“And yet”—Fray’s voice dangled like a thread—“the princess we need is not here. The only one who could possibly have warned her about our intentions was you.”
“No,” Francis said. “I didn’t—”
“Admit it.” Fray’s voice dipped in as swiftly as a needle. “You don’t have the stomach to bear the girl’s death on your conscience.”
A high-pitched whine filled Claire’s ears. The Royalists wanted Sophie dead? Or not Sophie, but the person they thought she was. Princess Sophia.
“Death?” Francis looked surprised, too. “I thought we only needed her blood!”
“We have this one chance,” Fray lashed out, as she pulled a thin blue thread from her loosened braid and twined it through her fingers. “We cannot afford to make a mistake. What if a drop of blood is not enough? And we cannot risk you working against us. Now tell me: Where is Princess Sophia?”
Claire knew she had to do something—but what? If she ran, she would be caught. If she stayed, they might find her.
Francis spread his hands in front of him, pleading again. “I swear to you, I don’t know where she is,” he said.
The thread in Fray’s hand looped—and pulled tight.
Francis dropped to his knees as though someone had set a bag of bricks on his shoulders. His arm flailed as he tried to push his Royalist cloak off, but as hard as he tried, he could not lift the garment from his shoulders. There were a few snaps as his ribs cracked.
Repulsed, Claire realized that Fray’s tiny thread must control the Royalists’ cloaks the same way Kleo’s thread had controlled the Guardpet. The old woman’s magic was slowly crushing Francis.
“No, please!” Francis croaked. “Mercy—”
Fray flicked her wrist, and the largest Royalist stepped forward, the last ray of the setting sun a hard glint off the spikes of his club.
A whimper escaped from Claire. It was a soft sound, but it was loud enough.
“Hold!” Fray ordered. The club stopped its descent. “Someone’s behind that rock.”
Heart in her throat, Claire lurched to her feet. A second later, the Royalist appeared, raising his club high, gaining momentum.
Holding Fireblood like a baseball bat, Claire swung at the club, trying to keep it away from her.
Sword and club met with a clang that reverberated through her. The force knocked Fireblood to the ground, and Claire followed it, her elbows slamming into hard-packed dirt.
“A spy!” Fray shrieked as the Royalists stared at the unexpected girl. “Axel!”
The large Royalist nodded, and again, his spiked club rose. Claire tried to scramble back, but her arms and legs weren’t working.
For one moment, every detail stood out in sharp relief. She saw each blade of dead grass, each loose thread on the Royalist’s cloak, each nick on the club’s spikes as it rose again above her.
“No!” Francis cried out, voice ragged. “That’s Sophia’s sister! That girl is a princess of Arden, too!”
“Stop!” Fray’s voice rang out, and the club curved away from Claire as the Royalist changed direction at the last second, the heavy weapon connecting with a stone in a shower of sparks.
Fray whirled on Francis. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“No joke,” the old man gasped. “That’s Claire Martinson. She’s Sophia’s sister!”
“Francis,” Claire panted. “What are you saying?” She wanted to cry, but something in her felt numb. Broken. Francis had helped her in the Hearing Hall, but now he was using her to save his own skin. Disgust and anger replaced her confusion.
“And what does it matter if I am?” Claire shouted from the ground. “The story of the queen and the unicorn isn’t true. Estelle didn’t save the last unicorn by turning him into stone—she killed him.”
Claire didn’t know what she expected this announcement to accomplish. Shocked horror, startled yells, mocking laughter, even, but definitely not the silence that settled over the circle.
“I heard the queen myself,” Claire added, trying to sound confident.
“You heard the queen yourself?” Fray’s voice arched incredulously. Her fingers flew across the thread, undoing the knot. On the ground, Francis let out a sigh of relief, his chest heaving as the cloak unbound him.
“In the Petrified Forest,” Claire said. “I don’t know how it works exactly, but I think the magic somehow saves echoes from the past—”
“You were in the forest?” Fray asked. When Claire nodded, the woman’s thin lips curled into a smile.
“Ah, dear child,” she said. “Those woods have made you mad.”
“They didn’t,” Claire insisted. “The voices there are real—or at least, they were real once, but the legend of the Unicorn Rock and the Queen Rock was never true! If you kill my sister trying to wake the queen, nothing will happen. The rocks are just rocks!”
Mira Fray bent down and held Claire’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. The rest of the Royalists and Francis remained quiet, waiting. Watching. Ready.
“Tell me,” Fray said, her tone sickly sweet as her blue eyes drilled into Claire’s, “how did you come into Arden?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Claire asked, hating the feel of the woman’s strong fingers on her face.
“Did you, or did you not, climb up a fireplace and find yourself in a water well?” Fray asked again.
In the same way that the right color brought a painting to life, that the right thought inspired art,
things
fell
into
place.
Claire had climbed from a hearth that once held fire to find herself in a well that once held water.
She’d been in a place where fire meets water. Just like the line from the old poem! The line Thorn had recited to her.
“The fireplace,” Claire breathed, and as the circle of Royalists murmured, she realized too late that she should have stayed quiet. “The well!”
“Yes, indeed,” Fray said, smiling triumphantly. “Through extensive studying and careful research of the past, I learned that the key to unlocking the enchantment would be found where fire meets water. Naturally, I assumed this object would be a unicorn artifact, the likes of which we had never seen before, and that would amplify our own magic enough to break the enchantment.
“But then Francis brought your sister to my attention. He was the one who encouraged Sophia to visit the Spinner fleet and speak with me. I began my studies with renewed vigor, even missing a month of Spinner trading to rummage through Ribbonshire’s archives. I began to devise a new theory.”
She paused, knowing exactly when to use silence to her advantage. “What if, as some reports claimed, the young Prince Martin had not died, but simply ran away all those years ago? And not to another country, but to another place entirely?
“What if,” Fray continued, her eyes never leaving Claire’s, “the ‘end’ the poem speaks of was not some single, all-powerful unicorn treasure hidden away in a mysterious place, but was instead a member of Arden’s royal family? Or more specifically, the blood of a Gemmer princess—the same blood that once ran in Estelle’s veins and that she needs in order to return.”
Mira Fray released Claire’s chin, though Claire could still feel her hand’s pressure.
“But we’re not royal,” she protested. “Sophie’s not a princess!”
“What is your full name, my dear?” Fray asked.
Claire opened her mouth, then abruptly stopped.
Martinson. Martin’s son. Prince Martin.
She stared at Fray, forgetting to close her mouth. Fray nodded in approval. “So you’re not completely unintelligent, I see.”
Stalling for time, Claire asked, “So what—you want to kill my sister for her blood?” She looked wildly around at the blue-cloaked figures. Not one turned their head away from her. Not one offered help.
“No,” Fray said calmly. “We want to waken Queen Estelle, who will bring with her the knowled
ge lost after the Guild War. Who will know how to defeat the wraiths. Who will know how to bring unicorns back to Arden. Your sister’s death would have been an unfortunate side effect. Luckily, we don’t need her anymore.”
Claire’s body went numb and she took an instinctive step back from Fray.
“Stop!” Francis’s shout made her look around.
And so Claire saw the very moment when one of the Royalists notched an arrow to his bow and fired it—straight at her heart.
CHAPTER
26
As the arrow traveled for a brief infinity, all Claire could think about was Sophie. She’d never had a chance to say good-bye. She hoped Sophie was okay—that she’d get home safely to Mom and Dad.
Her parents’ faces flashed in front of Claire. Mom’s eyes like Sophie’s. Dad’s mischievous smile, a twin to Sophie’s wild grin.
Then suddenly—Sophie was there!
Her dark hair flew into Claire’s face as Sophie hurtled in front of her sister—and in front of the arrow.
With a horrible sound, the arrow’s head buried itself in Sophie’s chest, lodging just beneath her collarbone.
A scream burst out of Claire as her sister’s blood poured over her knees. Arms free, she wrapped them around Sophie, curling herself around her big sister.
Nothing made sense.
“Sophie!” Claire croaked as she cradled her sister. All this time, she’d been imagining this moment—but in all her dreams, it hadn’t been like this. “Sophie, say something!” she pleaded.
Sophie whimpered, and though the arrow had not even scratched Claire, she exploded with pain.
“Sophie?” Fray asked sharply. She looked at Francis. “Is this the princess?”
Francis didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Claire’s tears were answer enough.
Suddenly, someone was tugging Sophie away from her.
“No!” Claire yelled. “Leave her alone!”
“Claire?”
Sophie’s pitiful whisper made Claire grab on to her tighter, but Claire was no match for the tall Royalist. He carried Sophie away and laid her at the foot of Queen Rock, next to the Unicorn Harp. Red seeped into the ground.
Claire lurched to her feet and staggered over to her sister. Salt burned her cheeks and coated her tongue. She expected someone to stop her, but the Royalists didn’t seem to care. They had done what they needed to do, and their attention was fixed on the Unicorn Harp.
One woman lit a torch and handed it to Fray. The light illuminated her face, naked craving and longing clear in its every line.
“Are you sure you want to burn the harp, too?” the Royalist murmured.
“Yes,” Fray said. “The girl is not Estelle’s direct descendant, nor even her niece. She’s but a many-times-great-grandniece. Her blood might be too weak to wake the queen, but with a unicorn artifact like the harp, we have a chance.” Fray looked over at the Royalist. “And the only thing that amplifies magic more than a unicorn artifact is the sacrifice of a unicorn artifact.”
Claire’s stomach clenched as Fray’s overbright eyes fell on Sophie again.
“We burn the harp,” Fray continued, “and when the unicorn magic has reached its peak, we shall mark Queen Rock with the princess’s blood—the same royal blood that once flowed through Estelle’s veins. D’Astora blood shall call to d’Astora blood.”
Fray lifted her arms, holding the torch high in the air. “Royalists,” she called, raising her voice, “are you ready to step away from the shadows and into the light?”
The circle cheered as Fray swooped down to touch her torch to Greenwood Village’s greatest treasure. Blue flames began to lick the harp’s edges.
“Now is the time for thread to unwind!” Fray chanted.
The cobalt fire suddenly became yellow, twisting and turning like a cloud of hornets. Fray held up her hands, blocking her face from the heat. White pops of light danced along the woolen threads of Fray’s cloak, and Claire could feel a hum in the air.
The harp began to char, becoming a blaze of orange fire.
Claire dragged Sophie away from the flames and Queen Rock, but she couldn’t move far—her bones were beginning to buzz, tingling like an unbearable itch she could never scratch. Arden’s magic—but it had come too late to save them.
Sophie’s eyes were closed, and Claire gripped her tightly, trying to shield her from the heat of the fire. She wondered when they would add the Unicorn Tooth to the flames. The Royalists had stolen it, too … hadn’t they?
Fray gasped with effort, but she managed to remain upright as she addressed the stone again. “Now is the time for metal to snap!”
A high whine drenched the air, filling Claire’s ears until all she could think about was the intense ringing. It was as though a hundred Phlogiston Academies were each ringing their hundred bells.
Claire clutched Sophie to her, burying her face in Sophie’s long hair, but there was no way to block out the screaming rush of magic that seemed to come from the burning harp.
If only Nett were there, she was sure he would be able to smother the fire with a random bit of Tiller knowledge and make everything awful go away. But since he wasn’t, she knew the only thing she could do was wait for the sound to fade.
The Royalists had fallen onto their knees, wrapping their hands around their ears, but still Fray kept chanting, her voice perfectly pitched: “Now is the time for green to harden!”
Grass seed exploded into the sky. Millions and billions of seeds pinged against Claire like hail, getting into her nose and mouth and stinging her skin. She hunched over Sophie, trying to put herself between her dying sister and the bullet-hard seeds.
“Now … is the time … for stone … to crumble!” Fray shouted against the rising magic. She reached down and touched her hand to the dirt stained red by Sophie’s blood, then placed her hand on Queen Rock.
The buzzing Claire had felt moments ago was no longer contained to just her. It whipped through the ring of rocks. She felt it in the back of her jaw, an energy that gnawed and gnashed around them all.
And then everything went still.
The flames flickered and died, leaving only embers and ash at the base of the rock.
And Queen Rock was still a rock. Nothing had changed. The hum, the wind, the magic—it had all been a drumroll to nowhere.
“What happened?” one of the Royalists asked. “What does it mean?”
“I told you!” The words tore from Claire’s throat. The same words that Sophie had said to her not so long ago in Windemere: “The story is just that—a story!”
“No,” Fray said. She shook her head and her hair clicked dangerously. “I’m not wrong. I’ve worked too hard—sacrificed too much!”
She whirled on Francis. “These aren’t the princesses at all, are they? You’ve lied to protect the real girls.”
Fray’s hands plunged into her cloak, and she pulled out a long stick. At first, Claire thought it might be a wand, but then she saw that the twig had a wide, circular base. It was a spindle.
The other Royalists recoiled, and Francis covered his head with his arms, the heavy cloak still keeping him in place on the ground.
“If you do not tell the truth,” Fray snarled, “I will have no choice but to spin your thoughts.”
The Royalist with the club murmured something to Fray.
“What was that, Axel?” she snapped. “Speak up!”
“Fray,” he said nervously, though he was twice as big as the woman, “the sun is about to set.”
For a moment, Claire thought Fray would ignore Axel’s warning, but then she seemed to reconsider and pocketed her spindle.
“Bind the traitor,” she ordered. “We’ll cross-examine him in a safe location.” She pulled her hood back up, and the others followed her lead.
“What about the girls?” Axel asked.
The Royalist leader didn’t even bother to look at Claire and Sophie. “Leave them for the wraiths. They’re useless—and they know too m
uch.”
Claire was vaguely aware of Francis’s protests as his hands were bound. But nothing, not even the sound of the Royalists shuffling away, seemed real to her, except for Sophie’s ragged breathing.
“Sophie? Sophie, talk to me!” she demanded, but there was no response.
Weighing her options, Claire watched the sun tiptoe toward the horizon. Soon the plains would be stripped of light and warmth. For a moment, she was reminded of Nett’s story—and she wondered if the moon would see their tears and take pity on them. Her heart squeezed at the memory of Nett. She might never know what had happened to him and fearless Sena. They might never know who Queen Estelle really was or what Francis had done, or where the Martinson sisters had gone.
“Claire?”
She looked down to see Sophie’s eyes blink open.
“Oh Clairina, don’t cry.”
“Sophie!” Claire hiccupped and dragged her arm across her face. “I’m not.”
“It kind of looks like you are.” Sophie’s lips twitched, but it was only the impression of a smile. She still wore the moonstone necklace, a purple shadow against her neck. “You shouldn’t … have come.”
“I shouldn’t have come? You shouldn’t have come!” Warm tears began to course down Claire’s cheeks and her nose started to run. “What were you thinking? Where have you been? You promised you wouldn’t climb up the chimney, and now—now this!”
“It’s … okay.” Sophie pushed the words from her lips. “It would have been the same ending … either … way.”
“What do you mean?”
Color seemed to be draining from Sophie. Even the freckle constellations across her nose seemed to have lost their hue.
“It’s back, Claire. We thought it was gone, but when we went to Dr. Silva’s … it was there again.”
And there it was so clearly, the reason for Sophie’s sudden mood changes. The reason for her fight with Mom. The reason she’d been avoiding her sister. She hadn’t been running away from Claire at all; she’d been trying to protect her from the truth. But even now, Claire couldn’t face it.
“But you got better before!” she said. “You’ll get better again. Stop shaking your head!”
The Unicorn Quest Page 21
