The Celestial Globe

  “People can only have one magical talent.” But then Petra reconsidered. “Though . . . you can scry. You made some kind of connection between our minds. And you can call upon spirits.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “You also killed the Gray Men.”

  “Yes,” he said, “though I did that through very skilled swordsmanship, not magic. I must be modest.”

  “And you can magically lock doors? None of that fits together.”

  “No, it doesn’t, my dear. Not if you truly believe that a person can inherit only one magical gift. I’m not saying it’s a bad rule to live by. But no rule is without exceptions. I am an exception. And so are you.”

  Petra found a chair and sank into it. “A chimera, right? Is a chimera some kind of . . . magical mixture, like Ariel was half dragonfly, half woman?”

  “Yes. When I was young, it became clear that I had powers most didn’t. But as I grew up and began to undergo training, it seemed obvious to everyone that I wasn’t like other children with magical abilities. I was an oddity.”

  “Imagine that,” Petra muttered.

  “No tutor my parents hired could pinpoint the nature of my talent. Was I a scryer? A shape-shifter? Could I see in the dark? Drink fire like water?”

  “What can you do, then?”

  “Oh, I am sure the details would bore you.”

  “Can you . . .” Petra stumbled over a question she needed and feared to ask. “Can you read minds?”

  “No.”

  “But the link between our minds—”

  “Is that, and nothing more. Through it, I can know your location. You could do the same with me, if you bothered to learn how. If I say something to you, using that link, it is not very different from communicating out loud. I cannot guess your secret thoughts. They are behind a closed door, and I do not have the gift to open it.”

  “You could be lying to me.”

  “You could trust that I am not.”

  His brown eyes held hers, and for such a muddy color, they were piercing. Petra looked away.

  Dee continued, “Naturally, when my daughters were born, I watched to see how they would develop. They turned out to be normal—well, ‘normal’ in the sense that they each have only one talent, like ninety-nine percent of the magical human population. Like your father, your dear friend Tomik Stakan, and the long-fingered Roma boy.”

  “I’m going to stop asking how you know these things.”

  “A wise decision. Because you won’t get any answers.”

  Petra remembered something. “Ariel called you a ‘deep-searcher.’ ”

  “Ah, you noticed. I do search deeply. I gained the habit when I traveled the world as a young man, looking for clues about my own abilities. I saw things you couldn’t imagine, and things you wouldn’t want to. I met the wisest people, the craftiest, the kindest, the laziest, the lost, and those who would cut my throat as soon as cough. I’ve never given up the study of people—what they need, want, and are willing to do. When Madinia and Margaret were born, I became interested in twins, and I discovered that this kind of birth is the most likely to produce chimeras. Especially if one child dies.”

  “My twin brother was stillborn,” Petra admitted.

  “And what did Ariel call you? ‘Silver-singer.’ ‘Dream-thinker.’ What have you inherited, Petra? Ariel’s first name for you is easy to understand. Your father has an extraordinary gift for metal. You shattered the Staro Clock’s metal heart.”

  “I don’t know how I did that. That was an accident.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

  “Really,” she insisted. “The heart probably had some kind of automatic destruction mode and I triggered it.”

  “Yes, of course,” Dee said.

  Then he snatched a knife from the folds of his cloak and flung it at her.

  Without thinking, Petra plucked it out of the air. She stared at the knife in her hand and dropped it to the floor. “You could have killed me!”

  “But I didn’t. Come, don’t pout.”

  “Pout? You threw a knife at my head!”

  “I was reasonably certain you would dodge it. I am impressed that you managed to catch it without doing your fingers any harm. Your gift for metal is obvious. Why deny it? Because you can’t make that blade rise off the floor and dance a waltz like your father could? That is hardly surprising. As a chimera, you possess more than one magical talent. Consider them separately, and you might find that they each seem weaker than they should be. Combined, however, you will have something rare, and very powerful. Now, what might your second talent be, dream-thinker?”

  Petra didn’t respond.

  “I wonder,” Dee said. “Have you ever had a nightmare that came true?”

  She remembered the red brocade flowers.

  “Perhaps you heard something that no one else did?”

  The scream of the Gray Men, throbbing in her bones.

  “Or felt something that wasn’t there?” Dee suggested.

  Neel’s ghost fingers, untying the purse tucked under her shirt.

  “I believe that you are gifted with mind-magic, Petra Kronos.”

  “No,” she said.

  “Consider the evidence. For example, you and I enjoy a strong link between our minds.”

  “Enjoy?” Petra choked.

  “And I forged it easily, Petra, so easily that I confess I was astonished. When you called for help, it was loud, unmistakable, insistent: a clarion call. That takes talent, and usually training.”

  “I told you before: I didn’t mean to do that. I wish you’d leave me alone. What am I to you? Just some Bohemian nobody you arm-twisted into doing your dirty work. You saved my life, but your weird and totally unwelcome responsibility to me is over. I have to get back to my country. I’ve got things to do, and a father to find.”

  “I think not. You asked me for help, Petra. I interpret that to mean protecting your life and making certain you’re able to do the same. Let me train you for a year, and then I’ll return you to Bohemia.”

  “A year? Never.”

  “Or you can be locked in a room in my home indefinitely.”

  “A month,” she bargained.

  He just looked at her.

  “I don’t even have a month!” said Petra. “The prince arrested my father!”

  “Mikal Kronos is in no immediate danger of dying.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  There was nothing to make Petra believe Dee was telling the truth—nothing, except that she desperately wanted to believe him.

  “Nine months,” Dee offered.

  Petra hesitated. “Six.”

  “Nine, and when you leave London I’ll give you all the information I have on your father.”

  “Done,” she said.

  They didn’t shake hands.

  “THIS WILL NOT DO.” Astrophil wrung his legs. He and Petra had returned to her bedroom, and servants locked the door behind them. “I must learn English. You must get me books. I understood only a third of what you were saying.”

  “Maybe I could steal something from Dee’s library,” Petra suggested.

  “You will do no such thing! He might catch you, and he is far too clever not to wonder why you are interested in English grammar when you already know the language perfectly. There must be another way. Befriend his daughters.”

  “The snipey Madinia and the cowardly Margaret? I don’t think so.”

  Astrophil paced across the floor. “I need to be able to advise you. I cannot do that if I am unable to understand what people say. I will study the English language. You, Petra, must go along with Dee’s plan. For the moment, you have no other option. Be cooperative. Meanwhile, we will do everything possible to create a window for escape. We’ll gather all the information we can about this house, the people living in it, and the city. Now, I know you do not like the idea of mind-magic—”

  “It’s creepy.”

  “Study it
anyway. If that is what allowed Dee to forge the link with your mind, and if that link is what makes him able to locate you, then you could—”

  “Learn how to break it.” Petra took the hope she had felt a moment ago, and a new sense of determination. She wove them together in her heart. She was not so different from her father. Like him, Petra had always been able to take comfort in a good plan.

  THE NEXT DAY, a servant whisked into Petra’s room. “These are for you, miss.” She held out a pair of clean trousers and a loose shirt. “My stars and pincushions, but Master Dee has strange ideas.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Petra.

  “Why, you need a proper dress! And the idea of putting you in a room alone with young Kit! And Mistress Dee says no to none of it. Of course, she’s not exactly in her right mind.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  The maid leaned forward. “Sits around like a wooden doll all day, doesn’t she? With that empty face. She’ll talk to me like she’s surprised I exist—and not in that typical ‘I’m a grand lady and you’re dirt’ kind of way. More like she doesn’t really know what’s going on, or doesn’t care. Hurry along, now. The master won’t like it if you’re late to meet Kit.”

  “Who’s Kit?”

  “Dress yourself, and then you’ll find out, won’t you?”

  DEE WAS WAITING for Petra outside a door on the top floor of the manor. Astrophil, peeking from behind the curtain of Petra’s hair, had counted three floors. Petra had tried to look out the windows as she and the servant, Sarah, walked past them, but all she saw were more houses and narrow streets caked with snow.

  Dee dismissed Sarah. “Good morning,” he said to Petra. “Today will be your first lesson. After some consideration, I decided that where fencing is concerned, you are not ready to receive lessons from me, so I have hired someone to train you. I will give you lessons where the . . . ah, more subtle aspects of your abilities are concerned, because I know of no better instructor. One word of advice before we enter the practice room. Don’t reveal anything of yourself to anyone in London, especially not to the young man you are about to meet. We will keep your identity secret. Your name is Pamela Dee—”

  Petra gagged.

  “—a distant cousin, recently orphaned, and now living on my charity.” Dee opened the door.

  The room was huge, with a scuffed wooden floor and weapons with various pointy, deadly-looking parts lined the walls. In the center of the room stood a boy. Petra was tall for her age, but he was taller. His brown hair was cut close to the skull. His face was longish but pleasing, with deeply set eyes, a straight and narrow nose, and a pointed chin.

  “Christopher Rhymer,” Dee introduced, “is admirably able to teach you fencing. He is a prodigy. You’re lucky to be able to learn from him. Christopher, this is—”

  “Petra,” she said, and was glad to see the irritation on Dee’s face.

  “That’s an unusual name,” said the boy. “It sounds foreign.”

  “Her parents were odd people,” Dee said smoothly as he crossed the room to a low table where a sword rested. He handed it to Petra, and she saw that it was an exact replica of her father’s sword—except, of course, that it was visible. And the blade was blunt. “This is yours,” Dee told Petra. “Make certain you deserve it.”

  He left the room.

  “I’m known as Kit to my friends.” The boy cocked his head as he considered Petra. “That’d mean you.”

  She hung back warily.

  Kit nodded at the closed door. “He’s a frustrating piece of work, isn’t he, our Master John Dee? He keeps you guessing, all the while with a little smile on his face. When he claims to tell you the truth, you can never even half believe it. It makes him good at his job, though.”

  “I guess. If you want to be an expert spy, I suppose you have to practice being a liar.”

  “Hey, now.” He raised a hand in defense. “I was once a spy.”

  “You?”

  “Oh, yes. I began training in the profession when I was little. There’s honor in espionage, Petra.” He hastened to soothe away her dislike. “It’s a fine way to protect your country, to keep it safe from plots within and warring foreigners without. Don’t judge what I did. Not until you know something about it.”

  “You said you were a spy. What made you quit?”

  “I didn’t quit. I was forced to retire. Dee’s right—I am a prodigy,” he said matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t just gifted at spying. I was extraordinary. I don’t have any magic, but I had a natural talent for discovering things people were desperate to keep hidden. I was successful at every mission given to me. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about it. I’m great at worming out secrets, yet I can’t seem to be secretive myself. I strutted, and became . . . noticeable. Not a good thing in my job. My former job. And fencing?” He hefted a sword and looked at the blade. “Again, too much skill, too little modesty. I beat everyone who dared to duel with me.” He checked to see if she thought he was exaggerating. “Truly. Though . . . well, I never did fight Dee. I don’t even know if he’s good with a sword or not. And there lies the difference between him and me. When I walk into a room, everyone knows who I am: a skilled spy, a frighteningly good swordsman, and a braggart. When Dee walks into a room, everyone’s on their toes. They don’t know which way to look. So here I stand—fifteen years old, barely an adult, and already retired. I’m no longer part of Queen Elizabeth’s society of spies. I just teach swordplay for my bread. Dee’s done me a favor by hiring me to teach you. He pays well.”

  “But isn’t Dee . . . noticeable, too? I know he’s a spy. Can it really be such a secret? Why isn’t he forced to quit?”

  “You’ve guessed correctly, Petra: everybody knows Dee’s a spy. Everybody. But you see, he’s on the queen’s council. So if he travels as an ambassador to another court, its ruler expects that Dee’s there to gather information. Dee just recently returned from a trip to Bohemia. I’m sure Prince Rodolfo knew full well that Dee sought his secrets. The only question in the prince’s mind would have been: how much does Dee know, and what will he do with that information? Maybe the prince even wanted certain tidbits to make their way to Queen Elizabeth. In that case, all he had to do was feed them to the English spy in his court. Politics is a game of open secrets, Petra. Why, just three months ago, an English sailor named Drake decided to turn pirate. His ship pounced upon a Spanish galleon and stole a mind-boggling sum of gold. Drake returns to London and presents his treasure to Queen Elizabeth, who is delighted. But King Ferdinand of Spain is less than happy and writes to the queen demanding his gold and Drake’s head. Queen E claims she has no idea what King F is talking about. King F knows that she does. See? It’s all part of the game.”

  “Why don’t you play it, then?” Petra asked. “Couldn’t you be an ambassador one day?”

  “It’s kind of you to suggest it, even if you disapprove. Yes, you do. I can see it on your face. But the idea you present is a greasy pole, and I don’t want to try climbing up it. Anyway, I’d still have the same old problem: I can’t be discreet. Everyone knows Dee’s a spy, but nobody can guess what he knows.”

  Petra appraised him. “You are chatty.”

  “You see?” He laughed. “Even you think I’m unfit for the job. I just . . . well, I’m trying to be honest with you.”

  “Thanks, Kit. I appreciate it.”

  “I’m sure you won’t appreciate losing to me, though.” He gestured for Petra to draw her sword. “And you will. Badly. I’m not allowed to go easy on you. You’re several years behind. If you wanted to do something with a blade other than hack at bushes, you should’ve begun long ago. We’ll be using real weapons, not practice ones made of wood. The blades are blunt, but they’ll still hurt if they hit you. Lessons will be fast and you’ll have to work to keep up. Basically, you’re in for a trouncing.”

  “Maybe I’m better than you think,” said Petra.

  “I doubt that. We’re friends now, right? So let’s h
ave no lies between us. Use whatever advantage you can against me, but I’ll still beat you.”

  He did. Repeatedly. First he showed her how to hold the sword, thrust with its point, and shuffle her feet to meet or duck away from him. Then Kit lunged immediately into an attack.

  Petra tried to connect magically with her sword, to direct it as she wanted. But Kit moved too quickly for her to concentrate, and he kept shouting at her: “Use your wrist!” “No! Don’t drop your guard!” “That’s pathetic!” The flat of his sword rapped against her arms, legs, and sides. The tip of his blade often stopped just short of her neck and heart. She was dead several times over.

  This is making me dizzy, Astrophil complained from his hiding spot under Petra’s hair.

  Finally, Kit called a halt to their practice. Petra was trembling. I hate that I’m so weak, Astro, she thought.

  He tried to comfort her. Some of it is due to your illness.

  Some, but not all. She hadn’t even used her injured left arm. It was the muscles in her right that ached. When Kit grabbed a pitcher of water and poured some for Petra, she had trouble raising the glass to her lips and her hand shook.

  Kit studied her. “Tomorrow, wear your hair up, or I’ll chop it all off. It gets in your face. Anyone can grab a fistful and jerk your head back for a blow to the neck. But if you promise to keep your hair out of the way, I’ll let you keep it. I know girls have their little vanities.”

  “You don’t know me very well,” she said.

  He paused. “I suppose you’re right. And I was wrong about you where one thing is concerned, Petra.” Kit took the glass from her, then reached to shake her hand. “You are better than I thought.”

  12

  The Death of the West

  PETRA HAD NEVER been afraid of the dark, but all she could think about was that the door to this strange bedroom was locked. Astrophil was sound asleep under the bed.

  Petra felt small and empty, like an old, dented thimble.

  She missed her father. She remembered how he would hold her when she was little, how he smelled smoky—the coal of his smithy, the candles of his study. She would press her face against his chest and his voice, usually so quiet, would rumble under her ear.