The Harp and the Ravenvine

by Ted Sanders

  “If you could explain, please, Keeper,” Mr. Meister said. “It happened so fast, I could not catch it all.”

  She tried to explain. “It was only emotions before,” she said. “I know that now. I mean . . . I think maybe I was good at it, figuring out what certain emotions meant. It was detective work. But now!” She hiccupped another sloppy laugh, and just then Arthur spotted a dirty scrap of canvas on the floor in the next room. She saw it, so keenly she could have counted the fibers, then felt the swell of curiosity from Arthur. A stab of intention. She leaned down—no, he leaned down; she was only feeling his movements in her muscles, a sensation she would have to learn to ignore. He plucked the canvas deftly from the ground. Oily bitterness between her toothless jaws. A pungent sting.

  “Oh, god, that’s terrible,” she said, thankful that birds didn’t have very many taste buds. “Why would you want that in your mouth?”

  “You’re sensing what Arthur senses,” Horace said. “Right now. You can . . . taste what he tastes.”

  April nodded. “Yes, and I can see what he sees. Hear what he hears. He hears you, Horace. I can hear you twice.” She broke into girlish laughter as her own voice echoed in her head. “I can hear myself! You probably think I’m crazy, don’t you?” And then a new sensation crackled through the synapses of her brain, shocking and familiar, freezing her. She processed it, tears welling in her eyes, and then she whirled and wrapped Brian in a fierce embrace. “Thank you,” she murmured sloppily into his shoulder.

  “It’s cool,” Brian said. “It’s good.” He patted her awkwardly on the back, but she didn’t care if it was awkward. She clung to him, sobbing and laughing, hardly able to believe it.

  Because another new realm made itself known to her now too, one beyond senses, a realm she hadn’t even thought to imagine.

  Memory.

  The sound of her own voice in Arthur’s ears had triggered it. “Don’t you?” And with those words a memory blossomed inside her—not her own memory, but Arthur’s—a memory of the day she’d released him from the pen at Doc Durbin’s house. The oppressive confines of the cage. Her own crooked face, leaning down, offering a delicious chunk of brown food. The wire mesh of the door. Dontchoo? Hope and gratitude. Glorious freedom. The scene flared bright and true, as real as any recollection of her own, and then faded. She tried to relive it again, but couldn’t quite grab hold. It wasn’t a video she could replay, but more like a messy collage, a shifting jumble of sensation and emotion. She understood that she couldn’t force it, any more than she could force a cloud into a specific shape.

  She let go of Brian. It was almost too much, all these new oceans of awareness. Her head throbbed dully—in a good way, not a bad way, but still she was glad Arthur was the only animal nearby. “Thank you,” she said again, and again: “Thank you.”

  Mr. Meister cleared his throat. “I must thank you too, Keeper,” he said to Brian. “With all the years I have on me, rarely do I witness something I have never seen before. But reconnecting a daktan—truly a remarkable accomplishment.”

  Brian untangled himself from April. “Wait . . . this was the first time you’ve seen someone do that?”

  “Indeed.”

  “But you told me it could be done. I figured you were speaking from experience.”

  Mr. Meister nodded. “Yes. I was speaking from my experience with you.” He stepped past Brian, leaving him open-mouthed, and leaned in close to April.

  “My congratulations, Keeper,” Mr. Meister said.

  “Thank you,” April replied vaguely. The old man was hazy, seen through the glass of Arthur’s sight in the other room. She was finding it hard to resist the raven’s magnificent vision.

  Mr. Meister seemed to notice. “Your eyes,” he said. “Am I right in thinking that you are concentrating on Arthur?”

  “Partly, yes. He’s on one of Brian’s workbenches.” April shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I can feel it under him—it’s slippery. He’s got a piece of wire and he’s bending it. Just for fun.” She frowned and spread her mouth wide, then ran a finger across the tops of her teeth again. “Beaks feel weird. I had no idea.”

  Abruptly Arthur let out a series of alien-sounding calls, like knocking on wood—tok, tok, tok. “Whoa!” April cried, clutching her throat, as the calls seemed to rattle inside her own voice box. Then she laughed. “I’m sorry, this is kind of overwhelming. I’m being ridiculous right now.”

  “Not ridiculous at all, under the circumstances,” Mr. Meister said. “Your Tan’ji is whole again. At last you can take a deep breath, yes? You can open your eyes all the way, flex your muscles to the fullest. You are, if I may say it, your complete self.”

  “My complete self,” April repeated. She pulled back from Arthur and focused on the old man’s face. “I suppose I owe you one now.”

  Mr. Meister waved this off with a look of disgust. “A crude suggestion.”

  “You did me this favor, though. This . . . incredible favor.”

  “We do not do favors. We do what is best. If you want to repay us, repay us with silence about what has transpired here this evening. There are some secrets that must never see the light of day.”

  April looked at Brian. He shrugged, holding out his pale arms, and said, “Literally.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” April said, wondering if this truly meant what she thought it meant. Did Brian really never leave the Warren? And maybe it was the heavy joy of the vine’s power unleashed that made her say what she said next, or maybe it was a sense of belonging that she couldn’t quite explain—or maybe it was the sight of pale, skinny Brian standing there, having just given her the greatest gift of her life, standing there making who knew what sacrifices in the name of this war she didn’t fully understand. Where had he come from? What had he left behind? Isabel’s words returned to her: “You are Tan’ji now. Things can’t be the way they were.”

  “I’m going to join you,” she blurted out. “If that’s still okay.”

  Brian beamed. Mr. Meister took a deep breath and smiled and said, “Far more than okay.”

  April turned to Horace and Chloe. She knew Horace wanted her to stay—that was obvious—but Chloe was another story. “My brother is the only family I have, and I think I’m about to leave him,” April said. She looked pointedly at Chloe. “It would help to know that I’m going somewhere I’ll be welcome, at least.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “Look, it’s fine,” she growled. “We’re all Tan’ji. We all have the same enemy. So just be here already.”

  “Thank you,” April said. She stepped forward and held out her hand, not even sure why she was doing it, but knowing—for some strange reason—that it was this fierce girl’s respect she wanted most of all.

  Reluctantly, Chloe took the offered hand and gave it a single shake, muttering, “Sometimes I think I should just keep my mouth shut.”

  “I often feel the same,” Mr. Meister said with an enigmatic twinkle, and then clapped his hands together before Chloe could react. “Excellent,” he said. “Come, we have much to discuss. Tomorrow Beck will take April home so she can make arrangements with her family. I’ll arrange for an escort.” He swept past them, out into Brian’s workshop, leaving them to follow.

  As April entered the workshop, she got a shock that froze her in her tracks—the sight of herself, through Arthur’s eyes. It was both unspeakably horrible and indescribably wonderful. The bad part was how glaring her flaws were. The pimples on her chin and high on her forehead looked actually like pizza. Her hair, unwashed for a few days now, looked as greasy as meat. But her eyes glowed, dazzling her, lit with flecks of color that didn’t exist in the human world.

  Arthur cooed at her, discordant and gargling. For a moment she thought maybe he could sense the change in the vine, but no—the connection remained a one-way street. She was a listener, not a talker, and that was just the way she liked it. She walked over to him where he stood on the workbench and knelt down close. She caught a glimpse of t
he vine, with the newly attached flower, gazing both into his eyes and through them at her own. Her irises were sculptures made of string and sand. Colors beyond the rainbow. Reflections within reflections. She stared so long she almost forgot it was herself she was looking at. “I wish you all could see yourselves this way,” she murmured.

  “By the Loom,” Mr. Meister said, “very few will ever have the chance.”

  April stood, blinking the spectacle away. “What do you mean?”

  Mr. Meister tugged at his vest. “Empaths are not uncommon. However, in my experience, most are quite weak and—at least from our perspective—not particularly useful. They are able to sense the location and basic disposition of living creatures, but little else. Historically speaking, in fact, most empaths used their power for hunting.” He shook his head wonderingly. “Your instrument, however—if you’ll allow me the pun—seems to be quite a different animal. I have never heard of anything like the sensory precision you’re experiencing. Part of this is due to the instrument itself, no doubt. But part of it must be due to you.”

  “Well, I don’t know about any of that,” said April, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She let Arthur nip lightly at her fingertip, marveling at the sensation of toothlessly biting herself—which probably wasn’t helping her self-consciousness much. She tucked her hands into her pockets. “I just wish it had a name. Everyone else’s instruments have such cool names.”

  “Not all Tan’ji have names,” said Mr. Meister. “Nonetheless, yours certainly deserves one. Who better to name it than yourself?”

  “Me?” April said. “No, I can’t name it. That would be like . . .”

  “Naming your own hand,” Chloe said.

  “Exactly.”

  Arthur squawked amiably and fluffed out all his feathers, ballooning briefly to twice his size. April had to practically bite her tongue to keep from crying out—it was like the worst case of goose bumps ever. Arthur shuffled across the workbench and picked up a washer with his beak. After a brief burst of curious mischief, he tossed it over the edge, where it hit the floor and began to roll. Everyone’s heads turned to follow it—everyone’s but April’s, that is.

  “You guys would not believe how well I can see,” she murmured, watching the washer flash and wobble and fall through Arthur’s eyes. “How well he can see. It’s like binoculars on steroids.”

  “The Ravenvine,” Brian said suddenly. Now everybody turned to look at him. “What?” he said. “April doesn’t want to name her Tan’ji. So who better than the guy who fixed it?”

  “The Ravenvine,” April murmured. “That’s actually . . . pretty good.”

  Arthur opened his beak wide and bobbed his head, his throat pulsing. “Purtygud,” he cawed. “Purtygud purtygud.”

  “See?” Brian said. “Even the bird likes it. And since when did a bird ever steer a Warden wrong?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Mothering

  LATER THAT NIGHT, CHLOE STEPPED OUT OF BECK’S CAB IN front of Horace’s house. Horace was with her, of course, and April too. April had brought her bird, Arthur, who had hopped into the cab as if he’d been doing it his whole life. Chloe loved animals, but had never had a pet herself—not even a fish. She wondered what it would be like to have a companion like Arthur, especially with a crazy power like April’s.

  It had been Chloe’s idea for her and April to spend the night at Horace’s house. She had expected Mr. Meister to say it was too dangerous, considering that the Riven had been pursuing April for days, but Mr. Meister seemed strangely unconcerned. According to him, the Riven had been interested in April and her broken Tan’ji for basically the same reasons Isabel had—they’d hoped that in pursuit of her missing piece, she would unwittingly lead them to the Warren. And apparently empaths, even a powerful one like April, were hard to detect. Plus, as Mr. Meister pointed out, the very powerful leestone at Horace’s house was more than enough to keep them all safe.

  Of course, Mr. Meister no doubt understood the real reason for the sleepover: Chloe couldn’t bear to stay in the academy tonight. Not with her father and Isabel right down the hall. They would want to talk to her, comfort her, convince her that everything could be okay again. As if anything they could say right now would be a comfort. No, Chloe was homeless. Placeless. She wanted to go to Aunt Lou’s to see Madeline, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to bear it. That left only one place that felt remotely like home: Horace’s house.

  As for April, Chloe wanted her to come partly because April hadn’t done or said anything really stupid yet, even though Chloe had been poking at her pretty hard. That was impressive. She also invited April partly because she hung out with a freaking raven, which was undeniably badass.

  But also—very partly—Chloe wanted April to come because it was clear Horace liked the new girl, and Chloe didn’t want to give him the wrong impression by kicking April to the curb every chance she got. God forbid he start thinking she was jealous or some horridly weak thing like that.

  At Horace’s house, though they arrived with no advance notice whatsoever, Horace’s mom was gracious and smooth, unsurprisingly glad to let them stay. Horace’s dad, also unsurprisingly, grunted and went along with it. He shook April’s hand politely and gave Chloe a high five, their usual greeting. Horace’s dad was the only person Chloe was willing to high five; he was a man of few words, with a dry and surly sense of humor. Chloe respected that.

  Jessica, Horace’s mom, seemed tremendously excited to meet April and Arthur. But then Loki the cat showed up in the hallway, practically skidding to a stop when he saw the raven on April’s shoulder. All at once a tremendous commotion broke out—Arthur screamed bloody murder at the cat, spreading his huge wings astonishingly wide. Loki bristled and growled and spat like a fiend.

  Grimacing in pain, April hustled the bird outside. Arthur took to the air—causing April to clutch her stomach and let out an involuntary “Woop!”—and flew up onto the roof. April said he’d be fine. But Chloe—maybe because she’d never had that pet—couldn’t stop worrying that Arthur would fly away and never return. Once they were up in Horace’s room, April gave Chloe a strip of beef jerky so she could take it up onto the roof, to encourage Arthur to stick around. Fascinated, Chloe lured him close and watched him for a minute as he tore at the tough meat with his thick beak. Back inside, April opened Horace’s window so the bird could hear her voice.

  Once they got settled, nobody said much. Chloe, feeling responsible for the get-together but not very hostessy, sat at Horace’s desk and dug through his marbles. Horace flopped onto the bed and April tucked herself into a corner on the floor. Gradually they began to talk about the last few days—as if those days had been ordinary in any way.

  April told them about taming Arthur, and recounted her trip to the city. They heard about the Riven showing up at her house, and Joshua, and Ethel the hedge witch. They talked about Auditors for a while, and agreed they were the worst. Remembering the feeling of the Auditor at the river invading their Tan’ji made them all shiver in disgust. April was somewhat relieved that Chloe and Horace hadn’t seen one before. “Maybe there aren’t that many of them,” she said. “Maybe we won’t have to face another.”

  Chloe assured her, with more confidence than she actually felt, that she and Horace were ready to take on another pack of Mordin, if it came to that. “Horace and I tracked down a Riven nest and destroyed it,” she said. “We’ll be ready if they come back, don’t worry.”

  As they talked, April said very little about Isabel directly, apparently wanting to avoid a sore subject, but when Dr. Jericho came up, she let slip that Isabel seemed to know who he was.

  “What, like they hang out?” Chloe demanded, alarmed.

  “No, just like . . . she’d obviously had encounters with him before. She told me—if I remember right—not to believe anything he said about her.”

  Chloe couldn’t understand what she was hearing. “So they know each other. It sounds like they’ve had conversations, ev
en. This is bad news. Really bad.”

  “You’re way overreacting,” Horace said. “It doesn’t mean anything. I mean, come on, we’ve all talked to Dr. Jericho. Heck, one time you even held—”

  Chloe chucked a marble at him, shushing him. As a rule, she tried not to think too much about those two terrible nights, but sometimes she could still feel the horrible sensation of Dr. Jericho’s skin against hers as he led her back to the nest hand in hand. “Point taken,” she said.

  Clearly confused, but not wanting to press, April asked about the missing piece—the daktan. Horace told her about how Brian had discovered it, and how Horace himself had sent it through the box. He described tracking her down and lying in wait for her at the riverbank. But when he began recounting the trip through the falkrete afterward, April stopped him. She asked him to describe the circle of stones inside the cloister. “I think I’ve seen one of those,” she said. “Behind an abandoned barn by my house. There’s even a stone shaped like a bird—but no wall, though.”

  “Maybe it’s an old cloister,” Horace said. “I doubt the falkrete circle works anymore, though. From what Mrs. Hapsteade said, it sounded like most of them were out of commission.”

  “Too bad,” April said. “If only it worked—and if only I’d known—it would’ve saved me a lot of heartache these last few days.”

  “You and me both,” Chloe said.

  April looked at her. “Chloe, I want you to know that I never knew Isabel was your mom—that she was anybody’s mom. She never mentioned it.”

  Chloe couldn’t tell if that felt like good news or bad news. “No pictures of me in her wallet, huh?”

  “She tried to make it seem like she was just helping me out. She didn’t want me to know that she had her own reasons for finding the Wardens. I mean, I found out about the harp, and how she used to work for Mr. Meister, but—”