” he said disapprovingly. It had gotten warm as they hurried to the village. Sweat sheened Sena’s face and tendrils of her red braid had come loose, frizzing around her forehead. Still in her sweater, Claire could feel the shirt underneath begin to stick to her back. It was much hotter than when she’d climbed with Sophie. Then, it had felt like early spring, but now, just a few days later, the heat was the kind only found at the height of August.

  “You don’t look that great yourself,” Sena retorted, eyeing Nett’s dirty knees with distaste. “But we’re late, so we don’t have a choice.”

  Claire had only a second to take in the intricately carved flowers and trees on the door before Sena cracked it open and slipped through, tugging Claire after her and into a gigantic space full of patchy sunlight, birdsong—and people.

  The entire village must have been there, from the youngest, baldest baby to the oldest woman with a few faint whiskers on her chin. They all sat on benches, facing a sort of stage at the front, where a group of four men and women sat in high-backed chairs behind a long table. It looked, Claire thought, like one of those courtrooms she’d seen on TV. The people in the chairs even wore robes similar to judges’ clothes, but they were emerald instead of black.

  Sena motioned Claire and Nett to follow her to a bench in the back. No one in the crowd paid any attention to the three latecomers, as they were all too busy listening to a man in an apron who was standing before the judges. He was stammering something, while off to one side of the platform, a boy frantically took notes with a feathered quill.

  “It had just chimed four bells,” the man in the apron said, “when I first noticed the harp was gone. I remember because—”

  “A moment, Baker Seedling.” The woman in the center of the stage held up her hand and the man stopped talking. Claire could practically feel the woman’s eyes land on her. “It seems that Nettle Green and Sena Steele have finally decided to arrive. Along with a guest.”

  Claire heard the wooden benches creak and shift as the villagers craned to see what was going on. Her neck flushed.

  The woman’s white hair, cropped close to her head, was in sharp contrast to her dark brown skin, and her eyes almost exactly matched the color of her robes, which were solid emerald, except for four white stripes that circled her sleeves—two on her right, two on her left. She pressed her finger pads against one another and peered down the aisle. “You’re late.”

  “Grandmaster Iris, it’s my fault—” Nett started.

  “Enough, Nettle,” Iris said sternly. “Your loyalty to your friend is admirable, but you weren’t the one requested to report before the drums. You weren’t the one to show the harp to Sophie.” Iris gestured toward the hall and continued, “Take your place with the others. Sena, however, must be questioned by the council.”

  Nett shot the girls an apologetic glance before hurrying to a bench. Claire locked her jaw, trying to keep it from trembling. Without Nett by her side, Claire felt even more exposed.

  Sena shifted her feet. “I’m sorry, Grandmaster.”

  But Iris didn’t seem to have heard Sena’s apology. Instead, she looked pointedly at Claire. “And who is she?”

  Sena pushed Claire slightly in front of her. “This is someone you will want to question even more than me. This is the thief’s sister.”

  The crowd broke out into loud exclamations. People stood up from their benches to get a better look, and even the other judges—councillors, Claire supposed—whose faces had been impassive until then, leaned forward in their chairs. Claire wanted to shrink, to hide—it was hard to be brave in your pajamas.

  “Order, please,” Iris commanded, and nodded to the girls. “Sena, approach.”

  Sena placed a heavy hand on Claire’s shoulder and propelled her down the grass-carpeted aisle.

  As they neared the stage, the four members of Greenwood’s council came into sharper focus. There was a man with hair like a skunk—part white, part silvery black. He scowled at Claire with such ferocity that she quickly looked away. Another councillor had a pair of half-moon spectacles twinkling on his nose. Next to him, a paper-white woman with a wreath of feathers on her head leaned over to whisper something in his ear. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at Claire’s slippered feet.

  And in the middle sat Grandmaster Iris. Sena stopped them directly in front of her, and Claire was strongly reminded of her third-grade teacher, a severe woman who had drilled the class in multiplication tables and insisted that all her students be able to rattle off the five longest rivers in the world and locate the highest mountain on each continent.

  “You may sit,” Grandmaster Iris said to Sena. Her eyes turned toward Claire like a spotlight. “What is your name?”

  “Claire,” Claire said—or rather, squeaked. She felt very alone and small without Sena next to her. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Claire Martinson.”

  “Sophia Martinson is your sister?”

  “Y-yes. That’s why I’m here. I need to find her,” she stuttered. Iris’s expression did not change, but she lowered her voice and began to confer with the other council members.

  The longer they whispered, the louder the crowd’s murmurs grew. Claire stared down at her feet, unable to appreciate the tiny violets that punctuated the grass carpet of the Hearing Hall. Finally, there was a rap on the table.

  Claire looked up to see that the councillors had leaned back in their chairs. None looked particularly friendly, but the skunk-haired man looked positively predatory as he glared down at Claire like an owl marking a mouse.

  “Silence, please,” Iris called. Immediately the room quieted, except for the occasional bird chirp coming from the leafy ceiling. Then the grandmaster addressed the hall. “Greenwood Council will question Claire Martinson first, and then we shall speak again to Sena Steele. If Claire chooses not to speak, then she will be arrested as an accomplice to the theft.”

  Claire gaped at the woman. She was only eleven! Could someone her age even be arrested? But almost immediately four men, all wielding large wooden staffs and dressed in olive uniforms, silently appeared around her.

  “Claire Martinson,” Iris said, her voice grave and deep, “our village’s most important treasure has gone missing. If word spreads to the other guilds that a Tiller village has not registered a unicorn artifact, we will all face the consequences.”

  There was a muttering in the room, and though most of the words were unintelligible, there was one that Claire could clearly make out: “war.”

  “Knowing this, do you agree to be heard?” the grandmaster asked, her eyes boring into Claire’s.

  Claire didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded.

  “Very good, then,” Iris said. Reaching into the wide sleeves of her robe, she pulled out a small satchel. “Fetch my tray,” she said to the scribe who’d been taking notes.

  The scribe quickly delivered a wooden tray with a tea set on it. Steam came from the bright pink teapot, and the boy carefully placed
it in front of Iris. Benches creaked as everyone leaned forward, paying close attention as Iris poured the tea. Then she stood and stepped off the stage to stand in front of Claire. Tall and slender in her robes of green and white, she reminded Claire of a pine tree with snow on its boughs.

  “Hold out your hand,” Iris commanded, after removing the grass rope from Claire’s wrists.

  Though her skin smarted slightly, Claire did as she was told. Iris placed a wooden mug into Claire’s palms.

  “This is Sinceri Tea,” the grandmaster said. “Distilled from forget-me-not petals for recollection, sunflower seeds for openness, and a blade of hedgehog grass from the beaches of the Sunrise Isles. It will ensure that you cannot lie when you answer. Do you willingly agree to drink this tea?”

  Claire peered cautiously into the cup. Steam swirled up in the shape of a question mark, before dissolving into the air. The tea looked harmless enough. It was as clear as water, and smelled like the soap her father used when he washed the hardwood floors—clean, with a hint of lemon.

  But could she trust these people? What if the tea was poisoned?

  Then again, if she didn’t drink the tea, it would be like admitting that Sophie was guilty, and that she herself was guilty, too.

  She had to depend on the truth to save her. She’d have to take the risk.

  Claire took a deep breath. “Yes. I will drink the tea.” She lifted the cup to her lips and drank.

  CHAPTER

  7

  After just one sip Claire knew she had drunk something stronger than water and lemon. The Sinceri Tea made her tongue thick and slippery, and the back of her throat grew hot.

  Iris, who had returned to her chair, looked at Claire expectantly. “Tell me that my robes are red,” she said.

  Claire was startled by the command. “But they’re green.” The truth fell easily from her lips.

  Iris shook her head. “I did not ask what color they were. I told you to tell me they are red.”

  Claire tried to obey. She formed the words in her mind, but before she could speak, she began to cough. It felt like a hard crust of bread had lodged in her throat.