The Unicorn Quest Read online

  “Good,” Iris said as Claire hastily took another sip of Sinceri to clear her throat. “We can begin. Claire Martinson, did you help steal the Unicorn Harp?”

  “No,” Claire said, the answer smooth and slippery as vanilla pudding on her tongue.

  The councillor wearing the feathered wreath raised her hand next, and Iris nodded at her. “Did you know of your sister’s plot to take the harp?”

  “No,” Claire said, a little more loudly than she intended. “My sister did not take the harp.”

  The council members looked at one another. The woman who’d asked the question pursed her lips, while the spectacled councillor whispered something to the table.

  “I should remind the council, and everyone here, that the tea does not drag answers from thin air!” the skunk-haired councillor burst out. Claire jumped, and Sinceri sloshed in her cup.

  “Claire might believe that Sophie did not take the harp,” he said, standing up, “but that does not mean Sophie is innocent.”

  “My sister would never steal,” Claire insisted, confidence burning inside her chest. Or maybe that was the tea, she couldn’t be sure.

  “Grandmaster,” the skunk-haired man said. “May I question the girl?”

  Iris tapped her long fingers on her armrest. “Proceed, Councillor Ragweed.”

  He nodded, then turned to Claire. “How can you be sure Sophie would never steal?” he asked. His words felt sharp and pointed. “How well do you know your sister?”

  Claire opened her mouth to respond, but as his words sunk in, she bit her lip.

  “Speak up,” Ragweed demanded. “Is your sister a willful girl?”

  Claire felt lost, adrift in her uncertainty. She knew her sister (Do you? Do you really? a treacherous part of her mind whispered) and Sophie was willful—but did Sophie seek Experiences or did Experiences just happen to find her?

  Again, Claire opened her mouth, ready to defend her sister, but as she took a breath, she could feel her throat tighten, stopping the words from flying out.

  As she choked, the entire hall burst into sound.

  Cries of “Guilty!” and “This proves Sophie’s the thief!” filled the space, and Claire was forced to let go of the answer that might have saved her sister.

  She quickly took another sip of tea and tried to concentrate. “Sophie is adventurous,” she carefully admitted, speaking loudly to be heard over the crowd. Slowly, the babble died down. “But she is definitely not a thief.”

  There. That much was true. It had to be if the tea let her say it. But did they believe her? Claire looked at the stern faces of the council members seated on the platform before her, and they stared back, expressions unreadable.

  “Sophie has a temper,” Claire continued. She turned to face the rest of the assembly. Her eyes immediately landed on Sena, who stood out in her red tunic, so different from the browns and greens that the rest wore. Next to Sena sat Nett, who managed to stop chewing his nails long enough to give Claire a weak wave. It was the only friendly gesture in the entire hall. Keeping her eyes on him, Claire stumbled for what to say next.

  “Sophie’s forgetful,” Claire said. “And stubborn. But she is also loyal and—and good.”

  An old man sitting on the other side of Sena looked at Claire thoughtfully. His eyebrows were so bushy they seemed to have knitted together across his brow to form one long caterpillar. She noticed a few of the others nodding along. Hope rustled in Claire’s heart. Maybe she could convince these people that Sophie was innocent, and then they would help her find her sister in this strange, terrifying land.

  “Who else would speak?” Iris asked.

  The caterpillar-browed man raised a hand, and Iris motioned him to stand. Claire had never known either of her grandfathers, but she thought now that this man looked like the kind of grandfather who would take you to the beach and wouldn’t mind if you got sand in the backseat of the car.

  “Many things take root in soil,” the man said once he’d gotten to his feet. Even his voice was relaxing. “The earth does not reject a plant if it is a flower or vegetable or tree. Iris’s Sinceri Tea is strong—the most powerful Sinceri that I have seen in all my time in Greenwood. Therefore, I think we must believe the girl—that both she and her sister and Sena are completely innocent of stealing the Unicorn Harp.”

  “You’re just saying that to protect the Forger girl.” The feather-wreathed councillor scowled from the high table. “Sena has already confessed that she showed Sophie the location of the harp!”

  The old man frowned, his one eyebrow resting low over his nose. “But Sena never admitted to helping Sophie steal it. Sena is a Greenwood villager just like you, Miranda—and as such, you should believe that her word is as sound as oak.”

  “Then you’re a fool, Francis,” Miranda barked out. “Everyone knows the saying: A Forger rusted can’t be trusted. If anything, if Sophie didn’t take the harp, then Sena probably did!”

  Opinions began to flood the room all at once.

  “Shameful!”

  “Lock her up!”

  “Give them to the wraiths—that’ll make ’em talk!”

  “I’m not protecting anyone,” Francis said loudly. “I am simply saying what I believe is best for Greenwood!”

  Claire’s head throbbed, and she could no longer follow the swirling conversation. Instead, she focused on what she knew. The kind old man—Francis—was on her side, and Sena’s, too. Though the people here didn’t seem to like Sena much.

  And then, Iris had called the Unicorn Harp an “unregistered unicorn artifact.” Claire wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but she knew enough to guess that the people of Greenwood had been hiding the powerful harp, and that the rest of Arden didn’t know about it. Which was why they were so desperate to figure out who had stolen it.

  To figure out if Sophie had stolen it.

  The strange thing was, everyone seemed to know a lot about Sophie. When had Sophie first come back here on her own? When had she met Sena? Or Nett?

  Sophie had disappeared into Windemere’s many rooms on various occasions over the last few weeks, but there was no way she could have visited Arden long enough to upset an entire village … Was it possible Sophie had already climbed the ladder before they went up together?

  Claire mulled over the little she knew until a clink clink clink cut through the web of noise.

  Iris was clanging a small spoon against the teapot. “The sun sets in an hour, and with the harp still missing, our crafting will be weakened. We must double the Wraith Watch tonight,” she ordered. “We shall adjourn for dinner, and when the drums strike eight, all villagers must meet to secure the protective wards. Both girls can spend the night in the cage.”

  Claire’s eyes widened. Cage?

  “But Sena’s done nothing wrong!” Francis sputtered.

  I didn’t either! Claire wanted to cry out, but she was too afraid.

  “The council has made its decision,” Iris said sharply, rising from the table, the other members following her lead. “We can’t have possible accomplices disappearing like Sophie did.”

  Tiller guards bearing staffs hustled Claire and Sena outside, while a handful of people from the Hearing Hall followed them to the town square. There, Councillor Ragweed was waiting for them next to what looked like an enormous metal birdcage with dark, leafy vines entwined around each of its bars. In the dimming sun, the leaves looked as black as iron.

  “In you go,” Ragweed said, swinging the door open. Although Claire didn’t want to, she knew she had no choice. Reluctantly, she stepped inside, keeping her chin high, as she knew Sophie would have done. Almost immediately she heard a strange rustle and turned.

  Claire realized the leaves didn’t just look as black as iron—they were made of iron. And the vines did not just wrap around the bars, they were the bars of the cage. As she stared at them, the wrought-iron vines thickened as they moved closer together, like metal snakes.

  Claire breathed in sharply and sat befo
re her legs gave way. More magic, and this time, it wasn’t just plant—Tiller—magic. Metal was involved, too. Sena walked into the cage next, her mouth as thin as a paper cut. Claire scooted over to make room, but Sena sat down in the opposite corner.

  The door shut, and Ragweed jiggled it a bit to make sure it was secured. He ruffled the metal plants, like they were his favorite dog, and the creaking sound intensified as the vines wound themselves closer and became more and more impenetrable.

  “That’s that,” he said, turning his back on the cage and facing the crowd of curious spectators that had trickled out from the Hearing Hall. “It will hold.”

  A few of the spectators stepped forward, blatantly staring at the girls. Uncomfortable, Claire dropped her gaze.

  “You’re sure it’s locked?” a woman asked. “You never know with Forgers.”

  “Oh for pine’s sake,” a familiar voice said, and Claire looked up. Nett stood next to the cage, glaring furiously at the woman. “This cage has stood since before even the Guild War, when the guilds were allowed to jumble magics. It is both Tiller-crafted and Forger-made, reinforced with fire and thousand-year-old heartwood. There’s no way just Sena could escape.”

  “Stand back from there,” Ragweed barked at Nett. “You’re her friend and not to be trusted.”

  Nett threw back his shoulders, trying, Claire guessed, to stand as tall as he could … which wasn’t very tall at all. “The Greens are one of the oldest families in Greenwood!” he said heatedly. “How dare you—”

  “Nettle.” Francis, the kind old Tiller who’d spoken up for Claire, suddenly appeared beside Nett. “You’ve made your point. Come along.”

  “You step back, too, Francis,” another Tiller snarled at the old man. “You’re growing rot-weak in your old age. That girl doesn’t belong here!”

  Francis’s hand darted toward the pouch that hung on his belt while a Tiller guard raised his staff. But before anything could happen, Ragweed stepped forward.

  “That’s enough,” he drawled, looking at the girls with distaste. He turned toward the woman: “It’s as the sprout said—it’s impossible to escape. Those ash-covered Forgers are useful for something. See for yourself.” He gestured toward the bars.

  Muttering under her breath, the woman gave the bars a hard shake, but when the vines started growing so rapidly they almost trapped her hand inside, she seemed to be satisfied.

  Ragweed raised his voice and addressed the crowd: “Come, it’ll be dark soon. All must help raise the wards. Francis, Nett—you lead the way.”

  Claire’s heart dipped as she watched Nett’s shaggy head bob into the village along with Francis and the others. He didn’t look back.

  Claire thought she heard a whimper from the far side of the cage.

  “Are you okay?” she asked tentatively.

  “Leave. Me. Alone.” Sena’s voice was harsh as ever, but Claire was sure she heard a sniffle.

  “Fine,” Claire said, wrapping her arms around her knees. She wished she were as small as she felt, because then she could slip between the bars and start looking for Sophie. But she was stuck here, with a girl who obviously hated her, with the eyes of an entire village watching, in a world she did not understand.

  Claire shuddered as she held back her tears. Brave people didn’t cry. Sophie wouldn’t cry. Guilt mixed with homesickness, forming a strange ache that settled in her abdomen. She wanted Mom and Dad. What would happen when they realized both their daughters were gone?

  Fear and wonder twined around her heart. Part of her wanted to break out of the cage so she could run back down the chimney-well to safety. Another part of her wanted to see more of this terrifying and beautiful thing: magic. But she knew that, most important of all, Sophie needed her.

  Claire reached out a tentative finger and stroked a hard leaf. It curled away from her, thickening as it blocked out the indigo twilight. Maybe there was a way she could rip the leaves, or trick them somehow. She pulled her pencil from behind her ear. If she nudged the bars with her pencil instead of her hand, would the vines still respond?

  Sena shifted in her corner. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Claire started. “Don’t even think about what?” she asked, hastily slipping her pencil into her sweater pocket.

  The girl rolled her yellow eyes. “Escaping. We’re stuck here and tomorrow night we’ll be lucky if we’re even in this cage, because if we’re not, we’ll be chained outside of Greenwood for the wraiths to find us.”

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong,” Claire said, her voice catching on a rising lump. “It isn’t fair.”

  “Don’t talk to me about fairness,” Sena retorted. She turned her back on Claire again, and didn’t say anything for the rest of the evening—not when a guard slipped them stale crackers, not even when some village children came to mock them.

  As the shadows lengthened and melted with the night, Claire lay on her back and looked up to the sliver of moon she could see through the bars. Sena’s sniffles had long ago turned into soft snores, but Claire’s thoughts wouldn’t let her sleep so quickly. In the shared cage, she felt as lonely as the empty sky between the stars. Her sister was out there, but she didn’t know where, or how to find her.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Whispers, dark and smoky, filled Claire’s dreams and yanked her from sleep. She sat upright, breathing heavily. Night folded around her, and the metal vines and leaves still arched overhead. Sena snored, an unmoving lump in the corner.

  But the whispers hadn’t been a dream. They were real.

  Her stomach somersaulted. Had the guards come to feed her to the wraiths?

  “Careful, not too much …,” said a boy’s voice.

  Pearly light suddenly spilled out, illuminating Nett’s round face beyond the bars, as well as Francis’s white beard. Claire let out a huge sigh of relief, just as Sena leaped up, suddenly wide awake.

  “You came!” Sena whispered.

  “Of course we did!” Nett said indignantly. “I told you—I said it was ‘both Tiller-crafted and Forger-made.’ Didn’t you get my hint?”

  “What’s happening?” Claire asked before Sena could reply. Nett and Francis were carefully brushing a reddish goop onto the leaves of the cage.

  “Shh,” Francis answered, and wiped his forehead. “We must all be quiet.”

  “Hi, Claire,” Nett whispered between the vines. He handed a brush to Sena, and she began to help. “We’re here to get you out! Even though the cage is mostly metal, Grandpa thinks that we can wilt the bars—”

  “Nettle, ‘quiet’ applies to you, too,” Francis said. “The Watch could come back any moment. Light, please?”

  Nett hurried to hold up a ball of moss that glowed like a small sun.

  “Nice to meet you, Claire,” the old man said very quietly, still carefully daubing the leaves with the red substance—the same color as the rust around some of Windemere Manor’s pipes. Was it rust?

  “Nice to meet you, too,” she whispered back. Claire liked the way Francis had wrinkles around his eyes. She thought it must mean he laughed a lot, even though his face was currently all concentration.

  He let out a low cough. “All right. Nett, Sena. It’s ready,” Francis said, and gave the brush one last flourish before stepping aside.

  Claire didn’t understand what was supposed to happen, but then the metal leaves began to clink together like wind chimes. Looking at them, Claire saw one start to shrink, curling up at the edges and unwinding itself from the others.

  She gasped. The cage was … withering. The vines were softening, collapsing in on themselves like wet noodles as orange began to speckle the black iron.

  Magic again—a thrill raced through Claire. She watched in amazement as Sena put her hands between two of the vines and easily pushed them aside, then slid out the gap.

  “Come, Claire,” Francis said from somewhere in the dark. “The effect won’t last very long.”

  Taking a deep breath, Claire ca
refully pushed away the vines, trying not to think of them hardening again and crushing her. She clambered through, wincing as the rusty leaves moaned like a sick dog.

  Then she was free.

  “Let’s move,” Sena whispered. “Francis, we—wait. Francis?” The girl’s voice wobbled with uncertainty.

  Claire looked around, and saw that the old man was supporting himself against the withered vines. He was breathing heavily. Sena hurried over to him. “Are you all right?” she asked him. “You should have let Nett do most of the Tilling.”

  “I’m fine,” Francis said, straightening up, though his voice sounded hoarse to Claire. “Just not as young as I used to be. To the cottage, first. Hurry!”

  Nett covered the glowing ball with one hand, allowing only the faintest of light to trickle through his fingers. Claire saw that the ball had a feathery texture to it. But before she could get a closer look, Nett, Sena, and Francis walked swiftly across the expanse of cobblestone and disappeared into the shadows of the bordering buildings. With her heart beating faster than hummingbird wings, she ran after them.

  Under the cover of night, the four of them padded down the road. The white light in Nett’s hand bobbed in front of them as they headed toward a small house on the edge of the village. It looked cozy, and Claire was hoping there was food inside, when Francis cut a sharp right and went into the cultivated field behind the house. There were no more houses here, only one tiny cottage that straddled the border of tame and wild at the edge of the forest.

  Nett hurried inside, and the others followed. Claire’s nose immediately caught the scent of damp soil, fresh spices, and a comforting smell she associated with the small bookstore where she bought all her art supplies. Embers glowed dimly under a cast-iron pot in the fireplace, and two straw pallets lay next to it.

  “Double the curtains!” Francis hissed as he covered the windows with woven hangings that looked more like place mats than drapes.

  Nett and Sena quickly followed him, draping thick furs from pegs above the windows to seal them completely. Only then did Francis strike a match and light the candles on a long wooden table. Nett stirred the embers in the hearth, feeding twigs to the hungry coals, and soon a cozy light bathed the cottage, revealing Francis’s home.