The Blackthorn Key (31 page)

“Now you bring me to Mortimer House. When we captured Henry Mortimer three months ago, he claimed he didn't know anything. After he died, my men searched this place from attic to basement. We looked for days. We found nothing. Yet here you are. You expect me to believe this is a coincidence?”

I had no good answer for that. “What do you want the Fire for, anyway?” I said.

“I tried to tell you, back at the Hall. I want to make the world a better place.”

I stared at him. I would have laughed if I wasn't scared enough to wet my breeches.

Oswyn frowned. “You're still young, Christopher, so you think King Charles is charming. The ‘Merry Monarch,' you
call him, you and the rest of his dogs, slurping your master's scraps. Why do you bow before these rats? What do you owe them—you, of all people, who grew up with nothing? Do you not see them for the parasites they really are? They are corrupt, wicked to the core. Yet they presume to place themselves above decent, honest men, all the while as our king”—he spat the word like poison—“drowns himself in decadence. And where that wretch goes, the people follow.”

Lord Ashcombe shifted, propping himself against the wall of the manor. He'd been bleeding so badly, I hadn't even been sure he was still alive.

“I knew you were with Cromwell's traitors,” Lord Ashcombe said, his words slurred through his wound. “I should never have listened to your Grand Master. I should have had you hanged the day His Majesty returned.”

“A mistake you will never fix.” Oswyn turned back to me. “These vermin may have their titles, Christopher, but they have no right to rule. That belongs to proper Englishmen, men like you and me. Cromwell started the revolution, but he never had the chance to see it through. We will. We'll create something better, and it will be the Archangel's gift that saves us all. England shall transform according to
our
will. Or the Fire will burn them from their homes.”

“You're mad,” I said.

“Christopher.”

“No,” I spat. “You think you're so noble. You pretend to care about the people while you murder everyone who gets in your way. My master taught me better. For all your talk about decent, honest men, all you
really
care about is power. You're just another tyrant.”

Oswyn shook his head. “You're angry with me. I understand. I regret Benedict's death; truly, I do. But I had no choice. He would never have given me the Fire. Don't make the same mistake, Christopher. There's still a place for you in our future.”

“I told you. I don't know anything.” My voice trembled.

Wat's fingernail traced the edge of his knife. “Let me get it from him, Master.”

Oswyn whirled, angry. “Be silent. If it wasn't for your incompetence, we'd already have what we need.” He pointed to Lord Ashcombe, propped against the wall. “Bind him. I'll deal with the boy.”

“I don't know anything,” I said again.

Oswyn examined my master's sash. “Remove your shirt.”

I still wore the ridiculous clothes Dr. Parrett had given me. I clung to them more tightly than anything I'd ever had.

Wat and the Elephant stripped the dead men-at-arms of their belts and used them to tie up Lord Ashcombe. When they'd finished, Oswyn motioned them toward me.

I tried to scramble away. The Elephant held me down. Wat drew his knife, the one that had murdered my master. He sliced through my shirt and pulled it apart.

Oswyn searched the sash until he found the vial he wanted. The stopper was newer than the others, resealed. I'd refilled it in the lab, underground.

“I know you're familiar with this,” he said.

He popped the cork, breaking the red wax seal, pulling away the twine.

“Please,” I said.

Oswyn held the open vial over my chest. I could smell its sour stink.

“
Please
,” I said.

“Tell me where the recipe is, Christopher.”

I didn't.

The vial tipped, and one, two, three drops fell onto my chest, spattering just above my heart.

At first, it was nothing. It felt like water, cool drops on my skin in the springtime sun.

Then I burned.

•  •  •

Forever. It felt like forever before the oil of vitriol finally stopped tearing apart my flesh.

I didn't look down. I didn't want to know.

“End this, Christopher,” Oswyn said. “Tell me where you hid the recipe.”

“No,” I said.

Oswyn shook his head. “You cannot see.”

He brought the vial up. His hand blocked out the sun.

“And if you will not see,” he said, “then what good are your eyes?”

He tilted the vial again, slowly, directly above my face. The oil of vitriol slid toward the edge of the glass.

I couldn't. I just couldn't.

I told him.

THE SARCOPHAGUS IN THE MAUSOLEUM
slid away. Oswyn stared into the darkness below. He motioned to the trussed Lord Ashcombe, slung over the Elephant's shoulder. “Take him down first.”

“Just drop him,” Wat said.

Oswyn looked annoyed. “If I wanted him dead, would he not already be dead?”

The Elephant climbed down the ladder, Lord Ashcombe dripping blood across the back of the giant's vest. Wat, sullen, took the torch from the wall bracket and followed them down the hole. I waited at the edge, holding the ripped ends of my shirt together. Underneath, my scarred chest still
burned. Oswyn guided me toward the ladder, his hand on my back surprisingly gentle.

“I wish I'd chosen you instead,” he said.

•  •  •

Oswyn was amazed by the metal door behind the mural. He was even more amazed when I showed him how it opened. He stared at its glass back, peppering me with questions about its mechanism. For a while, it seemed like he'd forgotten what he'd really come here for. Soon enough, he pushed us forward, into the lab.

Wat led the way. The wooden door, shoved inward, thumped against the vinegar barrel I'd stacked to the right, partially blocking the entrance. The Elephant laid the half-conscious Lord Ashcombe down in the only place there was room, against the wall on the left, near the giant oven. I stepped sideways and stood next to him.

Oswyn stared at the equipment, the workbenches, the notes covering them all. He saw the parchment hanging from the nails on the board, the stacks of paper below them.

“All these years . . . ,” he whispered.

I inched closer to the oven.

Oswyn turned toward me. “Where is it?”

I froze. “It's . . . on the workbench. Among the papers.”

He made as if to go. Then he stopped. He tapped his thumb against his chin.

“Go check,” he said to Wat.

Wat moved to the center of the lab, stubby fingers pushing aside glass beakers.

Oswyn kept his eyes on me. “Is it there?”

Wat shrugged. “There are a lot of notes here. I can barely make them out.” He scanned the papers, flipped them over, tossed them aside. “I don't see it.”

I took another step back. My shoulder touched the oven.

Oswyn's eyes narrowed. “What are you doing? Don't move.”

His voice brought the Elephant's attention my way. Quickly, I bent into the mouth of the oven and grabbed the cylinder I'd hidden inside.

I wasn't quick enough. Before I could do anything else, the Elephant drove his fist into my gut. Pain spread from my stomach, a new fire hotter than the burn on my chest. Every muscle in my body seized. I heaved, but I couldn't breathe.

Wat rushed over and grabbed my wrist. He slammed it against the iron, once, twice. My fingers went numb. The
cylinder slipped out and fell to the floor. It rolled away, wick bobbing around like a whip, a streak of grease trailing behind it on the stone.

Oswyn scooped it up and held it like a baby. Wat grabbed me by the hair and drew back his fist.

“No,” Oswyn said. “I'm not finished with him yet.”

Wat flung me to the ground, next to Lord Ashcombe. My lungs finally started to work again. I sucked in air, gasping. Wat kicked me in the side for good measure. I curled away from him, cradling my battered wrist.

The Elephant searched the oven for more traps. “Nothing else here.”

Oswyn stared at the cylinder, breath quickening. He pulled open the parchment that held the cylinder together and stuck his finger inside. It came out wet. He rubbed the oily substance over his fingers. He sniffed it, then the wick.

“Cannon fuse.” Oswyn waved his apprentices forward. “Clear that corner. Bring me the lantern.”

The Elephant moved to obey him.

“Don't,” I said.

They looked at me.

“Don't light it,” I pleaded. “We'll die.”

“It's just a big firecracker,” Wat scoffed.

“It's not.”

Oswyn's eyes narrowed again, but he looked around the lab. He saw the test chamber on the other side, its scarred, blackened walls, the broken door.

“You don't understand,” I said. “It's beyond anything you've ever imagined. We're just men, mortal men. The Archangel's Fire was never meant for us.”

Oswyn looked at me.

“Please, Master Colthurst,” I said. “If you set that off, you'll destroy us all.”

Oswyn stayed still, thinking. For a moment, I thought he might actually listen.

Then he held the cylinder out to Wat. He motioned to the test chamber. “Light it in there.”

Wat grabbed the stick like it was nothing more than a candle. He took it to the test chamber and placed it on the dented iron table. With the flame from the lantern, he lit the wick.

The fuse crackled and sparked, dancing toward the grease.

Slowly, I slid backward on the stone. I gripped the front of Lord Ashcombe's tabard. Underneath, I could feel the beating of his heart.

Wat stepped backward out of the test chamber, watching the stick. Oswyn and the Elephant moved closer.

I pulled on Lord Ashcombe's vest. He looked at me.

“Get up,” I whispered.

The King's Warden blinked, twice. Then he slid his legs beneath him and struggled to his feet. I helped him as he stood.

The fuse fell below the paper. For a second, there was nothing.

“Told you,” Wat said.

And then the world was flame.

The blast seemed to shatter the earth. The walls shook. A chunk of the test chamber blew outward, stones bouncing from the ceiling. The barrel of lamp oil—the one I'd dragged to the corner of the test chamber before I'd gone up to the garden—blew apart, sending blazing fuel screaming outward like hell's wraiths released.

A burning torrent of air flung Wat into the workbench, scattering paper like fiery snow. The Elephant toppled backward to the floor. The press of hot air squeezed me against Lord Ashcombe, whose eyes went wide as he held his breath.

Oswyn remained in the center of the room. The iron table, ripped apart, sent a jagged shard of metal shrieking
past his face. He barely flinched. He just stood there, like a statue, and stared into the face of God.

The air seemed to rumble forever, flames swirling on the ceiling in twisters. Then they vanished, and all that was left was hissing, like a chorus of snakes.

Wat scrambled backward, beating frantically against the flames that had ignited his sleeve. The Elephant stayed on the ground, mouth open.

Oswyn stepped forward, his eyes alight. “Magnificent,” he croaked. “Magnificent.”

Smoke burned my throat. I tugged on Lord Ashcombe's tabard again. His eyes flicked toward me.

Oswyn spoke to the others, his voice shaking. “Search the room. Look everywhere. Find the recipe.” Then he turned to me, huddled against the oven with Lord Ashcombe. “Thank you,” he said. He actually seemed to mean it.

His apprentices stayed where they were. Wat panted in the corner, finally having put out the flames on his shirt. The Elephant stared in terror at the broken test room.

“Move,” Oswyn said to them.

Still the air buzzed. I tugged at Lord Ashcombe's tabard again, then moved my eyes deliberately toward the open mouth of the oven. Lord Ashcombe followed my gaze, then
looked back at me. I nodded, slightly. I couldn't tell if he understood.

The Elephant frowned. “Master?”

“What is it?” Oswyn said, still shaking.

“The ceiling's on fire.”

The Elephant pointed. Stuck to the stone overhead, a fuse raced, hissing, toward a cylinder, camouflaged gray with ash, glued to the ceiling with dried egg and flour.

Oswyn looked around the room. At four more places on the ceiling, cannon fuse crackled, ignited by the flames from the Archangel's Fire. At the end of each, waiting, was another stick, glued fast.

Oswyn's eyes went wide.

I grabbed Lord Ashcombe and pulled. With the last of his strength, he dived into the mouth of the oven. I clambered in beside him, pressed my head against his, and covered our ears.

The burning fuses reached the sticks.

“Dear God,” Oswyn said.

This time, God spoke back.

A BAD DREAM.

My eyelids fluttered.

That's all
, I thought.
Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.

No
, a familiar voice said.
Wake up, Christopher.

Master?
I said. My head was killing me.
Is that you?

Yes,
he said.
I need you to wake up now.

Please, Master. Just a few more minutes. I'll get the shop ready soon.

No, Christopher.
He poked me in the back. Pain.
You have to get up. Now. Hurry.

I groaned.

My head was
killing
me.

I opened my eyes. At least, I think I did. It was dark.