“Not long after Uhtric sheathed the sword in stone.”
“So the guy today could just be someone who had the good fortune to find one of their blades?”
“Only Blackbirds can control the blades—if he had one, then he is of that line.”
“Huh.” I leaned back in the chair and finished the last bit of my butty. “Why would he come to my rescue?”
“Anyone with any drop of decency would have done the same.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain of that.” Not in this day and age.
“So young, and yet so cynical.”
I smiled. “With some reason.”
“Perhaps.” She took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I think we need to talk to our Blackbird and uncover why they’ve suddenly become active.”
“And how are we going to do that when the man can manipulate light and disappear at will?”
“I dare say he’ll find us. In the meantime, we should head over to the King’s Tower after breakfast.”
The King’s Tower was the only intact remnant of Uhtric’s castle and, these days, was little more than a tourist attraction and museum.
“Aside from the fact it’s closed—”
“Since when has a damn padlock ever stopped me getting into a place?”
“Well, never, but there’s also the cameras and alarms to deal with.”
She waved a hand. “Only on the upper levels. The vaults aren’t monitored.”
“Which doesn’t help when you get to said vaults via the alarmed ground floor.”
“Actually, no, you don’t. Like any wise king, Uhtric had escape tunnels.”
“If you know about them, the heritage council surely does.”
“If there were any witches on it, they might. But that’s never been the case, and for this very reason.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying some ancient Chen witch figured out we’d need access into the place so we could trace a warrior long thought dead, and set about disguising the tunnel?”
She tsked and slapped my right arm. “No, idiot. And it wasn’t the Chens who hid the tunnel—it was the Lancasters.”
Meaning the protections were based on personal rather than earth magic. “Then how are you getting through them? Or are you going to call in Barney to help?”
Barney Lancaster was the latest in a long line of lovers and, at fifty-five, was probably one of her oldest. I really wished I had half her luck when it came to attracting the opposite sex.
“I don’t need the help of any damn man, young lady, and you well know that.”
It was snootily said and made me grin. “Yes, but if it’s Lancaster magic—”
“It won’t make a jot of difference. I’ve been getting in and out of the place for years undetected.”
“How, when personal magic is supposedly not our thing?”
She waved the point away. “Ask no questions, be told no lies.”
I rolled my eyes and picked up my tea to wash down the last bit of toast. “So, why do we need to go to the vaults?”
“Because they’re one of five repositories of witch history. The disguised tunnel allows us to come and go at will.”
“I take it, then, that the repository portion of the vaults isn’t accessible to the heritage council or those who run the museum?”
“Of course not. They use it as a storeroom and regularly swap out pieces. Uhtric’s throne is currently on display in the old hall, so we will have to go back when the museum is open to check that out.”
I made myself another butty. “And why would we need to do that? I’ve seen the throne—there’s really nothing remarkable about it.”
In fact, Uhtric’s throne was the total opposite of his sword—basic and plain, except for the slight embellishment of gold adorning the roses lining the throne’s crest rail.
“Be that as it may,” Mo said. “I think it might still be useful.”
I didn’t bother asking why, because she wouldn’t damn well tell me. She had that “don’t bother me with inane questions” look in her eyes—which generally meant she was running on a gut feeling rather than any logical reasoning.
“Where’s the entrance to the tunnel?”
“At St. Mary’s Abbey.”
Which was just outside the old wall, between the river and the Hanging Gate precinct. “They’re ruins.”
“Well, they are now, but they weren’t back then. The tunnel entrance is hidden within one of the remaining wall sections.”
And had no doubt been protected magically, which was probably why it still stood after the vast majority of the structure had been destroyed during Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries.
I glanced at my watch; it was just past eight o’clock. “What time do you want to head over?”
“I’ll finish my tea and then we’ll go. Given the early hour and the fact it’s New Year’s Day, there aren’t going to be many out on the street as yet.”
And those that were probably weren’t going to be paying attention to what was happening at the ruins of an old abbey. I drained my cup and rose. “We driving or flying?”
She hesitated. “Flying would probably be quicker.”
I nodded and headed upstairs to get ready. After doing my teeth, I changed into warmer clothing, grabbed a small flashlight, and then walked into Max’s room to open his window. For someone who was generally a neat freak, his room was a goddamn mess. Drawers were open and clothes were everywhere. It almost looked as if someone had searched it—but that was impossible given the protections placed around this building. Besides, why on earth would anyone want to search my brother’s room?
Mo fluttered in, her brown plumage streaked with gold in the light filtering in through the open window. She squawked loudly—no doubt a demand I immediately follow—and then flew out.
I smiled and reached for the inner magic that allowed me to shift. It flared immediately, a thick wave of heat that rolled through muscle, sinew, and bone, altering and miniaturizing all that I was in human form and shifting it across to my bird persona. Thankfully, the magic that allowed us to shift also took care of whatever we were wearing, though it couldn’t alter silver-based jewelry or weapons such as my daggers. I could carry them, even though they were a damn heavy burden for a blackbird, but I didn’t really think I’d need them today.
And crossed mental fingers that I hadn’t just tempted fate.
The rush of power reached its peak and there was a moment of nothingness—a moment where I was neither human nor blackbird, but held in unfeeling suspension somewhere between the two—and then I was winged, and the freedom and the glory of the skies was mine.
I flew out of the window and soared upward, following the brown speck that was Mo. It didn’t take us long to get to the Museum Gardens, where the abbey’s ruins were. Though some fog still blanketed the area, it was nowhere near as thick as it had been on the island, and even from up high, visibility was reasonable. There were a few people on Dame’s Walk—the promenade that followed the banks of the Ainslyn River from the old port to the new—but the only thing to be seen in the gardens was the rubbish people had left behind after last night’s celebrations.