The Fire King Page 7

  “But, my lady, I assure you, he’s not a member. He will know nothing.”

  “When I want your opinion, you sniveling worm, I will be sure to ask for it. And since that will never happen, I advise you to keep your mouth shut. Nothing can be left to chance, do you understand? You have been through the Invisible Order’s records. I have captured and tortured every member we could find, and yet I am still no closer to finding the Raven King. The Order knows who he is, they must do! So if there is even the remotest chance that this Wren is one of them, I want him brought here!”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Barnaby meekly.

  “Now go, before you try my patience any further.”

  Barnaby bowed. “Yes, my lady.”

  He turned and walked back toward the door. The ravens snapped their beaks as he went, a chorus of disapproval.

  Click-click.

  Click-click.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In which the foundations of Christopher Wren’s world are torn asunder. A rooftop battle. Death stalks the Invisible Order.

  Christopher Wren sat at his desk, the guttering light of beeswax candles illuminating his plans for the dome that was to replace the dilapidated spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral. He blinked, realizing he had been drifting once again. He couldn’t help it. His thoughts kept returning to the young girl who had visited him that afternoon. Why had she asked such strange questions? They were patently ridiculous, and yet she had seemed so … solemn. So serious. Perhaps she was touched in the head?

  Wren shook his head in an attempt to clear it of distracting thoughts. He needed to focus his energies now. His plans had been approved by the King only a day ago. That meant he had to deal with the logistics of the project. Hiring stonemasons and laborers, sourcing building material. He sighed. It wasn’t his favorite part of a job. Not by a long way.

  A sharp knock came from the front door. Wren rose from his desk, chiding himself for the relief he felt at having a legitimate distraction. He took one of the candles and made his way along the short passage outside his office, his shoes clumping loudly on the wooden floorboards.

  A second knock echoed through his rooms, this one louder, more urgent. Wren turned the key and pulled open the door to find Cavanagh standing on his doorstep, rooting around in a battered leather satchel.

  “Cavanagh?” said Wren in surprise. But then he remembered. The man had wanted to see him about something, hadn’t he? Wren had totally forgotten about it. Truth to tell, he wasn’t really in the mood for company. He’d intended to have an early night.

  “Wren,” said Cavanagh. “We must talk. It’s terribly important that we talk. Now.” Cavanagh glanced nervously over his shoulder.

  Wren felt himself becoming rather worried. Cavanagh was usually the most stoic of fellows. Wren had never seen him moved to fear. Irritation, yes. Annoyance—definitely. But fear? Worry? Never.

  Wren quickly stood aside. “Of course. Please, come in.”

  Cavanagh hastily entered Wren’s rooms and headed straight for his study. Christopher followed after, watching while Cavanagh dropped into a chair. But he was obviously too agitated to sit still, for he quickly leapt to his feet and paced back and forth. He glanced up at Christopher’s collection of books, his lips curling in disgust.

  “So many books, and yet you know nothing,” said Cavanagh angrily.

  “Steady now,” said Wren. “I’m not sure what’s got into you, dear fellow, but I do not appreciate being insulted in my own rooms.”

  “Hmm?” Cavanagh looked over at Wren as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh, it wasn’t an insult, I assure you. More a regret. A deep, abiding regret.” He sighed. “I wish there was another time to tell you this, Wren. I need more time to prepare.” He laughed bitterly. “But isn’t that always the case? We always need more time, yes? We never have enough, and we never use what we do have in a wise fashion.”

  “Cavanagh, what on earth has gotten into you? I’ve never seen you so agitated. Perhaps some tea to calm your nerves?”

  Cavanagh shook his head. “No time.”

  “Are you in some form of trouble?” asked Wren.

  “Oh, yes.” Cavanagh laughed. “Have been for some time now. It was just a matter of seeing how long I could stay ahead of it.” He paused in his pacing. “Do you remember that girl today?”

  “Of course I do. How could I forget?”

  Cavanagh hesitated, then ploughed on. “What if I were to tell you that everything she said was true?”

  This time it was Wren’s turn to pause, waiting for Cavanagh to crack a smile. He didn’t. “I’d say you probably needed a rest,” he said carefully.

  “I know how insane it sounds, Wren, but I’m afraid it’s true. Faeries exist, and they’re not adorable little creatures with wings. They’re dangerous, conniving, selfish creatures who want to wipe out humankind. That, or make us their slaves.”

  “Cavanagh, really—”

  “No, let me finish. The Invisible Order is a secret society. We have fought the fey down through the centuries, making sure their plans came to naught, attacking them, fighting them, foiling their schemes. But lately … something happened. I don’t know what. The fey found out who we were and started eradicating us one by one. Killing us all until only one remained.”

  Cavanagh drew himself up to his full height. “I’m the last member of the Order,” he said proudly. “Gresham, he was one of us. That’s the real reason he left all these buildings as a college. To serve as a meeting place for the Invisible Order. To serve as a repository for our knowledge, our records.”

  Wren found it extremely hard to believe he was having this conversation. He shook his head dumbly. “But what of the girl? What is her involvement?”

  “I have no idea. But if she is involved, then her life is in danger. The fey have spies everywhere. It’s how they managed to get to us.”

  “Then how do you know I’m not a spy?” asked Wren.

  “I just know. We were going to approach you to join the Order before all this started. Lucky for you we didn’t. You might be dead by now.”

  “But … but why are you telling me this now? Not that I believe a word you are saying.”

  “Because I think something is going to happen. The girl had information she shouldn’t have had. When she mentioned Merlin, I nearly had a heart attack—”

  “Oh, come now,” scoffed Wren. “Merlin the magician is a story, a myth.”

  “He’s as real as you or I,” said Cavanagh. “He was one of the founding members of the Order. Thousands of years ago he helped King Lud defeat the Old Ones and lock them away. This was before London even existed. But then he fell in love with a fey who tricked him and took him prisoner. No one has seen him for over a thousand years. But Wren, no one should know about his connection with the Order. No one. And yet this girl just strolls in here, obviously thinking you should know what she is talking about. Why?”

  “Don’t ask me!” snapped Wren. “I think you’re all insane.”

  “Not insane. More’s the pity.”

  “And what do you intend me to do about all this?”

  “I think you should leave London. At least for a while.”

  Wren burst out laughing. “I’m not leaving London. Are you mad? The King has only just approved my plans to improve St. Paul’s. I can’t leave now.”

  “Wren, you must—”

  Cavanagh was interrupted by another knock at the door. He grabbed Wren by the arm, digging his fingers into Wren’s skin.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” he whispered.

  “Only you, but I do occasionally entertain visitors, you know.”

  The knock came again.

  “Cavanagh, I must insist—”

  Cavanagh raised a warning finger to Wren and moved stealthily along the hallway and stopped before the door. But he made no move to open it to whoever was outside.

  Wren had had enough. He marched along the passage just as a voice called from outside.

 
“Wren? It’s Barnaby. Are you still up?”

  “There,” said Wren, reaching around Cavanagh to unlock the door. “It’s only Barnaby.”

  “Wait!” Cavanagh tried to stop Wren from opening the door, but he already had it halfway open. Barnaby was standing on the step.

  “Wren? I’m very sorr—”

  Before Barnaby could finish his sentence, Cavanagh glanced outside, gave a strangled curse, and slammed the door shut, turning the key quickly in the lock. Just before he did this, Wren was surprised to see a look of murderous hatred flash across Barnaby’s face.

  “Cavanagh, what—?”

  Cavanagh shoved Wren back along the passage toward his study. As he did so he frantically searched through his leather satchel.

  “I told you they had spies, Wren! All this time, he’s been right here, hiding within our ranks. How could I have missed it?”

  “Barnaby?” asked Wren, still struggling to catch up. “A spy? For the Spanish?”

  “Not the Spanish, you fool!” shouted Cavanagh. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? The fey! He’s with them.” Cavanagh finally found what he was looking for, a small jar filled with green paste. He yanked the lid off with shaking fingers just as there was a furious banging against the door.

  “What—?”

  And then a number of things happened at once. The knocking stopped for a brief second, only to be replaced by a thunderous blow that smashed the door from its hinges, sending broken planks of wood spinning through the corridor outside Wren’s study. Wren and Cavanagh ducked for cover. A portion of the door flew lethally through the air, disintegrating into fragments against Wren’s desk.

  The next thing Wren knew, Cavanagh was dabbing something wet and cold onto his eyelids.

  “What are you doing, man?” Wren tried to wipe the sludge away, but Cavanagh kept Wren’s arms in a tight grip while he whispered urgently into Wren’s ear.

  “We must find the child. It seems you are involved in all this, whether you know it or not. The girl said you were the key, the reason why the fey didn’t win. Remember? She knows something. We need to find out what she meant. Do you understand?”

  But Wren was no longer listening. From his position, he could see down the corridor to where his front door had once stood. His eyes widened in shock.

  A huge figure—a man easily seven feet tall and dressed in black plate armor—stood on the step outside. As Wren watched, dumbfounded, the figure ducked beneath the doorframe and entered Wren’s lodgings. He was so big he had to turn sideways so his shoulders would fit through the opening. His old-fashioned helmet almost touched the ceiling.

  The figure looked ridiculous standing there, flanked by the commonplace wood panels of Wren’s rooms and dull paintings of the Thames. He didn’t belong.

  Barnaby entered behind the knight. He was smiling. “So you’re the last of them, eh, Cavanagh? Funny. You were one of the few I never suspected. You were good at hiding. You should have kept it up.” Barnaby stepped aside and turned to the knight. “Kill him, but remember to take Wren alive,” he said.

  The knight tilted his head down and stared at Barnaby through the thin eye slit in his helm. “Do not give me orders, worm,” he said, his voice deep and echoing.

  Barnaby paled and took a step back. The knight kept his gaze fixed on Barnaby for a few moments longer, then turned to face Wren and Cavanagh. He tilted his head back and let out a terrifying, animal-like roar.

  The horrific sound echoed through Wren’s rooms. Wren and Cavanagh staggered back as the knight lashed out with his arms, smashing them into the walls. The wooden panels splintered, paintings flying into the air, ripped canvas fluttering to the floor. He started moving, his arms still embedded in the walls. He was like a plough digging up soil, thought a distant part of Wren’s mind. The walls ripped apart, the knight moving effortlessly through them, leaving huge furrows in his wake. The noise was horrific and constant, like a forest of trees being felled, splinters flying through the air like tiny daggers.

  The top half of the wall behind the knight started to sag, then it separated from the ceiling with the screeching of tortured nails and dropped to the floor, revealing the sitting room on the other side. Barnaby yelped and jumped back outside.

  Wren slammed the study door shut. Not that it would do any good against that monstrosity, but he couldn’t think what else to do. He whirled around to face Cavanagh, who was fishing around in his satchel again. This time Cavanagh yanked out a short sword about the length of Wren’s forearm. He clutched it like a poker and grimaced at Wren.

  “Never been one for weapons.”

  The rending and crashing of wood from the passage stopped. They both looked nervously at the study door.

  “We need another way out,” said Cavanagh. “Any thoughts?”

  “The attic?” Wren suggested. “It opens onto the roof.”

  Cavanagh nodded. “Lead the way.”

  Wren hurried through another door that led from his study. It opened onto a short passage with a set of stairs leading up to the second floor. Wren clambered up the steps, his heart racing erratically. He had no clear idea what was going on. Just that what had only this morning been a clear and ordered—albeit a slightly humdrum—existence had been turned on its head. Was he really running from a seven-foot-tall knight? Did faeries actually exist?

  It didn’t seem possible, and for a brief second he wondered if he had fallen asleep at his desk. But then he heard his study door being ripped from its hinges and the knight venting his blood-chilling roar once again, and he realized this was all real. Horrifyingly, dangerously real.

  The attic stairs were at the end of the second-floor landing. Wren quickly led the way up into the low, dusty attic. Moonlight shone through the small window, illuminating old crates and pieces of junk, the detritus of previous tenants. When Wren saw how small the window was, he had a sudden fear that they would be trapped up here. It didn’t look big enough for them to fit through.

  He fumbled with the latch and tried to push the window open. It didn’t budge. He tried again, bracing his feet and pushing. Nothing. Wren leaned closer and inspected it by the silver moonlight. Successive coats of paint had sealed it shut. They were trapped. Cornered. The roaring of the knight came closer. He must have found the stairs to the second landing.

  Which meant he would soon discover the attic door. They were as good as dead.

  Cavanagh pushed him aside and started digging around the window frame with his sword. “Not exactly the use I had in mind, but needs must when the devil drives, yes?”

  “Devil is an apt choice of word,” said Wren, keeping a nervous eye on the door. “Are they demons?”

  “I told you. They are faeries. All the myths. All the legends. All true. You really need to understand this if you want to stay alive, Wren.” Cavanagh gave the window a shove. It still didn’t budge. He sighed, then shoved the point of his sword between the window and the frame, pushing down on the hilt. There was a tearing sound as the paint reluctantly separated and the window moved slightly. Cavanagh wrenched his sword free and pushed the window the rest of the way open. “After you?”

  Wren dragged an old crate across the floor and used it to climb up onto the windowsill.

  “Hate to hurry you,” said Cavanagh in a tight voice. “But that clumping sound you hear is the knight on the attic stairs.”

  Wren wriggled the top half of his body out the window. It was a tight fit. The grass of the commons lay far below him. Strange. He’d never thought the professors’ lodgings to be overly high, but from this perspective, it was absolutely terrifying. One wrong step and that would be the end.

  Wren twisted around so that his backside was on the sill, then grabbed the eaves above the window, using them to steady himself while he shuffled back and finally got his legs free. He pulled himself up onto the roof, swaying slightly as he tried to keep his balance.

  Cavanagh joined him moments later, and they hurried up the incline to the pea
k of the roof. A loose slate gave way beneath Cavanagh’s boot. He slipped onto his knee, the impact causing more of the slates to part ways from the roof beams. He started to slide. Wren staggered down the slope, only barely managing to stop himself falling over, and grabbed Cavanagh’s arm, bringing him to a lurching stop.

  Cavanagh pushed himself to his feet and nodded gratefully at Wren. “I suggest we run now. With much alacrity.”

  Wren shook his head. “You always were a one for the understatement, Cavanagh.” The long roof stretched ahead of them. At the end of the long row that made up the professors’ lodgings he could see the lecture halls and the reading rooms, an untidy jumble of structures that eventually gave way onto the street outside the college.

  They started to move but hadn’t gone five steps before there was a furious crash from beneath their feet. The whole roof shook. Wren and Cavanagh paused, exchanging a look of alarm. The crash came again, harder and louder.

  Wren and Cavanagh turned just as the roof of Wren’s lodgings exploded upward in a lethal cloud of shattered tiles and broken wood.

  Wren ducked and shielded his face from the spiraling shards. They scattered all around him, fragments stinging exposed skin. He straightened up and found himself staring at the knight as he pulled himself up through the massive hole he had torn in the roof. Tiles cracked underfoot as the knight slowly straightened up to his full height. The moon was full and round behind him, limning his black armor in silver light.

  Then, to Wren’s utter horror, Cavanagh held the small iron sword before him and readied himself to face the knight.

  “Cavanagh! Are you insane? We must flee.”

  “No time, Wren,” said Cavanagh bleakly. “Not anymore.” He unshouldered his satchel and tossed it through the air. Wren caught it with fumbling fingers. “You’re now the last of the Invisible Order, Wren. It falls to you to stop the fey. If you don’t, then humanity is lost.”