The Puppeteer: Book II of The Guild of Gatekeepers Read online

  The Puppeteer

  Book II of the Guild of Gatekeepers

  Frances Jones

  Copyright Frances Jones 2019

  All rights reserved

  Chapter 1

  The hand on the clock tower in the square slid round to five minutes to the hour. Bill the thrush, who had been watching from the windowsill, let out a shrill chirp and hopped onto the open book beside me.

  ‘Time already?’ I said, setting aside my pen and ink. ‘Let’s go then. Peggy, wait here.’

  Peggy opened one eye but only snuggled deeper into her basket near the hearth. Spring had come cold and late that year, and summer was showing little promise so far. I still lit a fire to warm the alchemy laboratory during the day, though midsummer was little more than a week away.

  Across the gallery, the door to Bridget Blyth’s studio stood ajar. I tapped and was answered at once by Bridget bidding me to enter.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ she smiled as she peeped out from behind the canvas she was working on. ‘Is it time?’ Sunlight spilled in through the open window and pooled upon the floor beside her where the Coquinarian’s cat lay curled up asleep. Bridget wiped her hands on a paint-spattered rag and proceeded to adjust her hair in a mirror on the wall.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ I replied. ‘I wondered if I might have a word with you before the meeting. May I see your painting?’

  ‘Of course.’ Bridget turned the easel to reveal a cheerful forest scene with figures engaged in various magical activities, from spell-casting to conjuring. Some of the figures I recognised as Guild members, the most prominent being George demonstrating one of his elaborate navigational devices to another man who regarded it with interest.

  ‘It is to mark George’s first tournament as Keeper,’ Bridget explained.

  ‘It’s spectacular,’ I replied. ‘He’ll be delighted.’

  ‘I hope so. There are still a few finishing touches to do, but never mind that for now. What did you wish to speak to me about?’

  Her dark eyes regarded me with warmth and reminded me sharply of my mother’s. Of all the Guild members, Bridget was the one I felt most at ease with, with the exception of George and Eliza only.

  ‘I…I wondered if you would teach me to paint,’ I said.

  Bridget smiled. ‘Of course, but haven’t you enough to do in the alchemy laboratory? You are the Guild’s alchemist now.’

  ‘Well, yes, but…you are able to bring your paintings to life, aren’t you? I would like to paint my mother, father and sister.’

  Bridget’s eyes filled with pity, and she looked at me tenderly. ‘Oh Tom, my paintings are just illusions. Only the darkest magic can bring back the dead, and you would not wish to see your family in such a way.’

  Hot tears pricked my eyes, and my throat tightened. I swallowed hard. ‘I just miss them so much,’ I said with an effort.

  ‘Of course you do, but you don’t need magic to remember them by. Memory is more powerful by far. Our minds have a curious way of clinging to that which we hold dearest even after it has passed. I believe it is a sign of our creator’s especial care for us.’

  I nodded and wiped my hand across my face. ‘I hope you are right. I am so afraid of my memories fading.’

  Bridget took my hand and pressed a plain linen handkerchief into my palm. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ she replied. ‘Take this. Eliza’s father gave it to me when I first joined the Guild to ease my homesickness. I want you to have it. My home smelt of the ocean, the salty air and wet sand. I smelt that upon the handkerchief every time I thought of home. Breathe deeply from it and think of your home. You will not forget, I promise.’

  I lifted the handkerchief to my nose and sniffed, and at once I was transported back to the cottage, the smell of my mother’s cooking, and washing drying in the wind. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

  ‘You are most welcome,’ Bridget replied.

  At that moment there was a tap on the door, and Eliza poked her head into the room. ‘I thought I heard voices,’ she said. ‘Hurry, the meeting will be starting at any moment! George says everyone must attend.’

  We followed Eliza across the landing to the room in which I had been initiated into the Guild nine months before. I had not been beyond the door since that day. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  Inside, the rest of the Guild was already assembled. The sword that had hung above my head on the day of my initiation was gone, but the small pair of silver scales, upon which the truthfulness of my pledge to the Guild had been weighed, were still there on a table in a corner.

  ‘Well, well, here we all are,’ said George as Bridget, Eliza and I took our places at a long rectangular table laid out especially for the meeting. Bill perched on the back of my chair. ‘Welcome. As you will all be aware, the quadrennial tournament of all the magic guilds in Europe begins in eight days hence. For those of you who have not yet attended a tournament- Tom and Eliza, I believe I am correct in naming you two -this is an opportunity to learn something of its purpose and history. For those who are already familiar with it, please have patience; our travel arrangements will also be discussed. So without further delay, I call upon one who has attended a dozen tournaments and is best placed to speak on the subject, our astronomer and longest serving Guild member, Clement Atwood.’

  George took his seat and Clement Atwood rose. I knew him by sight but had spoken with him only a handful of times. He was a quiet man, gentle and good-natured, with long white hair and a thick moustache. He was rarely seen about the Gatehouse, being most often asleep during the day, for his occupation detained him at his telescopes and astrolabes in the astronomy room long into the night.

  ‘Thank you, George,’ said Clement. ‘This year will be my thirteenth tournament. I was a young man of twenty two when I attended for the first time as an apprentice in 1601, but little has changed in that time. Indeed, little has changed since the founding groups held the first tournament nearly three hundred years earlier. The idea of a magic tournament was born out of the ancient rivalries between the European magic guilds. Many times those rivalries almost spilled over into open hostility as each group vied for the mastery, and so it was decided that a tournament would be held every four years, during which magicians from far and wide could come to duel with one another, discretely hidden from the rest of the world. The enchanted Forest of Paimpont was chosen for its isolation and the abundance of magic that retreated there after the Banishment. All manner of dark and wonderful things dwell in the forest, among them the legendary silver bees, the ancient messengers between this world and other realms. ‘Tis said that they may still be found in the deepest, remotest parts of the forest. I have been told their hum is like the singing of angels and can even revive those on the threshold of death, though there are none living today who have heard their sound, and perhaps, as with so much of the old ways, they too have vanished from the world.’ Clement paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Nonetheless, I fancied I saw one through my telescope on the midsummer’s eve of my first tournament. Perhaps it was just a trick of the moonlight, for a moment later it was gone.

  ‘Anyhow, the old hostilities between the Guild and its rivals- those that have survived the passage of time -have mostly healed, and the tournament is a light-hearted affair, more like the travelling fairs that appear by night. Alchemists, astronomers and botanists, conjurers, jugglers and illusionists and all manner of wizards, witches and warlocks, whether attached to a guild or solitary, descend upon a secluded spot before the Chateau Blanche- the tourney glade as it is known -for three days, culminating with a final duel between every leader of the magic guilds upon the night o
f midsummer. In the preceding days magicians gather to compete and demonstrate their discoveries and inventions and, more importantly to my mind, to debate the mysteries with which we work.

  ‘Each Guild member represents their specialism, assisted by their apprentice- for those of us who have one. As always, we will travel to France by ship and onwards to Paimpont by horse. Our ship leaves tomorrow morning, I believe.’ He glanced at George.

  ‘Yes, that is correct,’ said George. ‘I have chartered a ship to take us to St. Malo where horses will be waiting for us. With a fair wind and no unexpected delays we should reach the tourney glade within seven days.’

  George proceeded to describe in detail the arrangements for the voyage and the tournament, and the other Guild members talked excitedly about the upcoming event. I listened, but not without a growing sense of dread. Inevitably questions surrounding Devere’s death, Emerson’s absence, and the shadowy mark across the left side of my face would be asked. In my time with the Guild, I had learned that news travels fast among magicians, and the circumstances of my swift appointment from apprentice to master would be a topic of discussion and intense scrutiny, much to my distress. For the past four months I had thrown myself into my studies, starting before dawn and working until late at night to distract myself from the gnawing grief I still felt and the fear of what the branding I had suffered at Devere’s hands may yet do to me. Now and again I had allowed my thoughts to wander and linger upon my loss, or ruminate upon how long I had left before the curse came to fulfilment, but then a torrent of pain and fear swept over me and I dared not risk it again.

  I glanced at Eliza. She was unusually quiet and paler than usual. It was a comfort to know that the tournament would be her first as well. Perhaps she felt as nervous as I did. I fidgeted in my seat, eager for the meeting to end so that I could get back to the laboratory.

  At last George clapped his hands, and with a final reminder to be assembled in the hall at dawn, the meeting was dismissed. Eliza followed me into the laboratory and seated herself by the fire beside Peggy.

  ‘I don’t remember a June as cold as this,’ she shivered, wrapping her shawl around her and hugging her thin arms about her body. ‘I’m freezing!’

  I looked at her anxiously from across the bench. ‘It’s a little cool for the time of year but not as bad as all that. You look a bit pale. Perhaps you should see the Agriculturian about getting something from the apothecary.’

  ‘I’m fine. ‘Tis just the damp in the air,’ Eliza replied, stoking the fire.

  I opened my mouth to press my point but was cut short as a spine-chilling scream echoed around the Gatehouse.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Bridget, what is it?’ I cried.

  On the floor of the studio, her easel and canvas lay in a pool of water, the source of which was evidently the broken glass water jar. In the midst of it knelt Bridget, her face ashy pale. On the staircase behind us quick footsteps approached, and a second later George appeared at the door.

  ‘What has happened? Are you hurt?’ He looked from Eliza to me and then to Bridget.

  Bridget shook her head. ‘I am not hurt,’ she replied, her voice quaking. ‘The cat knocked over the easel and my water jar.’

  ‘Oh your painting!’ cried Eliza. ‘Is it ruined? Can it not be restored?’

  Bridget shook her head. ‘No, no, the painting is not my concern, there is little damage, and it can be restored, but come and see.’

  She beckoned us closer and pointed to the centre of the painting and the figure of George I had noted earlier. The toppled water jar had splashed across it, almost erasing George entirely, though the surrounding scene was curiously untouched. I had to admit it was uncanny.

  ‘’Tis an omen,’ Bridget said. ‘I am afraid, George. Please, I beg you, don’t go to the tournament. I fear evil will befall you there.’

  George smiled and lifted the canvas and toppled easel and returned them to their places. ‘It was an accident, nothing more,’ he reassured her. ‘Now where is that confounded cat? I will speak to the Coquinarian and see that he keeps it out of mischief, or else he will have to shut it in the kitchens. Pray don’t be afraid, Bridget. You have no need to fear for me or anyone else at the tournament.’

  Bridget shook her head. ‘My instincts are never wrong, George. ‘Tis an omen.’

  ‘Come now,’ said George. ‘The tournament is a celebration of all we hold dear, an opportunity to share our thoughts and ideas with others of our kind without the need to remain hidden and speak in whispers. Imagine the howls of protest if I were to withdraw the Guild now! If it comforts you, I will speak with the Venatorian and ask that he arms each one of us. The Agriculturian has already prepared a fair weather spell to see us safely across the Channel. We will all be vigilant, but really Bridget, you have no need to fear for me or anyone else.’

  Bridget looked unconvinced but smiled and pressed George’s hand. ‘I hope you are not wrong.’

  With the mess cleaned up and the cat turned out into the hall, Eliza and I returned to the laboratory.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ I asked. ‘Bridget seemed mighty shaken.’

  ‘I just hope it is as George says- an accident and nothing more,’ replied Eliza.

  We said no more about it, and Eliza returned to the weaving room to help her father pack before supper. I stayed behind in the laboratory working until past dark, as had become my routine. The careful measuring and balancing of ingredients required my full concentration and left me little time to dwell on other matters, but I couldn’t help feel troubled by Bridget’s omen, for one change I had noticed in myself since my branding was a sharpening of certain senses. I had begun to notice things others did not, and then it would seem that time slowed to a crawl and the world around me would become distant and faint, magnifying whatever it was I saw or heard. It was a sensation that had only occurred twice previously, but it had happened again as I looked upon the smudged and distorted image of George, for it appeared that where the water had trickled away faint lines, like the finest threads, extended upwards from the hands and feet of the magicians around him. Then in the blink of an eye they were gone.

  I said nothing to George, Eliza or Bridget, partly for fear of causing further alarm, but more so because I didn’t wish to let it be known what I was experiencing. George’s words to Eliza and her father, which I had overheard as I recovered from William Devere’s attack four months ago, still haunted me and dogged my thoughts if I was careless enough to allow them to wander. Twice I had prepared myself to confront George about what I had heard, to ask him to tell me the worst that may yet happen to me, but each time I backed out, as though saying nothing somehow made it as though it had never happened. I was fooling myself and I knew it, but for now ignorance seemed preferable to confronting the horror of what may await me.

  I glanced out of the window. Darkness had swallowed up almost the very last of the light. I snuffed out the candles and returned my books to their places. Supper had already been served, but Eliza had left some in a covered pot on a tray beside my bed in the dormitory as she always did. I ate quickly and went straight to bed with Peggy curled up at my feet.

  I stared at the lights in the buildings visible through the small grille in the wall. One by one they went out, and the room was dark. I reached over to the nightstand for the telescope Edward Treadway has given to me, the telescope which magnified events in the past rather than distant objects. I put it to my eye, as I did every night, and thought of the last time I had seen my family. I saw my mother tipping dirty plates into the washing bowl, my father sitting at the kitchen table beside Lizzie, and Peggy curled up by the fire. I stared with longing at the scene for a long while then returned the telescope to the nightstand and picked up the handkerchief Bridget had given to me. It still smelt of home. These objects were the closest I would ever get to it now- or to my family.

  I lay still and stared up at the ceiling, trying to hold on to the image I had seen in the telesco
pe n my mind. Soon afterwards I was asleep. Then I dreamed the same dream that haunted me night after night. I dreamed of my mother, father and Lizzie. They stood on the doorstep of our cottage far away in Osmington Mills and called to me as I made my way up the lane. I reached the gate and started up the garden path towards them. As I drew closer I saw that blood poured from bullet wounds to their bodies and pooled at their feet, and one by one their faces were replaced with that of Emerson Prye.

  I woke with a jolt. The frequency of the dream’s occurrence hadn’t diminished its terror. My nightshirt and brow were soaked in sweat, and the left side of my face, where it was branded with Devere’s shadow, smarted like scalded flesh.

  I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. With shaky steps I made my way to the wash basin and plunged my face into the bowl of water. Moonlight peeped through the grille below the ceiling and cast a bright stripe of light across the looking glass on the wall. I moved closer and looked at my reflection for the first time in many months. The mark extended down my forehead and over my eye, tapering to an end just above my jaw. Perhaps it was only the dim light, but it looked darker than I remembered.

  I looked away and shuffled back to bed, but outside the door whispered voices were talking in the passageway. They sounded like they belonged to George and Eliza’s father, Mr Ellery. It was past midnight and the whole Gatehouse had long since gone to bed. Puzzled, I opened the door a crack to see what was wrong.

  ‘She has a fever. I’m not sure she will be well enough to travel…Ah, Tom. Have we woken you?’ said Mr Ellery, catching sight of me peeping round the door.

  ‘No, I was awake anyway. What’s wrong? Is it Eliza?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid she is sick and is unlikely to be fit to travel,’ replied George. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I know you were eager to experience your first tournament together.’

  ‘I won’t go without Eliza,’ I replied firmly.