The Harp and the Ravenvine

by Ted Sanders

  The academy was all but abandoned this time of year. As they headed toward the elevator that led down to the Warren, Chloe recounted her conversation with her mother that morning. Filled with horror and sympathy, Horace heard about Chloe’s broken legs. She’d mentioned breaking bones before, but he hadn’t imagined anything quite so horrible. She told him about Isabel leaving, choosing the harp over her family. “She left us all to protect me—you know, because she’s so selfless,” Chloe spat sarcastically. “God forbid she give up her damn harp instead.”

  Horace considered what it would be like to give up the Fel’Daera—to have to choose between family and instrument. But then again, Isabel wasn’t Tan’ji. And he knew without question that his own mother would have sacrificed her own harp for him. In a heartbeat.

  “That’s . . . terrible, Chloe,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You and me both.”

  “At least now you know the truth.”

  “Yup. The whole big truth bomb exploded.”

  “And now she’s back,” Horace pointed out cautiously. “She came looking for you.”

  “Did she, though?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I don’t trust her. I can’t trust her. She says she surrendered the harp last night to be with us, but she also says maybe Mr. Meister could fix things for her, or something. She’s not willing to give up the harp—not really. I can tell.”

  They passed by the academy’s great leestone, a massive raven launching itself from a branch, wings spread wide. Looking at it, Horace recalled how Isabel’s power had mowed down the Auditor and the Mordin on the riverbank. He remembered the shocking sight the Fel’Daera had provided, the moment that—by a whisker, he was sure—hadn’t come to pass. Dr. Jericho, cleaved by Isabel, dropping lifeless into the mud. There was no getting around it: a Tuner like Isabel could be perhaps the most powerful weapon they had against the Riven. But of course, Horace couldn’t just come out and say it. Not to Chloe, and maybe not at all.

  “Well,” Horace said instead, “it’s still pretty crazy, huh? My mom knew your mom, back when they were kids. Before we were even born. And they don’t even know it.”

  “You didn’t tell your mom?” Chloe asked.

  “No. It felt like something you should do, if it gets done at all.”

  “Thank you. I think.” Chloe was silent for a several seconds. “It’s definitely freaky that our moms knew each other before we even existed. But maybe it’s a sign. Maybe that’s the reason we get along so well.”

  Horace bit his lips to keep from smiling. “You mean, that’s why I tolerate you so well.”

  “That’s what I said,” Chloe replied primly.

  When they arrived at the tiny, rickety elevator, Chloe produced her black key and slid back the gate. Horace closed his eyes and stepped inside. He heard her insert her key into the elevator panel and click once to the left, once to the right. The elevator shuddered into motion. As usual, Chloe started up a friendly chatter to keep Horace distracted.

  “I heard you were pretty awesome last night,” she said. “Neptune said you were like a ninja or something. What was the breach at?”

  “Four seconds,” Horace said, blushing.

  “Four seconds!”

  “Yeah. It was stupid.”

  “Oh, definitely. Totally stupid. But it worked.”

  Sort of, Horace thought. Thanks to Isabel.

  The elevator shuddered to a halt at the bottom and they slipped out into the cool tunnels. They took out their jithandras, the red and blue mingling into shadowed purple, and started down the long stairway toward Vithra’s Eye. “What about you?” Horace said. “What about that Auditor? She was inside the Fel’Daera for a few seconds, trying to move the breach. It was . . . awful.”

  “Don’t get me started,” Chloe growled. “She was in the Alvalaithen almost the whole time. Sometimes she would let go, and if I could have caught her when she was solid I would’ve tried to meld something inside her—hurt her, you know?” She said this casually, as if embedding solid objects in living creatures was something she did all the time. The startling idea made Horace shudder. “I couldn’t catch her, though,” Chloe continued. “She’d go up in the air with the tourminda. Plus she was wrestling Gabriel for the humour, and I was mostly blind.”

  “But was she trying to hurt you?”

  “Define ‘hurt,’” Chloe said, clearly meaning that having your Tan’ji invaded was injury enough. But then she considered it. “No, she didn’t try to hurt us. She tried to wear us down—demoralize us. She kept talking while she used our powers, reminding us how our Tan’ji weren’t our own, that our abilities weren’t special, that we should stop resisting.”

  “And was it working?”

  Chloe hesitated just a bit before answering. “Not on me.”

  Horace didn’t press the issue. When the Auditor had invaded the Fel’Daera for even those few seconds, it had been like discovering that his own heart was pumping poison into his veins. He could scarcely imagine enduring that violation for several minutes. He let his thoughts settle on the Fel’Daera for a moment, toying with the breach, reassuring himself that it was his now, his and no one else’s.

  They arrived at the shore of Vithra’s Eye. No one was there to greet them. To his surprise, Chloe unhooked her jithandra and let it dangle, stepping up to the water’s edge.

  “What are you doing?” Horace said.

  “What do you think? Crossing.”

  “But we’ve never crossed on our own before.”

  “Well, I’ve got two things to say about that. Thing one: no one’s bothered to teach us. Thing two: how hard can it be?”

  But Horace still didn’t trust himself in the Nevren. “Nope. I’m not doing that.”

  “Fine. Then follow me.” Chloe dipped her scarlet jithandra into the water. The water rushed to become solid around it, and she stepped out. When Horace didn’t follow, she said, “Unless you don’t trust me.”

  Horace sighed. “I trust you.”

  “Great. That makes two of us. Let’s go.”

  Horace stepped up warily behind her, taking hold of her hood. Unsurprisingly, Chloe moved swiftly and surely, as if she’d done this a thousand times. The walkway that formed just in front of them was faintly red. And whatever worries Horace still clung to didn’t last long, obliterated as they entered the hollow terror of the Nevren. Somehow Chloe kept them moving through the cold, even through that stretch when Horace didn’t know who either of them was, and before long they were through. They reached the far shore with ease. But when Chloe refastened her jithandra, Horace noticed her hands were shaking.

  She caught him looking, her face pale, and she shrugged. “Harder than I thought,” she admitted. “But we made it.”

  They headed into the Great Burrow. They were here to formally meet with April, the girl with the pet raven and the mysterious Tan’ji. When they arrived at Mr. Meister’s doba, Mrs. Hapsteade was just leaving with Joshua, April’s strange young companion. The boy’s ankle was tightly wrapped, and he had only a faint limp now.

  “Keepers,” Mrs. Hapsteade said with a nod, lingering on Chloe for an extra second. “I see you made it across Vithra’s Eye on your own.”

  Chloe shrugged. “It was Horace’s idea,” she said inexplicably.

  Joshua, meanwhile, seemed starstruck. He bowed so deeply he nearly fell over. “Keepers,” he intoned formally. When he straightened, his eyes flitted eagerly back and forth between Horace and Chloe, alighting on the box and the dragonfly.

  “What’s your story?” Chloe asked the boy, not unkindly. “You a groupie or something?”

  “What’s a groupie?”

  “Like a fan. An inappropriately desperate fan.”

  “I’m not desperate. I’m going to be a Keeper just like you. Isabel says so.”

  Chloe grunted at Isabel’s name, her eyes narrowing. Mrs. Hapsteade laid a flat hand in front of the boy’s face, silencing him. H
orace noticed that in her other hand she held a neatly folded piece of paper. He caught a glimpse of shimmering blue ink.

  “That’s a promise that should never be made,” Mrs. Hapsteade said to Joshua, “even if you do have potential.”

  Potential, yes. And by the looks of that ink—no doubt written with the Vora—it was the same kind of potential Horace himself had. That first day in the House of Answers, Horace had filled out the guest book with Mrs. Hapsteade’s Tan’ji and been surprised at the brilliant blue ink that flowed from it—the same ink that had later gone into his jithandra. And Horace remembered Mr. Meister’s reaction when he’d first seen the boy on the riverbank the night before. Despite himself, Horace laid a hand on the box.

  Mrs. Hapsteade took Joshua’s hand firmly. “They’re waiting for you inside,” she told Horace and Chloe, and with another nod she began leading Joshua away.

  “Good-bye,” the boy said solemnly.

  Horace waved limply, watching him go. He felt Chloe’s eyes on him.

  “What’s up?” Chloe asked. “Seems like that kid is creeping you out.”

  “His ink. I think it’s blue, like mine.”

  “So what about it? You afraid he’s going to take your job or something?”

  “Is that a thing that happens?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Come on, forget it.” Chloe turned to Mr. Meister’s door. She sighed at the ornate red wood and golden doorknob. “I am so surly right now. I’m not sure I’m up for hanging out with Bo Peep.”

  “She seems nice enough,” Horace said, and immediately regretted it.

  Chloe made a ferociously sarcastic kissy face at him and then swung the door open wide.

  Inside, Mr. Meister sat at his desk, looking at them with the air of someone who had been watching them approach for miles. The spitestone still stood on the shelf behind him, yellow eye gleaming, but Horace was surprised to see that Isabel’s wicker harp now lay beside it. Chloe seemed not to notice.

  Meanwhile April sat on the couch, wearing another long sundress and chunky, dirty boots. She looked astonishingly lovely, and Horace turned his gaze elsewhere. Her pet raven, perched on a shelf above her head, croaked brazenly, watching Horace with unmistakably intelligent eyes.

  Horace hadn’t learned much about this girl, or her powers, during those confusing moments on the riverbank; Horace and Chloe had been whisked away almost at once. Nonetheless it was clear that April’s Tan’ji—the swirling silver object tangled in her auburn hair—had something to do with the bird. She could control it, or something. Trying to be subtle, Horace studied her, wondering how she’d gotten her crooked nose and whether it actually made her look prettier, until she faintly raised an eyebrow and made him look away again.

  Horace had expected that Gabriel and Neptune would be joining them, but the older Wardens weren’t present. Instead, to Horace’s surprise, Brian was here, waving gaily to get their attention.

  “Let’s go, heroes,” Brian said. “Saved you a seat.” He scooted closer to April, opening an unnecessarily large chunk of room on the long, curved couch.

  As soon as Horace and Chloe sat, Mr. Meister leapt into action, like a tightly wound toy. “There is much to discuss,” he said. “No time for formalities, just simple introductions.” He made a karate chop motion at each of them, rattling off their names. “Chloe Oliver, Horace Andrews, Brian Souter. Please meet our new arrival, April Simon.”

  April ducked her head and muttered a couple of shy but friendly hellos. Horace waved and said, “Hey.” Brian shook her hand. Chloe grunted.

  “Inspiring,” said Mr. Meister.

  April looked around at them. “This might be a rude question, but can I ask what you all . . . do?” She nodded at Chloe’s dragonfly, making her meaning clear.

  “You saw me last night,” Chloe said. “I can become incorporeal.”

  April clearly wasn’t thrown by the fancy word. “Totally? You can move through anything?”

  “Yes, anything. Wood, stone, metal. Flesh.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” said Chloe, scowling. “Well . . . not normally, no.”

  “I’m really curious how you actually do that. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Do you slide between molecules, or do you shift dimensions, or what?”

  Horace was impressed. He caught Brian’s eye, and Brian mouthed a single word at him, wiggling his eyebrows: Wow.

  Chloe’s scowl grew deeper. “Um, that’s not how I roll. I just do it, and it happens.”

  April hesitated as if she was going to press the issue, but instead she just said, “I wouldn’t want to be your enemy.”

  “No,” said Chloe. “You wouldn’t.”

  Clearly perplexed by Chloe’s hostility, April tried to smile and then slid her steady gaze to Horace. She raised her eyebrows politely.

  “Oh right,” said Horace, fumbling for the box. “Well, this is the Fel’Daera. The Box of Promises. It . . . uh . . . opens into the future.”

  April sat stunned for a moment, and then said, “No, it does not.”

  “Um, yeah. Yeah, it does. I can see into the future—only as far as a day, though.”

  April shook her head firmly, her hazel eyes gleaming. “No, you cannot.”

  “I swear, I totally can. That’s how we knew where to find you on the river. I saw you coming.”

  “I’m trying to believe you.”

  Chloe scoffed. “Try harder,” she muttered under her breath. Horace frowned. What was Chloe’s deal?

  “I assure you, Keeper, it’s quite true,” Mr. Meister told April.

  “It’s not that I don’t believe it,” she said, watching the box warily. “After everything I’ve seen this week, I kind of have to believe it. But out of every crazy thing I’ve seen, this seems like the most—”

  “Amazing,” said Brian.

  “I was going to say dangerous.”

  Horace caught his breath. Dangerous. Sil’falo Teneves’s greatest mistake. He glanced at Mr. Meister, but the old man didn’t reply to April’s words—neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  April searched Horace’s face. “I’m sorry. I think probably I offended you.” She looked genuinely concerned.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m not sure it is. Just . . . remember that I’m kind of overwhelmed here. Last night was insane, and this is all scary, scary new. I’m just trying not to rock any boats. I’m trying to fit in.”

  Now Mr. Meister leaned forward. “You want to be one of us?”

  “I’m not sure what that even means.”

  “It means you would join us. You would help us in our fight against the Riven.”

  “Wow, that’s sort of . . .” April began, and then groaned in frustration. “Can I be honest? I’m super glad to meet you all, and I am probably half full of questions for all of you, but right now—really—all I care about is this.” She opened her fist, revealing the black flower daktan. Her calm voice cracked as she continued. “I came all this way to find it, and now I have it . . . except I don’t. I’m still broken. So when you talk about joining you, and fighting the Riven, I know I should care but I completely don’t. I’m sorry, but all I really care about is being fixed. That’s all I can care about. So I wish you’d tell me—can you can fix me?”

  The impassioned plea dove straight into Horace’s chest, but Mr. Meister simply sat there serenely. “Let us imagine that we could, hypothetically,” he said. “Would you then join us?”

  Horace was surprised. Mr. Meister seemed to be bargaining with April, holding out the promise of repairing her Tan’ji in exchange for her loyalty. But then he realized—fixing April’s Tan’ji meant revealing the existence of Tunraden, perhaps the Warden’s greatest secret. Brian, meanwhile, sat stonily beside April, giving away nothing.

  April, to her credit, wasn’t deterred. “When I first met you on the riverbank and I tried to reattach my missing piece, you told me, ‘Not like that. Not yet.’ That didn’t sound very hypothetical.”


  Mr. Meister smiled, apparently pleased. “An excellent point. Let us say for the moment that fixing your Tan’ji is something to be discussed.”

  “Why?” Chloe asked suddenly.

  “I’m sorry?” said Mr. Meister.

  “I’m saying fix it or don’t fix it. Why are you so eager for her to join us? We don’t even know what she can do.”

  “Chloe,” Horace chided her softly, embarrassed on her behalf.

  Mr. Meister, however, seemed unperturbed. “April is an empath,” he said.

  “Oh, thanks, that clears it right up.”

  “I can listen to animals,” April said. “I can hear what they’re thinking—some of what they’re thinking, anyway. Simple things, mostly. Moods, emotions, things like that.”

  Horace tried to imagine the power she described. How could such a device actually work? And what did animals even think about? He glanced up at her raven, who was preening beneath one of his great black wings.

  “But you’re right,” April continued. “I don’t have anything like the kind of power you guys do. I don’t know how much I could really help you, even if . . .” She broke off, clenching her fist around the daktan.

  “Every Keeper has something to offer,” Mr. Meister said. “All the Wardens here have different and important work.”

  “You can listen to any kind of animal?” Chloe asked April.

  “Yes, any kind. Well, any kind but humans.”

  “What about the Riven?” Chloe pressed.

  “Oh, right . . . not the Riven either, now that you mention it.”

  Chloe laughed. “Well then what’s the point? You can tell me what your bird thinks? We’ve already got a bird. Her name is Neptune.”

  “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with your Tan’ji,” Horace offered. “Maybe if it weren’t broken, you could listen to hu—”

  “No!” Mr. Meister barked, startling everyone—including himself. He straightened his vest fussily. He ran his fingers through his unruly white hair and then continued in a grave tone. “Empaths cannot hear the thoughts of other humans. It is forbidden.” He laid a hand on the chest-sized book on his desk. “When the first empathic instruments were made—instruments that allowed the user to understand the thoughts of others—the Makers quickly realized that they had stumbled on a dangerous weapon. One of the most dangerous weapons of all.”