The Unicorn Quest Page 10

  “Then I’ll need a story from you first,” Kleo said, her answer dropping so smoothly that Claire knew she’d been set up. “It’s only fair.”

  “What do you want to know?” Claire asked cautiously as Sena let out a low hiss of breath. Claire didn’t have any interesting stories—and she remembered Francis’s warning. He had said not to let anyone know where she and Sophie had really come from.

  “Why was Anvil Malchain asking for Sophie up and down the river?” Kleo asked, gray quill poised above a page.

  “We don’t know,” Nett chimed in. “We thought you might. Maybe he mentioned the Uni—perhaps he asked you about a certain item … an important object that was stolen from Greenwood Village?”

  Kleo’s eyes widened. “You mean, an object like a unicorn artifact?”

  Sena groaned while Nett burst out, “Anvil mentioned the harp?”

  “A Unicorn harp?” Kleo’s eyebrows shot up, and she whistled. “I didn’t realize Greenwood had one of those.”

  “Now you’ve done it,” Sena murmured to Nett.

  But Nett continued to look at Kleo in surprise. “But you just said—”

  Kleo smiled smugly. “Spinners are taught to follow the smallest thread and pull until it becomes something more.”

  Nett continued to sputter while Sena growled, but Kleo swished over to a yellow pouf and sat down, her skirt flowing around her like a melted sun. Sunlight trickled through the closed curtains along with soft Spinner chatter and occasional whinnies from the horses that pulled them up the river.

  “Malchain didn’t mention any harp,” Kleo conceded as she propped her head on her fist. In her bright yellow clothes and trilling voice, she reminded Claire of a canary. “But it does make you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “Wonder what?” Sena asked irritably. “Don’t think we’re going to fall for any of your word traps again.”

  Kleo adjusted a bracelet. “It’s just that I haven’t heard of a unicorn artifact stolen from a guild since … well, since the Royalists’ heists.”

  Nett’s nose wrinkled as though he’d smelled something bad. “You don’t think they could have something to do with all of this, do you? That Malchain—or Sophie—might be one of them?”

  “Please,” Sena said disdainfully. “Blaming the Royalists sounds like some knotted Spinner conspiracy.”

  Kleo’s brown eyes flashed, and Claire hurried forward before the Spinner decided to stop talking out of spite. “Sophie might be one what, exactly? What’s a Royalist?”

  Kleo continued to glare at Sena while she addressed Claire. “They’re a society that collects—steals—unicorn artifacts for themselves.”

  “But why?” she asked.

  “Because,” Kleo said, finally turning to look at her, “the Royalists think that if they can find a unicorn artifact that is powerful enough, they will be able to bring back the last queen and the last unicorn from the stone.”

  Claire stared at her. “Wait—what?”

  “It’s an old legend,” Nett skipped in. “First started in—”

  “It’s nonsense is what it is,” Sena said. “Anyone who’s a Royalist has bolts for brains.”

  “I’ve actually met some,” Kleo interjected, and peered through her glasses at Sena. “Historian Fray interviewed them, and they seemed perfectly normal. We couldn’t see their faces, though, because they all wore hooded cloaks, but they strongly believe in the legend from The Queen and the Unicorn.”

  “The same poem Sophie was interested in?” Claire asked.

  “The very one.” Kleo cocked her head and studied Claire. “What do you know about Sophie? I sensed she had a great secret, but I couldn’t tug it out of her.”

  Claire shook her head, frowning. “I don’t know what—”

  “Hold it,” Sena said, putting out her hand. She narrowed her eyes at Kleo. “You already got your story. Anvil Malchain is after Sophie Martinson. Greenwood Village is missing a Unicorn Harp. And we’re looking for both. Now it’s time to pay up. Tell Claire your story.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  “The Queen and The Unicorn, the poem Sophie was obsessed with, is Arden’s most famed epic,” Kleo said as she plucked from the wall a scroll with blue-and-white threads dangling from its end. “It tells the story of how Estelle d’Astora, the last queen of Arden, went to the Sorrowful Plains to save the last unicorn.”

  Carefully, Kleo unrolled the scroll onto the desk. Claire expected to see words on paper, but instead, she was staring at a beautiful tapestry.

  One half of it showed brightly colored gardens, butterflies, and a castle on a hill. The other showed what looked to be a graveyard at night, in obsidian and dark indigos, with skeletal creatures fleeing from the sun. Wraiths.

  And in the center, facing the night, was a unicorn.

  This creature wasn’t docile, like the ones Claire would sometimes see on paper plates or gift cards. It was a being wrought of the moon and woven with starlight.

  A woman in a midnight-blue dress clung to his back, her fingers lost in the froth of his mane. A circlet of silver and sapphires glittered at her forehead. Claire longed to brush her fingers against the richness and feel the colorful threads’ slippery smoothness, but she forced her hands behind her back.

  “Wow,” Nett breathed as he stood up to take a closer look. “Is this the same tapestry that Jack Tangle wrote about in Threads of Time?”

  “The one and only,” Kleo said, adjusting a few bangles. “I’m surprised you know that, being a Tiller and all.”

  Nett ducked his head, but looked pleased. “I like to read. Grandpa Francis has the entire epic of Velvetina Vainglorious and Her Whispering Needle—”

  “I thought you were going to read us a poem,” Sena interrupted, scowling. “Where are the words?”

  “You don’t always need words to tell a story,” Kleo said with exaggerated patience. “Each shift in color tells me what to say and what kind of emotion to convey. Tapestries are by far the most superior way to capture history.”

  Sena looked slightly confused, but as Claire looked at the rainbow of threads laid in front of her, she thought she understood. In art class, she’d learned that different colors could represent different emotions, depending on the time period or culture. Yellow, for instance, could be joy for some and mourning for others. It didn’t surprise her that in this world where art was magic, color was also its own alphabet.

  Kleo adjusted her spectacles and lightly pressed her fingertips to the cloth. “We all know the horrors of the Guild War. How the unicorns were hunted down until only one remained.”

  “Wait,” Claire interrupted. “Why were they hunted down? Why would anyone want to kill a unicorn?”

  “Because,” Nett said, “legend said that if you killed a unicorn, you’d live forever. It wasn’t true, of course, but it didn’t stop some from trying … or from using the unicorns’ remains to craft new artifacts.”

  “Correct.” Kleo nodded, hair ribbons quivering. “This is the tale of Estelle d’Astora, a Gemmer, queen of Arden and ruler of the Guilds, who lost everything to save the last unicorn.”

  Claire leaned forward, feeling the same shivery anticipation she felt as the lights dimmed in a movie theater.

  “I begin now,” Kleo said, “upon the queen’s arrival to the Sorrowful Plains in the light of a lavender moon. When she discovered she was not the only one who sought the unicorn.” As she spoke, Kleo sank into her storyteller’s voice, her words wrapping around Claire, as bright and vivid as any screen.

  And so the queen strode into the night,

  Seeking,

  Waiting,

  Watching,

  Arrow drawn tight.

  Then—

  Sharp brilliance of moon,

  Scorching glory of sun,

  Furious splendor of stars,

  The unicorn stepped onto the plains.

  As she spoke, Kleo transformed. She seemed less like a canary, and more like a hawk, her eyes flashing
with a predatory gleam as she spoke of wraiths, her voice galloping along with the unicorn’s hooves. Claire leaned in to catch the story.

  Then—

  Behind the rocks,

  A foreign movement.

  The queen saw a flash—

  Of Gemmer greed,

  Of Spinner jealousy,

  Of Forger rage,

  And Tiller apathy—

  The queen saw a flash of moonlight on steel.

  A hunter stalked the unicorn.

  The poem marched on, pulling Claire into Queen Estelle’s terror as the hunter and the unicorn battled on the Sorrowful Plains. Just as the hunter raised his ax above the creature’s neck to strike, the last queen of Arden flung herself over the unicorn.

  Her arms armor would be:

  Her hair, steel;

  Her bones, a shield.

  Her heart in exchange,

  For Arden’s last hope.

  Claire sucked in a breath, and Nett turned his cheek. Sena stayed still, but her knuckles were white as she clenched her hands into fists. Kleo continued.

  Queen and unicorn lay on the ground—

  Stayed still on the ground,

  Bled on the ground—

  Queen and unicorn dying on the ground.

  “She dies?” Claire cried out. “What kind of story is this?!”

  “Shh,” Nett said as Kleo glanced over her spectacles. “It’s not over. Continue, Kleo.”

  The last queen whispered:

  “The end can be found

  Where fire meets water,

  At the edge of day and night.

  My grief, your gift.

  My rock, to protect.

  All yours to neglect,

  Until time

  Is right.”

  A wind filled the plains—

  Lashed the plains,

  Cleaned the plains,

  A rushing light burned the plains—

  Driving back the dark.

  And in the light of a lavender moon,

  Two stones gleamed—

  Queen and unicorn: gone.

  Silence filled the room. The words seemed to linger in the air, the way sweetness lingers after a spoonful of honey, present but faded.

  “So … queen and unicorn turned themselves into rock statues to protect themselves?” Claire asked hesitantly, in case she hadn’t understood.

  “Boulders, actually,” Nett said.

  Kleo nodded. “The Royalists believe they can free the queen and the unicorn from the stones—they just need to find a unicorn artifact powerful enough to help them reverse the spell. A single unicorn treasure—the Unicorn Treasure—that can be found where fire meets water.”

  “And when they do,” Sena cut in, “our guild magic will thrive again, the wraiths shall be defeated, and all will be happy and wonderful within Arden.” She rolled her eyes and made a face. “Rusted hinges, if you ask me. We all know that Estelle was killed in the final battle of the Guild War.”

  “What matters at the moment is not whether the story is true,” Kleo said, taking her spectacles off and cleaning them with her skirt, “but whether the Royalists still believe it. And whether they are, in fact, the ones who stole the Unicorn Harp.”

  “And how we’re going to get it back,” Nett added. “If Malchain is a Royalist and Sophie saw him steal the harp, well, it would make sense that she would run.”

  “Where can we find the Royalists?” Claire asked. “Maybe Sophie is already there, trying to steal the harp back from them!”

  Suddenly, Kleo put out her hand, gesturing her to stop. “Do you hear anything?” she asked.

  Claire listened. Silence. The jangle of the horses pulling the boats up the river had stopped.

  “That’s strange,” Kleo said, glancing at an hourglass balanced precariously on a tower of books. We’re not supposed to break until Fyrton—and we’re still at least a mile away.” She stood and pushed aside a yellow curtain. Peering out the window, she gasped.

  “What is it?” Nett asked as Claire leaped to her feet.

  Kleo turned, her pupils large. “Forgers—they’re inspecting the boats!”

  From the round window, Claire could see the glint of swords and axes as Forgers in chain mail boarded the boats. She could hear thumps as doors were taken off their hinges, and cries of protest as the crates on the rafts between boats were overturned.

  Kleo ran into the closet and pulled out two bundles.

  “Forger clothes,” she said, shoving the first bundle at Sena. “For when you’ve escaped.”

  “But how are we going to escape?” Sena asked, her eyes darting around the narrowboat.

  “With this,” Kleo said, handing something to each of them from the second bundle. Claire stared at it. It was a piece of cloth that looked similar to a dentist’s mask.

  “What are these?” Nett asked as the fabric dangled from his finger.

  “Aqua Masks,” Kleo said. “We wove air pockets into them.”

  Suddenly, Claire understood. “You want us to swim off the boat?”

  “Yes,” Kleo said, braids and ribbons whipping as she turned to her. “The masks won’t last long, probably only fifteen minutes, but it should be enough to swim underwater to the far banks. The current is gentle here.”

  “How do they work?” Nett asked, holding his mask up to the light. “I mean, I think I understand enough air theory—”

  Kleo shoved him to the back window. As the last boat in the fleet, they were hidden from the Forgers’ sight—for now.

  “Out!” Kleo ordered breathlessly. “They’ll start working as soon as they touch water.”

  Nett eyed the round window skeptically. “I don’t know if I can fit.”

  From down the line came sudden screams.

  “I can fit,” Nett yelped. He grabbed his rucksack and pulled the mask around his head. Using a pouf, he heaved himself up to the window and wriggled through.

  A moment later, there was a splash.

  Claire quickly strapped her own mask over her mouth and nose. Though it looked like normal cloth, next to her skin it felt more like a heavy gel.

  Then she climbed onto the pouf and poked her head out. The muddy water lapped gently below.

  THUMP THUMP THUMP!

  “Fyrton inspectors! Open up!”

  “Go on,” Sena said bravely to Claire, as she slung her rucksack over her shoulder. “I’ll follow.”

  As much as Claire wanted to put distance between herself and the sharp swords coming nearer and nearer, she hesitated at the darkness and dread in Sena’s eyes. She remembered what Francis had said: that Sena was banned from her guild forever. What would happen to Sena if she was caught by the Forger inspectors?

  “No,” Claire said, stepping back down. “You go first.”

  Sena gave her a determined nod, then hurled herself out the window.

  “In the name of the Guilds, open this door!” the inspector demanded again.

  “One moment!” Kleo called out in her sweetest voice, while she waved at Claire to go. The Spinner had pulled a ribbon from her hair and wrapped it tight around the doorknob. Claire could only imagine what the ribbon was supposed to do—there wasn’t time to see what would happen next.

  As she scrambled on top of the pouf, the Forgers announced, “By the order of the Grand Council of Arden, Fyrton has the right to inspect all boats traveling within three miles of Fyrton’s gates. If you resist inspection, you shall be taken to Fyrton to stand trial. This is your last chance. Open up!”

  Claire heaved herself through the window, expecting to hit water any second … but the impact never came.

  She was stuck. Thrashing, she tried to wiggle herself free.

  “Just trying to find my keys,” Claire heard Kleo call out. “You wouldn’t understand, since I’m sure you’ve never lost metal.”

  Claire strained toward the river. The water’s muddy freedom dipped tantalizingly close!

  “No need for keys,” the inspector said through the door
. “Stay back.” There was a soft ching from behind her.

  “They’re removing the hinges!” Kleo hissed.

  Claire heard the Spinner’s footsteps patter across the cabin, and then she felt a strong shove. An instant later she was tumbling through the air. Claire only had a glimpse of brown water and bubbles before she splashed under.

  CHAPTER

  14

  It was dark in the river, mud turning everything murky. Claire didn’t know which way to go, but she kicked out. Any direction would put distance between her and those terrifying Forgers.

  Something brushed against her. She caught a glimpse of red river weed. No, it was hair! Sena! And next to her, his dark hair a wild cloud above his head, was Nett.

  Sena motioned with her hand, and they kicked upstream.

  By the time Claire’s feet touched the shallows, she was chilled to the core despite the bright sun above. As she collapsed onto the bank, she wished she had remembered to grab her cloak. But if she had, it probably would have wrapped around her body, sinking her to the bottom.

  Claire unhooked her Aqua Mask. Before she had plunged into the water, it had been made of a tight, thick fabric, but now it was no more than a wet net. The threads of air that Kleo said had been woven into it were now depleted.

  “W-we n-need t-to move,” Nett chattered. The water had slicked back his hair, making him look like a seal. “The inspectors might come back this way.”

  Tired, but terror still fresh, Claire pulled herself to her feet and followed Nett and Sena, who were clambering up the bank.

  They had flowed toward fields of tall, swaying grass about a mile away from the base of a hazy mountain where a town had tucked itself next to its foot. Drifting above the town’s many chimneys were multicolored clouds that looked more like puffs of sidewalk chalk than the smoke Claire knew they must be.

  Fyrton.

  “This way!” Sena called, hurrying toward a cluster of large metal objects in the grass. Claire had to run to keep up. As they got closer, she saw an iron lion with six legs, eternally growling, while a stag with a scorpion’s tail pawed the ground.