“I have to try,” said Chantel. “But I guess you’d better go hide again.”
She immediately realized she shouldn’t have said it. She was afraid now that he would refuse to hide, and the patriarchs would find a new executioner and lop off his head. But Franklin said nothing, and by the time she reached the Hall of Patriarchs he was no longer beside her.
21
MISS ELLICOTT DOES A SPELL
Chantel made her way through the chilly gloom of the kings’ tombs and into the clerk’s well-lit office. After everything that had happened, she was rather surprised to see Mr. Less, once again sitting at his sharply slanted desk.
“Miss Chantel,” he said. “What a surprise.”
No one had ever called Chantel “miss” before. She took it in stride. “Good afternoon, Mr. Less,” she said. “I’ve come to see the patriarchs. Are they in?”
“Those who remain,” said the clerk. “Lord Rudolph we lost to the Marauders’ arrows, along with Sir Botolph, and Sir Twang.”
“Not to the dragon?” said Chantel.
“You will surely have heard, Miss Chantel, that there was no dragon,” said Mr. Less. “If you know something to the contrary, you may wish to keep that to yourself.” He nodded at the door. “You know the way.”
The remaining patriarchs were bruised and bandaged. Sir Wolfgang had a black eye, and his arm in a sling. Chantel was dismayed to see that he sat at the head of the table. Sir Wolfgang, unlike the late Lord Rudolph, couldn’t hear girls.
And so he went on talking when she came into the room, until one of the other patriarchs—Sir Faraday, Chantel thought his name was—held up a hand to interrupt the flow of eloquence, and nodded at her.
The patriarchs all turned to look at her. She did not curtsey. She was neither shamefast nor biddable. She was not afraid of them. She had ridden a dragon.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I’ve come to ask—”
“Who’s that?” said Sir Wolfgang.
“It’s that girl,” said Sir Faraday. “The one we were told was supposed to be something out of the ordinary.”
“Looks ordinary enough to me,” said Sir Wolfgang. “Doesn’t she curtsey?”
“I’ve seen the boys marching in the city,” said Chantel. “And I’ve seen the Marauders without the gates—Sunbiters, they’re called. And they’re in the harbor now, and who knows what’s happening to the people there? You’ve got to give the Sunbiters what they’re asking for. It’s the only way to save the harbor and the city.”
“Why’s she alone?” said Sir Wolfgang. “Weren’t there more children before? A yellow-haired girl, wasn’t there? And some kind of boy?”
“Maybe the dragon got them,” said Sir Faraday.
“There was no dragon,” said Sir Wolfgang.
Several of the patriarchs chuckled, but wearily. They had not been having a nice time lately.
“There was a dragon,” said Chantel. “I was riding it.”
“Run along,” said Sir Wolfgang. “We have no time for the pretty chirruping of little girls. This is men’s business.”
Chantel felt anger building up in her like magical strength. There were empty chairs at the table. Gathering the hem of her purple dragon-robe in one hand, she climbed onto the chair of a dead patriarch. Then she stepped up onto the table. The patriarchs exclaimed in surprise and dismay. She marched down the table and stopped in front of Sir Wolfgang.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I’m speaking! Don’t pretend you can’t hear me!”
Sir Wolfgang looked up at her. “No decent young lady,” he said, “stands on a table.”
“The dragon is real,” said Chantel. “I rode it. I flew out over the Sunbiters’ camps. Karl the Bloody has thousands of men. If he gets into the city, the streets will run with blood.”
“This is like something out of an old tale,” muttered one of the patriarchs. “Girl in a dragon robe up on the table saying portentous stuff.”
“I never heard that tale,” said another patriarch.
Chantel turned her Look on them. “There are only two things to do,” she said. “The first is to tell the Sunbiters that you’ll give them what they want. Lower the port fees and the tolls.”
“You know nothing of such things,” said Sir Wolfgang. He’d finally heard her.
“The second,” said Chantel, “is to have the sorceresses strengthen the walls. And I know where the sorceresses are.”
“So do we,” said Sir Wolfgang irritably.
“Lord Rudolph told us the Marauders have them,” said Chantel. “But that was a lie, to control us. If you’ll agree to lower the port fees and the tolls, I’ll tell you where the sorceresses really are.”
A silence greeted this. Chantel had no idea if it was a thoughtful silence or an angry silence.
There was no telling how the patriarchs might have responded to her demand if they’d had a chance to answer it.
Instead, a man’s voice in the hall outside cried out “Way! Way! Make way for the king!”
And then the king and all the sorceresses burst into the room.
The patriarchs jumped to their feet. There was a lot of shouting and shoving, and the sorceresses were busy making signs. Chantel leapt down from the table; she had no desire to be caught in a cage again.
Amid the hubbub the king cried, “There she is! The girl! Seize her!”
Chantel fled.
She ran down the hall. Footsteps came pounding behind her. Whoever was chasing her was much faster than the patriarchs had been. She burst into the hall of tombs and dodged, careening from one tomb to another. She saw a flash of white as her pursuer jumped over a tomb—it was Prince George, the king’s brother, in his spotless white uniform. She ducked and made for the door. He tackled her.
Chantel hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of her. She rolled, kicking and punching furiously. Then she felt cold steel touch her neck.
“You’ll serve your king,” said the prince, “or die.”
Chantel froze. The blade bit into her skin. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of battle in the patriarchs’ council room. If only Franklin had come with her! He at least knew how to fight. If only she’d run down the steps to the catacombs . . . but no, the fiend was down there . . .
“The dragon,” said Prince George. “What have you done with it? Where is it?”
The fiend . . . Chantel was supposed to be good at summoning, wasn’t she? Queen Haywith had said so. . . .
A ringing smack on the side of her head made her see bright flashes of light. “Answer me, girl!”
“He’s in his lair,” Chantel gasped. “The dragon’s in his lair.” The fiend . . . Not Franklin, she probably couldn’t summon a Sunbiter boy . . . but the fiend . . .
“Summon him!” the prince demanded.
“I can’t summon a dragon!”
He hit her again. “The Ellicott woman said you could! Summon him now!”
The prince had his hands around her throat. He shook her. Her head banged against the stone floor. Summon . . . summon . . .
She clawed desperately at the prince’s hands, and she struggled to remember the fiend—the catacombs—the smell like a flooded grave—