The Lost Heir (The Gryphon Chronicles, Book 1) (14 page)

Halfway up the walls’ height, a narrow walkway, or gallery, wrapped all the way around the room so you could reach the higher bookshelves. The only way up to the gallery was by climbing the spindly set of spiral steps in the corner. Jake was intrigued, but expecting Derek at any minute, he stayed on the ground.

Then he noticed that the wooden base of the walkway formed a kind of frieze carved with golden letters. Some kind of Latin inscription: Perstamus Amicitiis Defendere.

He had no idea what it meant.

Looking around the rest of the room, Jake thought the furniture looked inviting: luxurious brown leather club chairs and couches. Off to the side stood a heavy desk with an assortment of quill pens and inkpots. Deep-red velvet curtains shrouded window seats.

Over the big, elaborate fireplace hung a large portrait of Queen Elizabeth in her silver armor, staring down from the mantel in regal pride, while the famous storm wrecked the Spanish Armada in the background of the painting.

Even Jake knew that much about English history. Still, the famous Queen’s haughty, royal gaze made him feel like he should be on his best behavior.

The library was very quiet and kind of spooky in the dim glow of a few oil lamps burning here and there, especially with all the bronze heads looking down on him from atop the shelves. He could just make out their name plaques as he wandered alongside the shelves: Shakespeare, Marlowe, Spenser. John Dowland, the musician. Explorers, too. Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Drake.

John Dee?
he wondered, studying the bronze head of an old man with a rather sneaky smile.
Never heard of that one.
He stood on his toes and squinted to read the second line.
Court astrologer to Queen Elizabeth
. Astrologer? What, he told Good Queen Bess her horoscope?

Jake snorted. He moved on, exploring; he stole a peek through a pair of French doors on the back wall and saw a back terrace overlooking the river.

Next, he admired a beautiful scrolled harp set on a small table a few feet ahead of him. There must’ve been a draft in the room that invisibly stirred the air, for the harp released a soft chord of music before he touched it. When he ran his fingers over its strings, it let out a discordant jangle, as though it were insulted that he had dared. He pulled his hand away, stared at the instrument in curiosity, then walked on.

Another oddment awaited him on the long narrow table that backed the main leather couch, a little bonsai tree.

He had seen one before when all the orphanage kids had been treated to a charity tour of the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew, with its indoor jungle inside the great, steamy glasshouse. This bonsai, if Jake was not mistaken, was a tiny, dwarf yew tree. You couldn’t mistake a yew tree because of their particular way of growing.

The evergreens did not get terribly tall, but rather, they grew wide. As they spread out, any new shoot that touched the ground from the base of the trunk could take root, so the tree was always making itself new again. For that reason, yews could live to be two-thousand, even up to nine-thousand years old, practically immortal.

One part might die, but there were always new parts taking root; and so, as a symbol of eternal life, they were often planted next to graveyards. The trunks of the really old ones grew so fat that sometimes they were hollowed out and little chapels built inside of them.

Yew trees were also dear to all English hearts because, for centuries, the people of the British Isles had made their fine old longbows out of yew wood to defend their homes and ward off invaders.

Jake studied the little bonsai for another moment, then straightened up and glanced around, still waiting for Derek.
What’s that?
He furrowed his brow as another strange item caught his eye.

Across the room, a globe on a waist-high stand was dotted with tiny glowing lights, a web of straight lines made of pure light connecting them.

A few of the pinpoint lights here and there were blinking red or green, but all the rest were whitish-yellow. Jake approached the illuminated globe, utterly mystified. For starters, he couldn’t figure out the light source. There was no candle burning inside of it to explain why it glowed. Second, the glowing dots could not have simply represented cities, because a few were placed in the middle of oceans.

As he bent, staring at it, he suddenly got the sensation of someone, or something, watching him. Slowly looking over his shoulder, he saw…a tiger.

Or rather, a tiger-skin rug spread out before the fireplace. Some rich adventurer’s hunting trophy, he thought. Rich blokes would go to the other side of the world to shoot an elephant, a lion, a giraffe—poor animals minding their own business. Maybe the owner of this house had gone on a safari. But Jake could have sworn the thing was staring at him.

Its golden-green eyes looked much too life-like, to say nothing of its great white fangs. He could have sworn he’d heard the flattened tiger growl.

He forgot about the globe and turned around, eyeing it nervously. Beginning to wonder what the deuce was keeping Derek, he glanced up at the golden Latin words again, carved along the bottom of the high, floating walkway.

“I wonder what that says,” he mumbled to himself.

As soon as he spoke, he heard a series of odd little beeps and clicks nearby. He glanced toward the stately desk as a flicker of motion caught his eye.
What the—?

A furry little caterpillar came scurrying out of a small box on the desk, waving its antennae as it ran across an open inkpad and got ink on all its numerous feet.

To his amazement, the caterpillar then raced onto the top sheet of a small notebook on the desk and began running back and forth across the page. But not all of the caterpillar’s many inky feet touched the paper with every pass the creature made back and forth. It seemed to be spelling out some sort of pattern.

Jake leaned closer in growing incredulity as words began to appear on the page. After one more pass, the caterpillar stopped, its task complete.

Marveling, Jake picked up the one-line message and read it. He glanced up at the Latin motto around the room, then looked at the insect in astonishment. “Is that what this says?”

The caterpillar reared up on its hind legs and nodded its forward parts up and down.

“You speak Latin? What are you, a bookworm?”

The caterpillar shook its head no, then jumped back on the inkpad and scurried across the page to sign its name.

Inkbug.

“Whoa,” Jake breathed. “Pleased to meet you.”

The inkbug wiggled its antennae at him, then glided back into its box, its job done.

“What a strange place.” Still mystified, Jake looked down at the message, then read the translation aloud:
“Perstamus amicitiis defendere.
Together we stand in friendship to defend.”

Pandemonium broke out in the library the second the words left his lips. The harp trilled. The tiger roared. Lightning crackled and thunder rumbled and a gust of chilly salt air blasted into the library from the stormy background of the Queen Elizabeth painting, which came to life. The inkbug’s papers blew in the sudden indoor storm.

Squinting against the pelting rain, Jake ran toward the painting for a closer look, careful not to step on the tiger rug, which was still flat but growling and had unsheathed its claws.

The Spanish galleons in the background of the painting were pitching and rolling, fighting to stay afloat. He could hear the sea roar and the doomed men aboard the vessels screaming; he could feel the spray on his face, could hear the masts splintering in the gale.

In the foreground, Good Queen Bess was perfectly still, rather gloating, her victory assured.

But in the background, a tiny figure strode into view. The man in the background of the painting marched out to stand on the edge of a cliff overlooking the invading Spanish fleet. Then he held out his hands toward the storm.

Above the clash of wind and storm that filled the library, Jake could just barely hear a deep male voice shouting out some furious chant. As the words were flung out into the Channel, the largest of the Spanish ships was swallowed by the waves—

And it all stopped abruptly when Derek stepped into the room.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Secrets of the Past

Jake whirled around to face him. “What is this place?” he cried, his heart pounding.

“Beacon House?” Derek smiled in casual amusement as he shut the door behind him and strolled in. “Why, it is the London headquarters of the Ancient Order of the Yew Tree. But I thought we were going to talk about your parents.”

Jake stared at him, still speechless.

“Of course, it’s hard to talk about one without mentioning the other,” Derek continued. “Your parents were indispensable to the Order, and for Jacob and Elizabeth, their secret work with us was one of the passions of their lives.”

“Jacob and Elizabeth?” he echoed faintly. Those were the names the ghost of Sir George had mentioned to him in Newgate Prison.

“That’s right, lad. Your parents.” Derek laid a hand on his shoulder. “Two of my dearest friends. Jacob and Elizabeth Everton, the Earl and Countess of Griffon.”

Jake sat down abruptly. He could barely find his voice. “My parents—were aristocrats?”

“Indeed. And you were their only child. Now that you’ve been found, well, legally, the title and all that goes with it now belongs to you, not your uncle.” Derek eyed him hesitantly. “Waldrick is your father’s younger brother. When you disappeared and the world thought you were dead, he inherited everything. But now that we’ve found you alive, you see, it’s rightfully yours—the title, the houses, the goldmine.”

“Goldmine?” he choked out.

“And the responsibility that goes with it,” Derek cautioned with a pointed look. He crossed to a cabinet by the wall, uncapped a crystal decanter, and poured himself a drink of something strong. “Well, don’t look so surprised. Your family title, Griffon, is named after the gryphon, a beast that is said to be capable of locating veins of gold in the earth. For centuries, the Griffon lords have owned a goldmine in Wales that their gryphon originally showed them. So the legend goes. Of course, I’ve never seen a gryphon at your goldmine, but the dwarves who work there are all extremely capable.”

“Dwarves?” Jake squeaked, his voice breaking in his shock.

Derek put the cap back on the decanter. “They’ll be eager to meet you, as their new employer.”

“A goldmine,” he echoed in a daze.
So that’s why my uncle tried to kill me.
“Derek?” he asked after a long pause, still unsure if he quite dared to believe this. “Are you very sure you haven’t got the wrong Jake?”

He smiled. “I’ve seen what you can do. There aren’t any other Jakes out there who’ve somehow inherited both your parents’ powers. You’re their son, all right. The proof is in the pudding, my young friend.”

Jake leaned forward in his seat, his heart beating faster. “They had powers, too?”

“Your mother was the one who could communicate with the spirit world. The dead always knew they could rely on her. But in truth, Lady Griffon was an excellent diplomat for the living, as well. She represented the Crown in dealing with all sorts of magical beings, not just ghosts. She had a way with people, you see, both human and magical. She was very kind and good-natured. She even managed to tame your dad.”

“What about him?” Jake breathed.

“You get your telekinesis from him. That sort of thing has long run in your lineage on his side, from what I’m told. Brave man. Very smart. A little cocky. But they made a splendid team, the two of them, both in the human world, as one of high society’s golden couples, and in their secret missions for the Order.”

“The Order,” Jake echoed in awe. “What’s that, then?” It sounded important.

“The Most Ancient Noble Order of the Yew Tree, founded 1596 under the reign of Queen Elizabeth.” Derek nodded toward the painting. “It’s an alliance of humans and magical folk, dedicated to keeping the peace between our two worlds. We protect the balance.”

Jake held him in a blank stare, astonished.

Derek sat down nearby, studying him. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning.”

Jake nodded vigorously.

“Very well. The founding of the Order came about as a result of a terrible time in our country’s history, Jake. I don’t know how much you’ve learned about that, but before the reign of Queen Elizabeth, Catholics and Protestants were burning each other at the stake—and both sides ganging up on those of us with, er, unusual abilities. They were particularly hard on witches, good and bad alike. It didn’t matter. They were out to burn them all. Most people believed that all magic folk were evil—until the great wizard, Christopher Marlowe, proved them wrong.” Derek snorted. “And they thought he was just a playwright. Words are magical, all right… Anyway, England was on high alert, knowing the mighty Spanish Armada was sailing toward us, ready to invade. Marlowe went out and used a speaking spell to summon up that storm in the Channel, and the Armada was destroyed. Just like you see in the painting.”

“Christopher Marlowe did that? You’re barmy! That’s impossible.”

“Really? You should hear what his colleague, Mr. Shakespeare, was capable of conjuring with his pen.”

“Oh, come on!”

Derek grinned. “The Marlowe part is true. He was one of our agents. Unfortunately, he wound up murdered, but he conjured that storm. What, did you think it just coincidentally came out of nowhere, like the history books would have you believe?” Derek sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s better if the rest of the world believes that. Only a few people, then or now, knew the truth about that storm. One of them was Queen Elizabeth. Finally, we had a monarch who got the point—that magical folk could be as loyal subjects as any Englishman, and that certainly, it was better to have us with her than against her.

“So Her Majesty put a stop to the persecution of Magic-kind and founded the Order of the Yew Tree, and we’ve been working together in secret ever since. They named it after the yew tree,” he added, “because it’s always been a sacred symbol of protection. For humans, it provided English longbows, and for wizards, it provides the choicest wands.”