The Harp and the Ravenvine

by Ted Sanders

  Chloe sighed dramatically. “I was just starting to enjoy myself, and now there’s all this bromance in the air. Or no—not even bromance. Nerdmance.”

  “Don’t poop on my parade, Chloe,” said Brian. “Maybe it might occur to you that I get a little lonely down here.”

  Chloe slipped another mint into her mouth.

  “Anyway,” Brian said. “I see you got my presents.”

  “Presents?” Horace said.

  Brian pointed to Horace’s neck and down to his chest, where the jithandra lay beneath his shirt.

  “Our jithandras,” said Horace. “Of course . . . you make these.”

  “That I do. I had to make a second one for you, Horace. Luckily, I still had enough of your dust left.”

  “Wait . . . dust?” Horace said.

  “Ink dust. From the Vora.”

  “Mrs. Hapsteade’s quill?” The Vora was the first Tan’ji Horace had even laid eyes on, before he became a Keeper. With the quill, he’d written in the guest book back at the House of Answers, the blue of the ink he produced supposedly a sign as to his talents and potential.

  “Yes,” said Brian. “You write in the guest book, Mrs. H brings the book to me, and I harvest the dried ink. I turn it into a powder. It doesn’t make much, a couple hundred milligrams, but it’s totally useful stuff. It’s like the essence of you—or your affinities, anyway.” He reached into the rack in front of him and plucked out the vial with the red powder again. He held it up and shook it gently. “Powdered Chloe.”

  Chloe let out an indignant huff. Brian said, “I know. It’s sort of gruesome. But necessary.” Brian pulled out three more vials—purple, blue, silver. “This purple one is Neptune. And Horace is blue, of course. The silver is Gabriel.”

  “This is why they made us write in the book,” said Horace.

  “They’re sampling us,” Chloe offered.

  Brian shrugged. “Basically, yeah.”

  Horace stepped forward and held his glowing jithandra against the glittering blue vial. It was the same deep, lustrous shade. “And you use the dust to, like . . . personalize the jithandras.”

  “Yes. The jithandras are your personal keys into the Great Burrow, after all. But I use the dust for lots of other devastatingly clever things too.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “You could stand to be less cocky.”

  “Said the kettle,” Brian added.

  Horace laughed, but Brian didn’t join him, instead glancing across the room yet again. This time, the nervous tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

  “What do you keep looking at?” Horace said, unable to take it anymore.

  “Oh, nothing much. Just a time bomb. No biggie.” Brian glanced back at the entryway, as if hoping to see Mr. Meister there.

  “It’s the reason we’re here tonight, isn’t it?” Horace said. “It’s the thing that woke up.”

  Brian’s face twisted with a sour uncertainty. “Woke up. Waking up. Wide awake now. We have to do something soon.” He stood slowly and started across the room, leaving them to follow. “I noticed it last week. But this morning something changed. Something big. And now, well . . .”

  He stopped in front of a table, upon which sat a large felt-lined tray. Across the red felt, a few dozen strange, tiny objects were neatly arranged. Not Tanu, as far as Horace could tell, though they were certainly odd—a precisely coiled strand of gold like a narwhal’s tusk, a kidney-shaped slab of the whitest stone imaginable, a dodecahedron that looked like it was made of maple syrup, an inch-long silver replica of a human forearm and hand.

  “Here,” Brian said, pointing one bony finger at a tiny black object in the center, smaller than a pea. It looked like a minuscule bell—or no, a metal flower blossom, with tightly seamed petals that flared into gentle points at the opening. It reminded Horace of a lily of the valley blossom. Back at home, a patch of the miniature white flowers grew behind the toolshed, blooming in the late spring. Except this flower was gleaming black instead of shining white.

  A deep unease settled over Horace as he examined the little flower. His first instinct told him that it was in fact Tan’ji, but there was something sickly about it, something cruel and sad—as if it were a half-crushed insect, barely alive, still trying to crawl. And as he stared at the tiny metal blossom, he could almost swear that it did move, trembling ever so slightly. But maybe that was just his imagination.

  “What is it?” he asked. “And what’s wrong with it? It feels like Tan’ji, but it seems . . . bad.”

  “It is Tan’ji.” They all jumped as Mr. Meister’s voice rolled across the room. He strode toward them, his gray eyes as wide as ever, and bent over the table. “But it is not bad—not in the way you might suspect. This little flower is daktan.”

  When Horace frowned, Brian explained. “Daktan means sundered.” Horace shook his head, still clueless. Brian gestured toward the Fel’Daera at Horace’s side, toward the dragonfly around Chloe’s neck. “This flower is a . . . missing piece.”

  Horace clutched at the box. “A missing piece . . . of a Tan’ji, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly the flower looked even more horrible, like a chunk of dissected flesh. Horace glanced at Chloe. Her face too was wrinkled with disgust and alarm. “But who would break a piece off a Tan’ji?” he asked.

  “Someone who could not bring himself to utterly destroy the instrument in question,” said Mr. Meister.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Remember that basically there are two kinds of Tanu: those that require a Keeper, and those that do not. Those that do not, we call Tan’kindi. Those that do, of course, we call Tan’ji—but only when they are bonded to their Keepers. When such a Tanu is dormant—when it is without a Keeper—we call it Tan’layn. The unspoken.”

  Horace had heard that word earlier, from his mother, but she’d defined it as “unclaimed.” Somehow, “unspoken” sounded even worse.

  “As you know,” Mr. Meister continued, “we have been actively seeking new Keepers for the Tan’layn we’ve collected. But as you also know, that search can be dangerous. Every time we seek a new Keeper, we risk alerting the Riven. And there was a time, not so very long ago, when the Wardens were unwilling to take that risk. Instead of allowing the Tan’layn to find new Keepers, the Wardens kept the instruments hidden deep, where no one could hope to find them, friend or foe.” He sighed remorsefully. “But in time, even hiding wasn’t enough to ease their fears. The Wardens began to deliberately sabotage some of the more powerful Tan’layn, amputating crucial pieces. They moved the Tan’layn—now greatly reduced in power—to other strongholds, leaving the daktan here. Essentially, they hoped to keep the instruments safe by crippling them, making them less valuable to the Riven.”

  “Less valuable to everyone,” Horace said, appalled.

  “Precisely. But the Wardens reasoned that if a human Keeper was somehow found for one of these Tan’layn, the instrument in question could—with a little luck, in the right hands—be reassembled. Repaired.” He glanced at Brian meaningfully.

  Brian shifted slightly, looking down at the floor. Of course—Tunraden. But Brian’s expression seemed to suggest that reassembling a sabotaged instrument would be no small feat.

  “So let me get this straight,” Chloe said. “It’s like if I didn’t want someone to steal my car, I’d break the steering wheel off and hide it.”

  “A fair analogy, yes.”

  “Well, that seems like a terrible plan.”

  “Just so. Terrible and cowardly. And now we are left with some of the remnants of those hopeless days.” Mr. Meister swept an arm across the cluttered display case in front of them. “An inventory of steering wheels, if you like.”

  Chloe shivered. “Wait—these are all missing pieces? They’re all . . . what did you call them?”

  “Daktan,” Mr. Meister said.

  “Right,” said Chloe. “But the rest of these don’t look like this little flower does. This flower makes me wa
nt to vomit. The rest don’t even feel like Tan’ji.”

  “That’s because the instruments to which these other daktan belong have not yet met their Keepers. They are still Tan’layn.” Mr. Meister bent low over the tray, practically pressing his nose against the tiny black flower, cocking his head to the right to stare at the blossom through the great left lens of the oraculum. “But the instrument from which this floret was taken has very recently been Found.” The heavy way he said the word left no doubt as to his meaning. Again Horace saw, or imagined that he saw, the little blossom tremble.

  “So this piece is missing from some new Keeper’s Tan’ji,” Horace said, trying not to think too hard about how that might feel. “But is that Tan’ji even working?”

  Brian glanced at Mr. Meister, who was staring silently at the daktan. “Yes,” Brian said. “But we can’t say how well, or even what it does.”

  Mr. Meister said, “Very likely even its Keeper cannot say how well the instrument is working, though he or she is certainly aware that something is amiss.”

  Chloe raised an eyebrow. “And you know this because . . . ?”

  Brian shrugged. “I’ve been keeping an eye on this little flower since I first noticed it coming to life. I can sense changes in the Medium, remember?”

  Mr. Meister pointed to the oraculum over his own left eye. “As can I, in my own small way.”

  Brian continued. “And then this morning, something major happened. The Keeper became conscious of the daktan for the first time. He or she heard the call of the missing piece. It’s been growing stronger hour by hour all day, and now . . . it’s big-time.”

  Fascinated, Horace gazed at the little flower. “Can you two hear the call?” he asked.

  “In a manner of speaking, but only in the presence of the daktan,” Mr. Meister said. “You might say that when we observe the daktan, we are aware that someone else is aware.”

  “It’s like hearing one end of a phone conversation,” Brian said. “This isn’t a signal you could actually intercept.”

  “Right,” Chloe said. “But do you wonder twins have any idea where this Keeper actually is?”

  Somewhat creepily, both Brian and Mr. Meister raised a silent arm, pointing back over their shoulders in the same direction. Chloe’s eyes grew wide. Horace was a little disoriented, deep underground, but the two Wardens seemed to be pointing vaguely to the north. “It is hard to tell how far away, precisely,” Mr. Meister said. “Brian is better at such things than I am. He believes the Keeper is outside the city.”

  “Within fifty miles, I think,” Brian added, but he sounded distracted. He looked up into the air as if hearing a sound no one else could detect. “Maybe forty. Neither of us can tell the exact location—only the direction and a rough idea of distance.”

  “But who is this Keeper?” Horace asked.

  “We do not know,” Mr. Meister replied. “All we know is that the Keeper is feeling the irresistible pull of this small piece, even from far off. They have sensed the wound in their instrument, and will soon be on the move. Even as we speak, they are being drawn to this place, to this very chamber. And despite all our efforts to keep the Warren hidden, they will find us.” His tone sounded ominous, though Horace wasn’t sure why.

  “You say that like we should be worried,” Chloe said.

  “Perhaps we should,” said Mr. Meister grimly, looking down at the metal blossom again. “I said we do not know who the Keeper is, but let me be clear—we do not even know what the Keeper is.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Horace. “Are you saying that it might not be a human out there . . . that it might be a Riven?”

  Mr. Meister blinked at him with those great gray eyes of his. “That is correct. A visitor is coming to the Warren, and we cannot assume it is a friend.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Prairie Lake Station

  APRIL EMERGED FROM A CORNFIELD ON THE EDGE OF TOWN with Isabel and Joshua, feeling—for the first time—very much like a runaway. She was only a couple of miles from home, after all, and if they were headed into town it was possible someone who knew her might spot her. That simply wouldn’t do. She tried her best to look innocent and anonymous. She told herself she had every right to be here—the call of the missing piece could not be ignored. It was as simple as that.

  But maybe they weren’t headed into town. Up ahead, the amber lights of the local Metra station glowed. The station sat between two vast commuter parking lots, each one as wide as a football field. Since it was nearly seven thirty, with the trains only running every hour or so, the lots were all but empty.

  At some point on their hike, a subtle shift had occurred in their little group. Joshua had begun to lead the way, no doubt using his keen sense of direction to take them wherever they were going. But so far, instead of leading them toward the magnetic call of the missing piece, he’d been taking them away from it. For April, this was beyond frustrating, and frankly a little worrisome. When she’d politely asked where they were headed—how they were planning to get into the city—Isabel had said only, “Arrangements have been made.” But now, as Arthur drifted overhead and dropped into the parking lot, April looked at the train station in the distance and felt her heart slump in her chest.

  “We’re taking a train?” she said.

  “What?” Isabel said blankly. “No . . . no train.”

  April breathed a sigh of relief. The thought of getting a raven on a train was problematic, to say the least. But it still didn’t answer the question of how they were getting to the city.

  They started across the parking lot, weaving between the dozen or so cars that still remained. Arthur meandered alongside, exploring, warbling low to himself. He hopped briefly onto the hood of an SUV, clearly in a good mood. He stopped to examine something small and shiny—a coin or a pop top, maybe—and then began tossing it into the air. He was playing. Isabel watched him with a smile. Meanwhile, keen little sparks of mischief fired in April’s head.

  There were nearly to the station when a northbound train came and went. A lone woman got off and headed toward them. April hid her face as the woman passed them, but the woman barely glanced their way. As they crossed the tracks, Arthur swooped in silently and took up a perch on the near end of the long station building. April continued to sip at his happiness, his contentment, his still-blooming wonder at being free and able to fly again. His carefree mood was the perfect remedy for her own stewing worries.

  Isabel glanced over at her. “Keep it low,” she murmured.

  “I am,” said April.

  They cut across the empty platform, headed for the far end of the darkened station building. But just as they moved under the shadowed eaves, Arthur’s mood abruptly shifted. April stopped dead.

  A sudden alertness. A jolt of alarm.

  She spun and looked back over the abandoned parking lot, toward the dark sea of corn beyond. The woman who had gotten off the train looked to be headed for a car at the end of the lot. “Someone’s out there,” she said.

  Isabel turned, pressing Joshua against the wall. “I don’t see anyone. I don’t feel anything.”

  “But Arthur does.” April closed her eyes, wary of opening herself too much to the vine. If only she could know what Arthur was seeing. If only the vine weren’t broken. His keen eyes had spotted something moving out in the distance beyond the woman, something—

  “Easy,” Isabel warned.

  April couldn’t see, but Arthur’s perceptive mind began to fill in some of the blanks. Shapes approaching from the field beyond the lot, following their trail, headed this way. Unnatural shapes. Hated shapes.

  She opened her eyes. “Riven,” she said. “Mordin. They’re coming.”

  Isabel didn’t hesitate, didn’t question. She grabbed Joshua’s hand and broke into a sprint. April followed, her backpack bouncing as she ran. She quickly moved out of range of Arthur, but they all heard his hoarse, challenging cry as it echoed across the entire station: “Rrrawk! rawwk! rrawwk!”

/>   April dared to look back as she rounded the corner of the building. A hundred yards off, she spotted the Mordin in the fading light. Two tall and angular forms like living trees, like praying mantises stretched into grotesque, humanlike form. Her heart fluttered as they passed by the woman from the train, but the woman merely nodded at them. April ducked quickly out of sight after Isabel.

  A tall hedge lined the tracks behind the station. The threesome slipped behind it and kept running, Isabel in the lead. They turned and hurried up a long gravel drive that ran behind an auto repair shop closed for the day.

  Isabel stopped behind the garage and took a knee. She began digging through her pockets, breathing hard. “They’re on your trail,” she muttered.

  “I’ve been careful,” April said. “Barely sipping.”

  “You’ve been fine. It’s your wound they’re following, but even then, they’ve been lucky to be doing so well.”

  “I thought maybe they wouldn’t follow us into town,” April said. “That they’d be afraid of being seen. But that woman in the parking lot saw them and—”

  Joshua shook his head gravely. “Only people with the talent see the Mordin how they really are.”

  April wondered if that included him. “So they’ll follow us wherever we go,” she said. “But they’ll keep their distance because of you, right, Isabel?”

  “Yes, but we have a bigger problem now. I promised our ride there was no danger. She won’t be happy if we show up with Mordin in pursuit.”

  Our ride. Apparently they were meeting someone who would drive them into the city. “So what do we do?” April asked.

  “I can’t do anything about your wound, but maybe I can use it.” Isabel pulled something small and silver from her pocket—a paper clip. She began to unfold it. “I need your help, April. Drink from the vine. Deeper than you have been.”

  “But won’t the Mordin feel it?”

  “That’s what I want—I need you to bleed.”

  Bewildered, April probed at the vine. Arthur was nowhere nearby, but down in the gravel driveway, a bug was crawling. She spotted it at once—a beetle, clambering over tiny stones as big as boulders. She invited the beetle’s dull, robotic mind into her own. Plodding and purposeful, some deep instinct was driving the bug, some instinct April didn’t recognize, something as crucial as hunger but less . . . selfish.