The Fire King (13 page)

He turned away and moved to stand next to Jack. Emily watched him go, crestfallen. She hadn't meant it that way. Is that what Will thought of her? That she would just stand back while the others put themselves in danger? Surely he knew her better than that.

While she had been arguing, Wren had been carefully dragging Cavanagh across the grass until he was out of the way. Now he was busy fumbling inside his leather satchel. Emily hurried over to him.

“Cavanagh gave me this,” he said. “There are all sorts of things—”

Emily grabbed the satchel and dumped the contents on the grass. Corrigan scurried over and began sorting through the odd assortment of items. Wren eyed him warily but didn't say anything.

“Movement!” shouted Jack.

Emily looked up to see the clouds of dust swirl into little circles, as if a breeze had wafted through the courtyard. Then the Black Knight emerged from the shadows of Wren's rooms. He staggered onto the grass, clutching the wound beneath his arm. He stopped short when he saw William, Jack, and Katerina standing in a line, their weapons raised before them.

He watched them for a moment. Then he put his head down and charged straight at them.

Emily frantically searched through the items from the satchel, but there didn't seem to be much that would help. A key, a small crossbow (but nothing to put in it), and a few iron daggers.

That was it.

The knight had almost reached the others.

“Scatter!” shouted Katerina. Jack and William did as instructed, moving aside so that they surrounded the knight. He skidded to a halt, eyeing them warily. Without warning, he lunged forward and swung his arm around, trying to smash it into them. Only Jack was close enough for contact, and he threw himself backward. The knight's armor-covered fist sliced through the air only inches from his face.

Katerina darted around to his back and stabbed at him with her blade. The metal skittered uselessly off his armor. At the same time, William lunged forward with his rowan stake, looking utterly ridiculous to Emily, and stabbed at the back of the knight's knee. To Emily's amazement (and William's), the wood slipped past the join in the armor and sunk into the knight's leg. The knight jerked away, whirling around to face his attacker. When he saw William, he raised his other leg and brought it down hard, intending to crush William beneath his weight.

Jack barreled into Will, sending them both flying out of the way. The knight's foot came down with a heavy thud, leaving his imprint deep in the grass.

He turned to face them as they rolled across the ground, but once again, Katerina struck him with her sword, distracting him so they could get to their feet.

But William had given Emily an idea. She pulled her own rowan stake out of her coat and used one of the iron knives to saw it quickly in half. She scooped up the small crossbow, wondering how you were supposed to get it working.

“Turn the thing, the handle,” said Corrigan urgently.

Emily saw the handle he was referring to. She wound it round and round, watching as the bow-shaped wood at the front bent more and more, pulling back toward her hand. She kept going until a small clicking sound told her it was locked in place. Then she slid one of the pieces of rowan into the track and aimed it at the knight. He was only ten or so paces away. She had a clear shot. None of the others were in the way.

Emily pulled the trigger.

The crossbow released with a solid
thunk
. The rowan bolt flew into the air, turning end over end. It hit the knight's arm, then bounced off his armor and embedded itself in the ground, narrowly missing Katerina's ear as it did so.

“Do you mind?” she shouted, then dove to the side and rolled to her feet again as the knight lunged at her.

Emily quickly wound the crossbow again. She slid her last piece of rowan onto the weapon, then aimed it once again. She had to get it right. This was her last shot.

She aimed …

A hand closed over hers, stopping her from firing. It was Wren.

“It won't work. The wood isn't straight. It won't fly true.”

“I have to try,” said Emily. “How else are we supposed to stop that thing?”

Wren took the crossbow from her hands. “Allow me.”

He turned and ran toward the fighting. He moved straight for the knight, the crossbow hidden behind his back. When he was no more than three paces away, he stumbled to a stop.

“Hoi,” he shouted.

The knight was busy fending off repeated blows from Katerina and Jack, blows that were raising showers of sparks along his arms. He quickly turned, ready to strike out. But when he saw Wren, he hesitated, his raised arm faltering.

That was all Wren needed. He stepped forward, raised the crossbow, and fired it directly into the eye slit in the knight's helmet.

The knight's head jerked back from the force of the blow. He slowly straightened up again, then tilted his head to the side, as if confused about something.

Then he fell apart.

At least, that's what it seemed like to Emily. A cloud of oily smoke wafted into the air, and then the armor simply dropped away, clattering to the ground and forming an untidy pile of metal. Of the Black Knight, there was absolutely nothing left.

Emily and Corrigan hurried forward to join them. Jack was pushing the armor aside with his foot, but there was no sign of the body.

Wren handed the crossbow back to Emily and smiled weakly. “I think you saved our lives there, young lady.”

“I didn't shoot him,” said Emily. “You did.”

“I pulled the trigger. You came up with the idea.”

“Not me,” said Emily, looking at Will.

Wren shivered and looked around. “Cavanagh has a house just around the corner. We should take him there and tend to his wounds.”

“And then?” asked Katerina, pulling the piece of rowan wood from inside the knight's helmet and handing it back to Emily.

“And then you all explain to me everything that is happening. And I do mean everything.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Revelations and mysteries. In which Emily and Co. learn the legends of the Raven King.

W
ren and Jack carried Cavanagh between them as they hurried out of the college grounds in search of Cavanagh's house. It really wasn't too far. In fact, it was only one street over in Shoreditch Street. Which made sense, thought Emily, if you considered that the college had been the headquarters of the Invisible Order. Cavanagh obviously wanted to be close.

As they hurried along the street, Emily did her best to fill Wren in on what had been going on. The history of the Invisible Order (what she knew of it, anyway), and all that had happened back in 1861.

He took it rather well, thought Emily. No outbursts. No refusal to believe what she was saying. No accusations of her being a liar. Maybe all that would come later. It was a lot to take in at once.

“This is it,” said Wren, shifting Cavanagh's weight and pushing a gate open into an unkempt garden. Emily fumbled around inside the satchel and pulled out the key she had seen when Wren had emptied out the bag.

She inserted it into the lock on the front door.

Or at least, she tried to. The key didn't fit.

Emily stared at the key. Now what? Cavanagh had been very clear. Go to his house. There were things there they had to see. Notes of some kind. Had he been delirious?

Wren interrupted her thoughts by reaching around her and testing the latch. The door swung silently open, revealing a dim, shadowy room. Squares of pale silver lay across the carpet, the light of the moon cut into neat segments by the lead window frames.

“How did you know it was unlocked?” asked Emily.

“I didn't,” replied Wren. “But I thought it was worth a try.”

Wren and Jack entered the house first, carrying Cavanagh over to a musty couch in the front room. They laid him down while Emily, Katerina, and William followed them in.

Katerina looked around the sparse room. “Wasn't much for ornaments, was he?”

Wren looked up from where he was placing a cushion beneath Cavanagh's head.

“Cavanagh spent most of his time at the college. Most of his belongings are in his rooms.”

“Then shouldn't we be searching there?” asked Katerina.

“No,” said Emily firmly. “He said his house. Not his rooms.” She glanced at Katerina. “He was specific.” She looked around, realizing something was missing. “Where's Corrigan?”

The piskie was nowhere to be seen.

“He was with me a minute ago,” said William. “Outside.”

Emily hurried back outside to find the piskie sitting on the grass of Cavanagh's garden. He looked ill. His skin color, usually a deep, walnut brown, was now washed out, closer in color to the bark of a silver birch.

“Corrigan?”

Corrigan opened his eyes.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

Corrigan jerked his head at the house. “Iron,” he said. “Lots of it. I felt it when I stepped inside. Nearly fainted dead away.”

“I didn't see any.”

“It was underneath us. Trust me, Snow. I know iron when I feel it.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

Corrigan waved his hand irritably at her. “I'll survive. As long as I don't go back in there. Just need to get my breath back. Go. Look for whatever it is we're supposed to find.”

Emily nodded and hurried back inside. The others were standing around Cavanagh's still form. “Corrigan said there's a lot of iron underneath the house,” she said. “Maybe that's where we need to look …” Emily trailed off when she realized no one was paying attention to her. “What's wrong?”

Jack looked over at her. “Cavanagh's dead.”

Wren straightened up from his crouch. “I didn't think he would survive. Not with those injuries.”

“Then why did we carry him all the way here?” asked Jack.

“Because I thought he would want to die in his own home,” said Wren quietly. “I know I would.”

They observed a few minutes of silence while Wren said good-bye to his friend, but once those minutes were up, Wren was like a man possessed. Cavanagh's death had presented him with a purpose, giving him something to grasp hold of, to focus his anger on. He quickly rounded up all the lanterns in the house and handed them out, instructing everyone to search for a trapdoor of some kind.

It was Jack who eventually found it. He spotted the keyhole first, hidden beneath a heavy set of drawers in the kitchen. The keyhole was formed into a natural knot in the wood, so cunningly fashioned that Emily found it hard to make out even after Jack showed it to her.

Wren was impressed. “Lord, boy. You must have the eyes of a hawk.”

“Even better,” said Jack proudly. “The eyes of a thief.”

Emily inserted the key from the rucksack. This time it fit. She turned it in the lock, and Wren heaved the trapdoor open, revealing a set of wooden stairs leading into the darkness. Jack lowered his lantern through the hole. The light glinted on something on the floor, dull highlights striking off metal.

“Must be the iron,” Emily said, straightening up. “Should we go down—?”

William didn't wait for her to finish the sentence. He clattered down the steps before anyone could stop him. The others followed after and found themselves in a low room that ran the length of the house. The light from their lanterns revealed piles of books stacked neatly against the walls, largest at the bottom, smallest at the top. Tables filled almost every available space, all of them covered with parchment and scrolls, half-opened books, used-up quills, and empty ink bottles.

The light also revealed the iron that had affected Corrigan so badly. Candelabras, candlesticks, cutlery, plates. All of it tossed randomly around the room.

Emily examined the books closest to her.
The Anatomy of the Cornwall Sprite,
said one
. The Wars of the Irish Tuatha,
was another
.
Emily moved to another pile.
The Influx of Russian Trolls into France. Scottish Dryads. Battle for the Twilight Court.

“These are all about the fey,” she said. “Every one of them.”

They spread out and searched through the clutter, looking for anything that might give them a clue as to what was going on.

It was William who found what they were looking for.

He was standing by a long, crudely built table, paging through a small book, squinting at the pages by the light of his lantern.

“What's that?” asked Jack.

“Looks like a diary. There's an inkpot and a quill here as well.”

“Is it Cavanagh's?” asked Wren.

“Seems to be,” said William. He handed the diary across to Wren.

Wren took the book and held it close to the lantern. He paged through for a moment, scanning the words. “It's his. I should probably just start at the beginning,” he said.

He turned back to the first page and cleared his throat.

“‘I'm not sure if anyone is reading this,'” began Wren. “‘I can only hope so. If not, then all is lost. Because I'm the last. The last member of the Invisible Order. And if I fall, then there is no one left to carry the fight against the fey.

“‘Events have taken a dark turn. For a long time now, Queen Titania has kept our two races from descending into war. But I fear those days are over. There is a faction among the fey who want mankind wiped out, and it seems the first move in their game plan was to kill off the Invisible Order, one of the few groups who could stop them.

“‘It has been happening for some time now. Members of the Order disappearing over the past six or seven years. But we thought it nothing more than the natural course of events. A natural attrition caused by the dangers of what we do. But as more and more of our members vanished and our numbers were reduced by half, we began to suspect a conspiracy. Of course, we suspected the fey. We approached Queen Titania with our suspicions, but … how can I put this? She was rather offended at our accusations and banished us from her court. I suppose she had a right to be upset. Titania had always been keen to keep our races on, if not friendly terms, then at least
civil
terms, so her taking offense was not unexpected. Regrettable, but not unexpected.

“‘But I think she knew we were right. We had been hearing rumors that she was losing control, that factions were developing within the fey who were not happy with her rule, not happy with the uneasy peace she had ordered between our races. I think she realized, as we did, that our problems were one and the same.

“‘It wasn't until one snowy night in February sixteen sixty-three that we began to fathom the scale of these problems, when a member of the Order, a man called Septimus Peel, escaped capture and managed to return to us. How he did so, with the extent of the injuries he carried, is a testament to the man's character and loyalty to the human race.

“‘He told us he had been kidnapped from his home by the fey and taken deep into the countryside. Here he was tortured and beaten, and all the while the fey asked him only one question. One question over and over.

“‘Where is the Raven King?

“‘Obviously, he didn't know. None of us did. Not me, not Septimus, and not any of those who had been taken before him. It was the first any of us had heard of this mysterious figure.

“‘But the fey did not believe this. They thought we knew, that we were protecting our secrets, protecting this … Raven King, whoever he may be.

“‘Septimus died soon after. His wounds were too serious. But he had accomplished what he set out to do. He had brought us information. Information on what the fey were after.

“‘I should rather say he brought
me
information. I knew this was important. I also knew that the fey had ways of prying the truth out of us. So I kept the information to myself and resolved to do my own research into this Raven King, praying all the while that I was not one of the unlucky ones who would be taken. I withdrew from the Order—not attending meetings, not taking part in any activities—hoping that these precautions would keep me from being noticed.