by Jenny Nimmo
“Forgive the state we’re in, Your Majesty,” whined old Moreau. “That sudden Vanishing caused such a displacement, many pages have been loosened and I’ve been at my wit’s end….”
“Your guardianship is faultless, my dear Moreau,” said the king. “Please don’t let us interrupt you.”
“Thank you! Thank you, Your Majesty.” With a deep bow, Moreau backed away to his desk, where he began to rearrange the loose pages of the large book.
Wyngate was so engrossed in his work he was totally unaware of all that had been going on behind him. When the king touched his shoulder, he jumped off his stool and his feathered cap went flying. Guanhamara caught it with her thumb.
Before the king could say a word, the investigator exclaimed, “King Timoken, I might have known it. You have come at exactly the right moment.” Guanhamara handed him his cap, and he continued almost without taking a breath. “Thank you, Princess. As I said, the right moment exactly, because only a blink of an eye ago I discovered a place where another crystal might be found. I say ‘might’ because, of course, one can never be sure.”
“That is very good news, Wyngate,” said the king. “May I borrow your cloak for a moment?”
Wyngate looked puzzled. “What has my cloak to do with a crystal?”
“Nothing at all,” said the king. “Nevertheless, may I?” The king held out his hand.
“None of these birds, or should I say feathers, I mean, none of the birds whose feathers are here in my cloak …” Wyngate often rambled in this way. He was quite relaxed about it. “Not one met its death at my hands. I want you to know that.”
“I do know it,” said the king. “But please, may I borrow your feathered cloak?”
“Naturally.” Wyngate stood up, carefully removed his cloak, and handed it to the king.
The children stroked the cloak’s shining feathers, Tolly with a gleam in his eye.
“It’s so beautiful,” sighed Guanhamara.
The king felt he should explain why he wanted Wyngate’s cloak. It didn’t seem fair to use it without its owner sharing their secret, so the king leaned close to the investigator and said in a low voice, “My son Tolomeo is about to fly.”
Wyngate’s eyes widened. “Wings?” he whispered, glancing hastily at the book guardian.
“Indeed.” The king’s eyes danced. “But we want to disguise them for a while.”
Wyngate looked at Tolly. “It will be too long for him.”
“I can correct that,” said the king.
“Of course.” Wyngate smiled at Tolly. “I shall be pleased to share my feathers with someone so exceptional.”
Again, Petrello felt that surprising twinge of loneliness.
The king was already at work. The children loved to see the way he multiplied. Even though it was a useful, everyday sort of magic, it set their minds alight thinking of possibilities. What fun they could have, multiplying every object in the castle. The king never used his gift for fun, and he told them it was impossible to multiply a living creature.
Turning his head the slightest fraction, the book guardian glanced sideways. He could only see the king’s back, but he could tell that something rather unusual was going on. Why had Wyngate taken off his cloak? Oh, there he was, putting it on again. Nothing special about that, then. Moreau went back to work. He heard the king thank Wyngate, and then the little group of children were running out of the library.
“Don’t run!” The book guardian couldn’t stop himself from reprimanding the children, even though the king was present.
“Sorry, Moreau!” said the boy in the cloak of feathers.
“Cloak of feathers,” Moreau said to himself. “Did that child have it on when he came in?” He looked at Wyngate, shook his head, and continued to glue loose pages into the precious book.
“Well done, Moreau,” said the king, striding past. “Your library is excellently arranged.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Moreau almost fell off his stool with pride.
The king had already joined his children in the courtyard when they heard Wyngate’s shout. The investigator came bounding down the steps, crying, “Wait, King Timoken. I forgot to tell you — it may have no bearing on Rigg’s disappearance, and yet …”
“Tell me,” said the king.
The children moved closer as Wyngate lowered his voice. “Once or twice, when I visited the wizards. Rigg was there. He liked to look at Eri’s books. He could read and write and was interested in wizardry. It occurred to me that Rigg might have seen the list of ingredients for Eri’s potion.”
“Which potion, Wyngate?” asked the king. “There are so many.”
Wyngate pulled his feathered cap down over his ears. “The mixture that added potency to the Seeing Crystal.”
The king rubbed his forehead. “I remember. The crystal already made a sound that alerted us, but before it was dipped in Eri’s potion, the approaching dangers were never clear.”
Guanhamara couldn’t help herself. With a little jump, she asked, “So do you think that Rigg was abducted and maybe tortured until he told — whoever they are — about the secret ingredients of the potion that helps the crystal to see?”
The king and Wyngate looked at her. They had almost forgotten the children were listening. The boys shut their mouths tight, surprised by their sister’s boldness. They expected a reprimand, but none came.
“It’s possible,” said the investigator. “But Rigg was loyal through and through. He was as stubborn as a mule. He would never betray the wizards’ secret, unless …” He frowned suddenly and stared into the distance.
“Children, you should be at your lessons,” said the king.
“Friar Gereint has a toothache,” Petrello told him.
“Then go and see Gunfrid. He misses your company. I must have further discussions with our investigator.” The king waved the children away, adding, “Take care of that cloak, Tolomeo.”
“I will, and thank you, Father.”
The three children ambled toward the sanatorium. One question was on all their minds. It was Petrello who voiced it. “Who knew that Rigg knew the recipe for the Seeing Crystal?”
“Only the wizards, surely,” said his sister.
“There must be someone else.” Petrello recalled the investigator’s expression. There was something about it that suggested he had an idea who the traitor might be.
In the sanatorium they found Zeba pushing Gunfrid around the beds in his new wheeled chair. He looked very happy with it, but his legs were still weak.
Gunfrid had two other visitors. Vyborn and Cafal, of all people. They were sitting on one of the beds, watching the strange and rather splendid contraption that Zeba was maneuvering about the room.
“Poor boy,” Cafal mumbled. “I’m going to help. Zeba can’t push that chair over the big cobblestones.”
Vyborn had been eyeing Tolly’s new cloak. Suddenly, he jumped off the bed and snatched at a feather.
“Don’t!” cried Tolly, whirling around.
“Where did you get that cloak?” Vyborn demanded. “I want one. Why can’t I have a cloak of feathers?”
“You can,” said Petrello. “All you have to do is turn into a bird.”
“Ooh, yes!” A nasty expression crossed Vyborn’s face, and Petrello wished he hadn’t spoken.
Too late. Black feathers began to push through Vyborn’s cheeks. His nose vanished and a yellow beak poked out from the center of his face. Glossy wings lifted from his shoulders. Feathers pushed their way through his shirt, and he gave a little jump.
Zeba hastily pulled her brother’s chair away from the unfriendly looking bird. It gave another jump, and then a muffled voice, somewhere behind its beak, said, “Why can’t I fly? I’m a bird. Why can’t I fly?”
“Because you can’t imagine what it’s like,” said Guanhamara.
“I’m tired of hearing that.” The bird lunged at Guanhamara and pecked her arm.
“Ouch!” She leaped back, and th
en began to giggle.
The bird flapped its wings furiously. It squawked and screamed. Cafal ran from the room. His own beastlike form came to him unbidden, at night, when the last thing he wanted was to be a wild creature. He had never asked for the terrible peculiarity that he’d been given, and he couldn’t bear to see his small brother choosing it and turning into animals that pecked and scratched and gored and bit.
Seeing Cafal run like that, Petrello had a sudden thought. Rigg was a kind man, fierce but protective. He often took younger men under his wing, taught them how to ring the bells, to make their letters, and to read names and signs.
Cafal was often seen with Rigg. Had Rigg thoughtlessly, but out of friendship, told Cafal that he knew the secret of the Seeing Crystal?
Rain fell in the night; heavy, persistent rain. It continued well into the morning. The king could have stopped it, but he had much on his mind. He sat in the solarium with Solomon on his shoulders, consulting the ancient serpent on a matter that he found too difficult to resolve: the behavior of his children.
The rain dripped onto the blacksmith’s furnaces and the charcoal became too wet to light. At midday, the helmets that the king had commanded to be melted were still waiting in their damp sacks. Llyr did his best with gorse and broom and bones, but after a brief flickering, the fires died again. The magic in Eri’s fingers worked a little better, but eventually the fires fizzled out. He tried with a mixture of hellebore and bloodstone dust, but even this potent mixture couldn’t keep the fires alight. It seemed as if the weather had been conjured by some malignant force in the misty, dripping forest.
The damp did nothing to help Friar Gereint’s toothache. Too afraid to visit the wizards, the friar took to his bed and classes were cancelled again.
In the sheltered passage behind the furnaces, Petrello watched the wizards’ efforts.
Llyr’s fair hair, now dark with rain, hung in wet strands on the shoulders of his cloak. In vain, he struggled to keep his hood from falling back. Eri had tied a moleskin shawl over his head, and sprinkled his cloak with the scales his dragon shed every summer. He looked an odd sight, but he was doing better than his grandson.
“Shall I tell the king?” Petrello asked tentatively. He didn’t want the wizards to think he had no faith in their abilities.
“We’ve sent messengers, twice,” snapped Eri.
“Oh.” Petrello stepped farther back into the sheltered passage. A blacksmith’s son, Rintail, joined him.
“Why don’t they give up until the rain stops?” Petrello asked Rintail.
“King’s orders. Got to melt the old helmets as soon as possible,” said Rintail. “There might be spells in ’em.”
“Spells?” Petrello murmured thoughtfully. Now it all made sense.
“How’s your other sister?” asked Rintail. “Not the poisoner; I mean the one that made everything move. My poor dad’s arm was awful bruised.”
“I think she’s asleep,” said Petrello. “The wizards gave her a potion.” He’d seen Llyr take a brown bottle along to Olga’s bedchamber, and Guanhamara said she’d peeped in after Llyr had left, and Olga was lying very still.
“Hope the potion keeps her down,” Rintail muttered. “Couldn’t do with all that banging and bruising as well as the wet. I could do with some hot soup. How about you?”
“I don’t think we’ll get any yet,” said Petrello, stamping his feet. He discovered that he was standing in a puddle. The courtyard was awash with mud. The cooks couldn’t cook. No one could work. The sun was shrouded in iron-dark clouds, and the candles burned so unsteadily they melted away almost as soon as they were lit.
Petrello decided to go and see his father. Perhaps he’d have better luck than the messengers. But first he went to his aunt’s apartments, and there he found his mother and his aunt cutting and sewing, their heads bent close to their work. Zobayda’s usually cheerful room was dismally dark. The toys on their shelves were mere shadows, and of the five candles in the stand behind the queen, only two remained, and they shed a fitful, glimmering light.
“Your brother’s shirts,” said the queen as Petrello stepped closer. He could see now that his aunt was cutting narrow slits at the back of Tolly’s shirts, while his mother sewed pieces of fabric at the top of each opening. “To hide his wings,” she told Petrello, “until they grow too big, of course.”
“But he has the cloak,” Petrello reminded her.
“He can’t sleep in it,” said Zobayda. “And if Vyborn knew about the wings, he would tell the entire court.” She paused in her work and added, “Your father’s in the solarium.”
“Ask him to stop the rain, Petrello,” said his mother. “We’ve had enough.” She put down her needle and rubbed her eyes. “Tell him to give us some light.”
For the second time in his life, Petrello walked down the dark passage and around the pillar into his father’s solarium.
The king was pacing his bright room, murmuring to the snake coiled about his shoulders. While everyone in his castle worked in sunless gloom, here it seemed that sunlight had been captured. The sky, seen through the circle in the roof, was as dark as night, yet here every color was as bright as ever.
The king didn’t smile when Petrello entered. He looked troubled, his thoughts far away.
“Mother sent me,” Petrello explained.
The king didn’t answer; he continued to pace while the snake whispered into his ear.
“It’s so dark,” went on Petrello. “And your wife can’t see to do her needlework, and the wizards can’t light the furnaces because it’s so wet, so the helmets you ordered to be melted are still waiting, and — and we can’t even have hot soup.”
The king stopped pacing. He lifted his head and suddenly began to laugh. “Perhaps you should have mentioned the soup first,” he said. “I’m sure it’s more important to you than helmets or needlework.”
Petrello flushed. It was true. He felt cold and damp inside and out.
“It seems that I must go to work,” said his father. “Come with me, Petrello.”
“Yes, Father.” Petrello had never watched his father work the weather. Not close-up. Like everyone else, he had seen a distant figure, high on the battlements of the Royal Tower; he’d seen a faraway glint that might have been a swirl of a gold-trimmed cloak, as his father swept it through the air. But he could only imagine what might be happening up there on the tower, before the weather changed.
The king placed Solomon on his treasure chests. Bending over the snake, he gently stroked his silvery head and whispered something. Solomon closed a jet-black eye and curled himself into a ropelike coil.
“Come, Petrello!” The king led the way down the passage and through the door to the beginning of the long, spiraling stairway.
They were in the half dark again, but as they climbed the steps, the king’s cloak cast a soft, glimmering light on the stone walls, and when Petrello looked closer, he could make out the faint golden pattern of a spider’s web embedded in the deep velvet of the red cloak.
They passed a door into the royal apartments, and then there were no more doors, but only an endless, twisting climb on knee-high steps with nothing to hold but the rough stone walls of the tallest tower on the castle.
The wind roared at the stone, and the rain thundered and splashed as though it would beat the tower to the ground. Petrello couldn’t hear his father’s footsteps, or his own. He threw back his head and looked up. They were on the last spiral. The trapdoor at the top was rattling under the pounding of the rain.
The king reached up and flung open the door. As he climbed out onto the battlements, water sluiced down the steps, and Petrello almost lost his balance.
“Take my hand, Petrello.” The king grasped his son’s hand and pulled him up through the trapdoor. Petrello was met by such savage wind he almost toppled back again. But the king held him steady while he closed the door with his foot.
Petrello made his way to the protecting wall. If it hadn’t been as h
igh as his shoulders, he imagined that he would have been blown away. His father came to stand beside him. Petrello had never seen him look so jubilant; his smile was broad and his teeth gleamed in his dark face; his eyes were wide and eager.
“Now!” The king took off his cloak and, holding it by its golden collar high over his head, he let the wind billow into it, shaking and tossing the red velvet as though it would tear it from the king’s grasp. And then the king began to call. Long, beautiful commanding sounds came from his mouth, like the words of a triumphant song. He began to stride across the roof, with the cloak whirling above him and the words rising through the storm, until all Petrello could hear was the song.
Looking through one of the openings in the wall, Petrello could see the gray land far below. Trees had fallen and the fields were strewn with leaves and branches. The forest stooped and twisted as though its trees were in agony. But as the king’s song filled his ears, he saw a stillness creep over the forest. The rain stopped battering his shoulders and, gradually, the darkness rolled away and sunlight brought the land to life. It was green and bright again.
I will never be able to calm a storm like that, Petrello thought. Why did my father bring me up here? He looked at his hands and wondered about the boy called Tancred; a boy who was not yet alive.
“Come, Petrello!” The king was putting on his cloak. “What did you think when you saw the weather change?”
“That it was something I will never be able to do,” said Petrello, flexing his fingers.
“Would you like to?”
“More than anything.”
“Then … maybe …” The king opened the trapdoor. “Let’s get to the bottom of this tower. We shall ride out very soon.”
“You and the Knight Protectors?” asked Petrello as he skimmed down the steps ahead of his father.
“The Knight Protectors, yes. And in five years, perhaps you will be one of them.”
