“You can’t walk there. That’s a Monday lawn.”
Franklin raised an eyebrow and looked amused. “Meaning it can only be walked across on Mondays, I suppose.”
Chantel was relieved not to have to explain this, as he was looking more and more sardonic. “We do have Thursday lawns, if you want to walk on one,” she said, leading the way across an arched stone bridge.
From the highest point of the bridge, they could see out over Seven Buttons to the Roughlands. The distant smudges of sea and land looked different to Chantel now that she actually knew their smells and sounds.
“There’s a lot of Karl the Bloody’s men out there,” said Franklin.
“How can you tell?” Chantel couldn’t see anyone.
“They’ve placed their camps to be invisible from most of the city. But you can see tracks. They’re watching Dimswitch, probably, because those scouts saw it open.”
“Won’t we drop something on them?”
“Nah. Things are probably still at the negotiating stage,” said Franklin. “We—Karl the Bloody is probably making demands.”
“There’s nothing to negotiate,” she said. “The Marauders can’t get through Seven Buttons.”
“Would you stop calling us that?” said Franklin. “We’re not Marauders. We’re Sunbiters.”
Chantel didn’t answer. She led the way down the bridge to the Daisy Pond.
It was a nice, orderly pond, the sort that Lightning Pass approved of. It was round, contained in a stone wall, with algae-covered stone sides that went down as far as the eye could see. It was said that the Daisy Pond had no bottom.
They followed a flagstone path that skirted it.
“If your tribe didn’t take the sorceresses, who did?” she asked.
Franklin frowned. “I don’t know. It couldn’t have been the Walatoni. They think women are sacred, so they would never bother sorceresses.”
“Think women are what?” said Chantel.
But Franklin wasn’t listening. “The Haramats wouldn’t have done it, because they’re like us—they let prisoners die honorable deaths. That is, the Haramats might have taken them, but if so, they’re not hostages. The Elestorians will take hostages sometimes, and exchange them for Elestorian prisoners—do you have any?”
“I don’t know,” said Chantel.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Franklin. “The Elestorians are famous for not keeping their word, and only delivering their prisoners in pieces.”
“Oh,” said Chantel. “So isn’t there any kind of Marauder who takes hostages and doesn’t kill them?”
“Not that I ever heard of,” said Franklin with a shrug. “And none of us call ourselves Marauders.”
Chantel did like Franklin, but she was feeling a certain urge to push him into the Daisy Pond.
Still, she thought . . . if what Franklin said was true, then the Marauders weren’t holding the sorceresses. Either Franklin was lying, or the patriarchs were.
They had reached the steep stone dropoff that marked the edge of the Green Terraces. Chantel led the way down a stone staircase to the lanes and alleys below.
Lord Rudolph had ordered the cobbled square beside Dimswitch cleared while Chantel did the Ago spell. Barriers were up, and city guards were stationed around them to keep people out.
Chantel had never actually done the spell herself, only watched Miss Ellicott do it.
Anna and Bowser had kindled a charcoal fire. Anna had set a small pot of water to boil; magical brews and potions were her thing. She dropped ingredients into the pot.
She filled a bowl with ice magically made from the Daisy Pond. She set the bowl down on the cobbles, right in front of those few green threads from Chantel’s robe that marked Dimswitch.
Chantel stood before the bowl, facing Seven Buttons. She concentrated on clearing her mind of all other thoughts—like the fact that the Marauders—Sunbiters, rather—were now camped outside the wall, and that, according to Franklin, they did not really have the sorceresses. To do magic you had to free your mind of distractions. This was difficult with a snake wriggling around in your head. She told the snake to be still, and it slithered down and settled somewhere in her left leg, clearing her mind.
She thought about the question she wanted answered. The one about the long lost lore for the Buttoning spell.
What do we need to do to protect the city? she asked.
And then she asked another question. Can you show me how to find the sorceresses?
And just in case the answer wasn’t hidden in the past, she added Or can you at least show me something that will help?
Carefully Anna lifted the pot from the flames and poured it into the ice.
There was a hissing sound, and a billowing column of white steam rose. It smelled of tea and hay fever and late October. The others backed away. Chantel held her braids away from her face and leaned into it. For a moment, she saw nothing but steam, which was almost too hot to breathe. She closed her eyes against the heat. She didn’t remember the spell being this hot when Miss Ellicott had done it.
Consider the girl now.
The girl? She has a snake in her innards.
A girl who will let a snake into her head is neither shamefast nor biddable.
Shamefast or biddable? Does that matter?
Matter!
It matters more than anything.
It has been a long time since a girl has let a snake into her head.
But will anything come of it?
She works great magic.
She works a summoning.
No, it is not a summoning. It is simply a spell for seeing the past.
The past?
Perhaps.
When she does it, it is a summoning.
Chantel gazed through the steam at Seven Buttons. Then the wall faded slightly, becoming transparent, and she saw the swamp beyond. There were no Marauders there. There was just swamp.
And someone was walking toward her, from a great distance, along a path that was suddenly there. As he came closer she saw that he was wearing brown trousers, a loose green tunic, and a cap with a feather in it. A tree popped up beside the path. The man climbed onto a low branch, and beckoned to Chantel.
Hm.
Before, when Chantel had looked into the Ago, the Ago hadn’t seen her.
The man beckoned again.
Chantel hesitated. He must have something to tell her. But would she be able to pass through Seven Buttons?
She stepped over the bowl of mist, and onto the path which she now saw ended at her spell. She felt a faint rippling as she passed through Dimswitch. The air smelled of early spring. She walked until she reached the tree.
By this time the man in the tree was eating an apple. He had short brown hair and a narrow, brown, rather graceful face. He wore useful-looking leather boots, which he swung nonchalantly as he watched Chantel approach.
Around the base of the tree was curled a large golden lizard, about the size of a donkey. It was asleep, and snoring, wings folded across its back.
“Is that a dragon?” Chantel blurted, when she reached the tree.