But something new didn’t necessarily mean something good. And in this particular case, Claire couldn’t see how it could be good. Not when she and Sophie were being exiled from Stonehaven in disgrace.
Glancing at Sophie’s bed, she saw that it was empty. Her sister hadn’t come back.
Misery filled Claire and mixed with her fear of being outside Stonehaven’s wall—without Anvil’s or Aquila’s protection. Her stomach clenched. How long would it take them to find Aquila? And when they found her, would the woman take them back to the old stone well, or would she be too disappointed in Claire’s failure to help them?
Claire groaned out loud. She needed to get up. She needed to plan. Taking a deep breath, she swung her legs out of bed and began to walk to the wardrobe where their traveling packs and Kompass had been stashed.
“Ow!” A sharp pain jabbed her foot, and tears sprang to Claire’s eyes. Looking down, she saw she’d stepped on the little clay egg that Sophie had thrown last night. But it wasn’t an egg. It was just a ridiculous marble that hurt even worse than stepping on a Lego. And now it had a crack in it.
Annoyingly, though, she could practically hear Sophie, “See? Now it looks even more like an egg!”
If only it was as easy to crack the moontears as it was an egg.
An egg.
And suddenly, there it was. A thought. An idea, one that could let them stay in Stonehaven …
Holding the clay egg tight, she ran out of her room and sprinted down the hall to Terra’s study, where she burst in.
“Claire!” Terra looked up from a tapestry, startled. “If you’re here to discuss your exile, I’m afraid we must wait for—”
“An egg!” Claire cried. “We’ve been going about the moontears all wrong. We’ve been treating them like rocks, when we should be treating them like eggs. They don’t need to be polished or molded or melted—they need to be hatched!”
She set the clay egg on the desk, and looked up at Terra, expecting her to exclaim, too. But instead, Terra sadly shook her head, her long aquamarine earrings brushing her shoulders.
“It’s a good thought, Claire. In fact, I’ve played with the same idea myself.” Sorrow entered Terra’s magnified eyes. “But to hatch an egg, you have to understand so many things about it: how warm it must be, what it needs, how long it needs. In the case of unicorns … Well, there is a theory I’ve read about. Instead of sitting on an egg like a chicken or birthing a colt the way horses do, some of my research suggests that a living unicorn must touch its horn to the moontears when they’re ready.” She sighed, and her earrings glistened like unshed tears. “But that’s only a theory. And besides, as we know, there are no unicorns—not anymore.”
The sadness in her eyes seemed so deep at that moment that Claire felt afraid of falling into it, like an endless well. Of not being able to fix it.
“That’s why I’ve had you try alternative magics,” Terra explained. “Only a unicorn, I think, would truly be able to answer these questions. And as you know, the last unicorn anyone ever saw was three hundred years ago, at the end of the Guild War.”
Claire started to nod in understanding, but then stopped.
Because what Terra had said wasn’t technically true. Not anymore.
Anvil had told Claire not to tell—had made her promise, for both her sake and the sake of the last unicorn. It would be a very dangerous thing for anyone to know the truth:
That she had freed the last unicorn from the stone.
And in fact, hardly anyone would even believe her if she did tell.
But Terra had only ever been kind to Claire. And looking around at the unicorn-filled room, Claire knew that no one in all of Arden would be more delighted or adoring of a living, breathing unicorn than Terra—and no one would be more likely to believe Claire than her.
The Malchains would understand. She hoped.
Taking a deep breath, Claire said, “Scholar, I have something to tell you …”
And so she did. It all came tumbling out of her, sounding like some beautiful bedtime story that had been read to her before she could remember. She told her about Unicorn Rock and her role in its disappearance. How she’d managed somehow to use her blood and her magic to free the unicorn, just in time to save her sister’s life, before the unicorn fled.
When she was done, Terra sat very, very still. Then she flipped through several lenses of her magnifiers, lingering a minute or two on each one as she peered at Claire.
Claire wondered if she’d done the right thing. If she should have listened to Anvil. If she had ruined it all. Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer. “Do you believe me?” she asked.
Pursing her lips, Terra finally nodded—and then she did something even more amazing: she smiled. “My spectacles can see the truth in you, but I would believe you anyway.”
She stood. “This is exciting. This is an incredibly important piece of information. In fact, this changes everything.” She began to pace the short length of her office. “I’ll have to speak to Carnelian, you understand. But I should warn you … if I can convince him of the veracity of your tale, then there will be much more work ahead. For starters, there will be another test.”
Claire’s stomach sank. “What kind of test?”
“The Grand Test,” Terra said. “A test that proves your word, once and for all. It will require the Throne Room to be prepared, and I’m sure most if not all of Stonehaven will want to witness it. Please stop chewing your nails.”
With a start, Claire removed her fingers from her mouth. “But Scholar,” she said, “what if I make something else explode?” She nodded at the clay egg still on the desk.
Terra tilted her head. Her shoulder-length earrings gently knocked together, sounding like wind chimes, a random melody playing against the steady drip of sapphires in the desk hourglass. Finally, she nodded and, reaching into her drawer, pulled out …
“A pencil!” Claire exclaimed as the scholar gently pushed it into her hand.
“This once belonged to the great Gemmer artisan Charlotte Sagebrush. That’s her sketch up there,” Terra said with a nod to one of the many drawings of a unicorn hanging on the wall. “With that pencil, she supposedly invented Arden’s first alphabet. I want you to have it.”
“Wow,” Claire said. It didn’t look like any of the yellow pencils she had at home. The wood around it was unpainted, with little nubby knots where leaves might have once sprouted. It was little, too, only the size of her pinkie. “But why me?”
“You have worked hard, even if the moontears have not yet been woken. And it could be helpful for you if …” Terra trailed off, but Claire knew what she meant.
If she failed this Grand Test.
If she was sent beyond the walls of Starscrape Citadel.
If they ran into wraiths.
Still, Claire clung to the pencil and clung to her hope. Maybe the pencil, along with Claire’s new understanding of magic, could help keep her and Sophie alive until they made it back to the old stone well. And maybe they wouldn’t need it.
Maybe she would pass the test, like everyone wanted. Maybe she could still bring back the unicorns.
She gripped the pencil so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
“If you are who you say you are, all will be well,” Terra said, as if once again reading her mind. Closing the drawer, she turned to look Claire in the eye one last time. “You will be able to call the unicorn that you freed from the rock. I believe in you. And when the unicorn comes, it will wake the moontears for everyone to see. Then everyone else will believe you, too.”
She paused. “But Claire, I would be remiss not to warn you. If you fail … the grandmaster doesn’t believe in third chances.”
CHAPTER
12
The only thing louder than the crowd in the Throne Room was the pounding of Claire’s heart. Any minute now, the trumpets would sound. And when they did, Claire would push open the door of the waiting chamber and step out onto the dais for t
he Grand Test.
She wished she hadn’t fought with Sophie last night. Even though she didn’t want to be distracted by any more Sophie-shenanigans on this most important of days, she wished that her sister was beside her to squeeze her hand and tell her that it would all be okay. Instead, Sophie was likely pouting somewhere in the kitchens. Did she even know Claire had been given one last chance to prove her worth? From the sounds of it, everyone in Stonehaven had heard about the Grand Test and had gathered to witness it, just as Terra had predicted.
Claire’s hands were sweating. Maybe there was some small chance Sophie hadn’t heard, but if she had, she kept away anyway. Sophie hadn’t shown up when Terra helped Claire into a new gown, one more appropriate for the occasion. Or when Zuli had fixed Claire’s hair, and Claire had wished for Sena’s clever fingers, or better yet, Mom’s.
And when Terra had led Claire to the waiting chamber, Claire had been cautious when she peeked behind the window drapes, thinking Sophie might be hiding there, waiting to jump out and scare her.
But she was not.
Claire tried to remind herself that it was for the best. She was still angry with Sophie for getting her in trouble. She let herself touch the pencil she’d insisted Zuli tuck into her updo. It made her feel a little better, but not much.
Claire began to pace the small waiting room, her dress whispering behind her as she walked. The gown Terra had chosen for her was a relic saved from the days of the d’Astora monarchy. It was a simple dress of Gemmer blue, with long sleeves tumbling to the floor in a shimmer of silk. The only luxury added to it was a silver belt encrusted with sapphires that cinched around Claire’s waist and flowed down the skirt. Between the belt and yards of fabric, the outfit should have been heavy, but Scholar Terra had done something to the stones to make them feel as light as feathers. Or maybe, Claire thought, her newly trained Gemmer magic was helping her carry the load.
There was a cheer from behind the door, and then a burst of applause. Claire’s heart sped up and she turned quickly—too quickly.
There was a loud rip! as Claire lurched headfirst toward the floor, her gown’s train caught under her own heel.
She barely stopped herself from landing on her knees, just as, beyond the doors, a set of trumpets played.
It was time.
Nervously, Claire stood, brushed her skirts back into place, and with one shove, pushed open the heavy door.
Her breath caught as she stepped into the Throne Room. Unlike the rest of the Citadel, the Throne Room was not made of marble skimmed with pink. Instead, it was constructed entirely of amber—a gift from the Tiller Guild hundreds of years before the Guild War, as a thank-you for the hearthstones that never lost their warmth, even in the depths of winter.
It was an acknowledgment of friendship between the two guilds, for though the amber was now stone, it had begun its life as tree sap, catching insects in its sticky sweetness along with, legend said, the many secrets of this place. The amber’s translucence let the sun sweep in, turning everything the warm color of maple syrup—a shifting color that was as red as an autumn leaf and warmer than gold.
The voices of the Stonehaven choir swelled to the rafters as Claire made her way to the center of the dais where Grandmaster Carnelian stood. As always, Stonehaven’s grandmaster hunched over his ram’s head cane, but though he seemed tired, his dark eyes sparkled with a ferocious energy as Claire approached. She was reminded, for the thousandth time, it seemed, that this was her one and only last chance.
Shaking with nervousness, Claire’s gaze slid to the pedestal. Her head felt light and her ears popped. On the plump purple cushion lay what looked like a long icicle, glimmering in the sunlight. Was it some kind of wand? What were they going to ask her to do? In her time at Stonehaven, Claire had never heard of any crafting that needed a wand! It felt as though someone had hollowed Claire out with a spoon, and now all that was left was her heartbeat rattling around inside her. What if she made something burst or blow up, like she had with the clay Grail?
Her eyes must have looked wild, because Grandmaster Carnelian gestured her onward. Claire arrived at his side just as the choir finished its song.
“Claire Martinson,” Carnelian rumbled into the stillness, “we are gathered here today because of a story you shared with Scholar Terra of the return of the last unicorn, recently freed from rock. By you.”
Fear rose in the back of Claire’s throat, acrid and bitter, but she nodded, and Carnelian continued. “And so, before the Grand Test might be given, we the people of Stonehaven ask that you now listen to our story. Patterns form and stories repeat. Will you listen?”
Uncertain, Claire nodded.
“Very well,” Carnelian said, both voice and face expressionless. He stepped aside, and Claire saw Scholar Terra climb the steps of the dais. She had changed her own outfit after leaving Claire in the waiting chamber, and was now resplendent in rubies and topaz, and every time she took a step, her gown winked a cold fire. The formality of the outfit only sealed the deal in Claire’s mind: this was more than the other little tests she’d tried in Terra’s study over the past weeks. This was completely different.
And Claire had no idea what this test would involve.
As Terra flipped through gold-leafed pages, Claire looked out into the crowd.
A group of apprentices in their blue uniforms sat near the front, and behind them were the teenage journeymen, in white tunics trimmed in blue. The rest of the room was filled with all manner of people who worked with the rock: potters, glassmakers, sculptors, quarry workers, and more. But though there were enough eyes on Claire to make her knees knock together under her gown, she could not find Sophie among them.
“Time before memory and time before blood,” Terra read out loud, her voice carrying easily throughout the Throne Room, “a lonely, widowed king ruled Arden. His sole joy was watching his only child play upon her crystal flute.”
Flute. Claire’s eyes fell to the pedestal before her, and now she could make out three small indents along the icicle. But it wasn’t an icicle at all; it was a crystal flute.
“The king’s daughter,” Terra continued, “was enough to keep him attached to this earth. But then, one dark day, his daughter fell sick. She stopped playing her flute, and though many tried, no one knew the cure.”
Terra’s voice seemed to echo the words of another story—one that Claire didn’t want to remember. Because it hadn’t been so long ago that Mom and Dad had sat Claire down and told her that Sophie would be in the hospital for a little longer than they had first thought because the doctors weren’t so sure how to fix her. How to cure her.
Claire shuddered slightly, as though throwing off the memory, and she forced herself to pay attention to Terra.
“Then one day, a messenger told the king that there was a wise woman in the woods who lived under a waterfall and in the stars. She might know the cure. So the king set off, and when he finally came upon the woman under a waterfall and in the stars, he offered her all that he had for his daughter’s health.
“‘I have no need for the wealth of a king,’ the wise woman said. ‘I have all that I need here, though I can no longer see the stars.’
“So the king gave the wise woman his eyes, and she told him that only a unicorn could save his daughter. The king returned to his palace, but though he sent many forces out, they could not capture a unicorn. The king returned to the wise woman under a waterfall and in the stars, and asked her how he could catch a unicorn. He offered all his power to her.
“‘I have no need for power,’ the wise woman said. ‘All I need is here. Though I would like a stronger voice so that I can sing in harmony with the waterfall.’
“And so the king gave the old woman his voice, and she told him that a unicorn always comes to the rescue of an innocent about to be sacrificed.”
Panic spiked in Claire’s throat. Sacrifice. What were they going to ask her to do?
“And so,” Terra said, no longer looking at
the page in front of her, but instead staring straight out into the crowd of Gemmers, “the king took his ailing daughter to a glade, and slipped a dagger into his only daughter’s heart. And as her royal red blood spilled onto the grass, a unicorn did finally appear.
“Weeping, the king threw himself before the noble beast, begging the unicorn to save his daughter. The unicorn reared in rage, in horror, in fury. As diamond hooves slammed down, the unicorn lowered his head, the sharp point of his horn aimed directly at the king’s chest.”
Claire gasped.
“But!” Terra voice flicked out. “Before the unicorn plunged its horn into the lonely king, he approached the princess. And in the princess’s dying heart, the unicorn sensed a great wish—a wish that her father would be forgiven.
“Humbled by the girl’s thoughtfulness, the unicorn granted the king’s wish. He placed his horn to the daughter’s heart. The wish seed within the king’s daughter sprouted and blossomed, until the princess was nothing but a bright and burning wish. With a cry of delight and a cry of change, a light enveloped the king’s daughter. And when the light had finally dimmed, the king saw what he had done: his daughter, his only child, the apple of his eye and light of his life, had transformed into an immortal unicorn.”
Terra paused. “While the king saved his daughter, he had also lost her, for a unicorn belongs to no man, only the wind and sky. The king had to let his daughter go in order to save her.”
A soft sigh escaped Claire’s lips. The image the scholar’s words had painted was beautiful, and her fingers itched to sketch, right then and there, the unicorn princess in transformation. She wondered if there had been a moment when the girl had just been a girl with a pearly spiral horn. Or maybe, her hair had first turned a milky white.
Terra paused another moment, gathering herself. “When the king returned home, he tried to play his daughter’s crystal flute, but no sound came out. He wandered the halls, sad and lonely as ever … until one night, he heard the sweet notes of the flute.”
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