Trial of Magic

by K. M. Shea

  Angelique reluctantly sat down next to him on the settee.

  Clovicus patted the top of her head like one might do to a small child. “There, there,” he awkwardly said.

  Angelique blinked, feeling not at all comforted, but—for the first time in a very long time—perhaps a little amused. “You’re quite bad at this.”

  “Please submit a written report telling the Council you think so. Maybe then they’ll finally stop foisting brats upon me,” Clovicus said. “And stop criticizing. I’m doing this in Evariste’s place as a favor to him.”

  “Evariste wouldn’t pat my head,” Angelique said.

  Clovicus eyed her. “Oh?”

  Angelique peered up at the ceiling as she rummaged through her memory. “No, he’d probably hug me.”

  Clovicus slightly shook his head. “That’s because he’s a young fool who doesn’t control himself very well.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As you shouldn’t,” Clovicus said, confusing her more.

  He patted her head a few more times, and Angelique minutely relaxed. “Lord Enchanter…do you think we’ll ever find him?”

  Clovicus paused. “Carabosso?”

  “No. Evariste.”

  “Ah.” Clovicus dropped his hand and leaned back in the settee. “Officially speaking, yes.”

  “And unofficially speaking?”

  Clovicus waited until she met his gaze before he answered. “Absolutely,” he said. “Unfortunately, I think it’s going to take a full-on war with the Chosen before we can locate him.”

  “But you think he’s still alive?”

  “Yes. As long as those black mages keep using teleportation magic, I can guarantee it.”

  Angelique exhaled and nodded. “Then I’ll just have to keep looking.”

  “What will you do next?”

  “Odette is due to make a shipment to the elves in a few weeks. I planned to join her in hopes that I can speak to King Themerysaldi and see what can be done to free the elves of their curse.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  Angelique was fairly certain that Prince Severin and Princess Elle of Loire could use her help. The alliance could use all the help it could get, after all.

  But she was so tired.

  Angelique couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept in her room for more than a handful of nights in a row. “I’ll use Evariste’s window to Farset to see if I can make any progress by myself, but I intend to spend my nights here,” she decided.

  Clovicus nodded. “I think that’s a wise choice.” His eyes flicked to the front window. “If you need anything, send word. But unfortunately, I think it’s time the guppy and I leave. Wallace will soon be sniffing around the school for us if I stay much longer.”

  When they made their way to the front entrance and opened the door, Clovicus’ student was sitting on the ground, trying to pull porcupine quills out of his hand as one of the ducks nested in the extra fabric of his robe.

  He looked up at Angelique and Clovicus and sheepishly grinned. “Hello.”

  Clovicus stared down at the young man. “I hope you learned something out of this?”

  “I’d like to learn how to get porcupine quills out of my hand.”

  “The tips of the quills are barbed,” Angelique said. “So you have to twist and pull them out.”

  He peered down at his hand. “Really? No wonder it hurt.” He pinched a quill between his fingers, but when Clovicus made a “hmn” noise at the back of his throat, he let it go and guiltily looked up at the Lord Enchanter.

  “I’ll treat your hand with healing magic—I don’t want anyone asking how you happened to get stabbed with porcupine quills during a mentoring session with me. I’m known to be fierce, but I don’t exactly have a past of conjuring up disgruntled and quilled rodents, so I’d rather not invite questions.” Clovicus wriggled his fingers. “Leave your duck friend behind and come here.”

  The duck quacked when the student cautiously tugged his robe out from underneath it, but it let him trot up to Clovicus without threatening to peck him.

  Angelique watched the Lord Enchanter twist his magic—which in color sat somewhere between a mellow brown and a glossy orange, giving it a coppery hue—into a healing spell and slather it over the student’s hands.

  “That feels much better.” The student’s shoulders relaxed, and he grinned widely. “Thanks, Master Clovicus!”

  “Refer to me as ‘master’ one more time, and a porcupine will be the least of your worries.” Though he spoke in a snarl, Clovicus motions were gentle as he pulled the quills out and his magic healed the puckered, torn skin.

  They followed Angelique up the stairs and into Evariste’s bedroom, where the ornate gold frame with the symbolic script etched into its surface was set up, keeping the portal open into Evariste’s office.

  “Hopefully it’s easier this time.” The student eyed the gate without his usual brightness. “That kinda hurt getting yanked through.”

  “That was odd,” Clovicus agreed. “But we have to go back, so in you go.”

  “Yes, sir! Goodbye, Lady Enchantress!” The student waved, then walked into the portal, Evariste’s blue magic covering him.

  The gate rippled, and the magic swirled like thick molasses. It took longer than it should have for the magic to release him on the other side, allowing him to step out into Evariste’s office.

  Angelique frowned, but Clovicus didn’t seem to notice. He turned around to face her and set a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ll send you updates,” he said. “But I expect you’ll have news to share before I do.”

  I hope not.

  Angelique considered trying to force a smile, but she was exhausted and fed up with the endless fake smiles, so she settled for nodding.

  Clovicus squeezed her shoulder and stepped into the portal.

  Again, it took much longer than it should have for him to pop out on the other side, and the image of Evariste’s office blurred and twitched, as if the magic couldn’t focus in on it.

  Angelique frowned and set her hand on one of the gold columns that made up the gate. In addition to the murky magic, the gold of the gate seemed tarnished, and it was flaking off in a spot or two.

  It seems like it’s malfunctioning. But if I recall correctly, the only thing that could make a portal dismantle without Evariste’s bidding is if he were to die…

  Angelique’s breath caught in her throat.

  She bolted from his bedroom and raced down the stairs, bursting into the sunny front parlor.

  The window into Baris and the window into Farset were still there. Neither of the window-gates’ surfaces stirred or looked irregular.

  Not quite satisfied, Angelique threw herself on the settee positioned directly under the windows and carefully inspected the frames.

  They were pristine in their perfection: solid, clean, and untarnished.

  Angelique’s heart stuttered in relief, and she let herself flop face-first onto the cushions. “He’s still alive. Thank goodness.”

  She took a few deep breaths, then abruptly snapped upright again.

  “But if these gates are fine, why is the gate to the Veneno Conclave acting up? It’s not like the magic in the gates ever goes bad or ages beyond use…”

  Angelique pursed her lips as she peered up at the ceiling.

  Something isn’t right about this. But I can’t quite say what it is…

  After poking around the house and checking on Evariste’s other portals and gates, Angelique came to the conclusion that the portal to his office was the only one suffering.

  But even though she pondered it for the hours she spent traipsing the borders of Alabaster Forest—still shouting for the absentee elves—she couldn’t come up with any reasonable explanation and concluded it must be something unique to portal magic, in which case she’d have to wait for Evariste to be freed to get a proper conclusion.

  The forest grew colder, and as the sun sank in th
e sky, what little light that managed to push down through the trees was pale and anemic.

  Angelique stared at the quiet, peaceful trees of the elven side of the forest. “Maybe I should sit here until nightfall?”

  Her stomach—rebelling against the idea—growled with such strength she felt it in the back of her throat.

  I guess that answers that.

  Angelique turned her back to the woods and started marching in the direction of the tree trunk that contained the gate home.

  She’d marked the tree that morning with a bit of her magic so it would be easier to find. Although she had trouble sensing others magic, hers was always a silvery, sharp sensation she could find with her eyes closed, so even though she’d rambled through the woods all day, it only took half an hour to make her way to the tree.

  She set her hand on the trunk and was just about to remove her magical mark—no sense leaving it up for others to find overnight—when a high-pitched scream tore the quiet of the trees.

  Angelique abandoned the tree and ran in the direction of the scream, barreling through underbrush as her charmed dress shielded her legs and torso. She yanked on her magic and started twisting it first into one spell, followed in short succession by another.

  After finishing both spells, Angelique veered to a stop. She held her breath as she tried to listen for more screams.

  A man shouted, but he was almost inaudible over the familiar sound of goblins cackling.

  Angelique yanked at the seams of one of her spells and started adjusting it to account for more targets—goblins always traveled and attacked in groups—and sprinted as best as she could through the shadowy woods.

  She ducked a branch and jumped a fallen log as the snorting giggles grew louder. She careened around a tree and almost trampled a goblin, skidding to a stop at the last second.

  About twelve goblins had a man and two children—a boy and a girl—surrounded.

  The forest goblins—based on the green hue of their skin—wielded rudimentary spears and swords and closed ranks around the villagers.

  The man tried to pull the children behind him, but a red stain of blood blotted his linen shirt at the shoulder, and he had a nasty gash on top of his hand that dripped blood down his fingers.

  The boy was white-faced with fright, and the little girl screamed, her face tear spattered and splotchy red.

  One of the goblins took a swipe at them, and the mage inside Angelique raged.

  Mages were supposed to protect the weak and the innocent. How could the Conclave be so unresponsive when Farset was this infected with creatures?

  Angelique narrowed her eyes and unleashed her first spell, whispering to the magic as it whirled around her.

  Roots shot out of the ground, snagging the goblins by their ankles, and tendrils of ivy and vines slithered off trees and latched onto their wrists.

  The creatures gurgled in surprise and struggled, trying to hack at the entangling greenery, but the roots and vines spun around them like a spider cocooning trapped flies.

  Angelique balanced the second spell in the palm of her hand. It floated like a silver flame, deceitfully small and benign. She waited until the roots had the goblins completely entangled with their arms flattened to their sides and their legs pressed together, then loosened it.

  The surrounding trees groaned and creaked ominously. Angelique’s magic ripped them out of the ground, toppling them in a carefully calculated pattern that crushed the goblins, but didn’t harm the injured villager and his children.

  The goblins squealed, but their screams were cut off when they died, pinned down by the large trees.

  A few moments passed, and the only noise was the choked sobs of the little girl.

  Angelique relaxed and suppressed her magic, then focused on the victims. “Hello? Don’t be afraid.”

  Trunks and logs littered around the villagers, but she could still see them as she hopped on top of one of the trunks and picked her way closer to them. “I’m an enchantress-in-training. Are you injured?”

  “We’re okay.”

  Angelique veered around a branch that poked up from the trunk just in time to see the man lift up the boy and put him on a trunk. He did the same to the little girl, too, then scooped up a dark green cloak.

  He appeared to be roughly thirty, and going by the lack of travel packs, he must be from a nearby village—his shirt was a simple weave, but his cloak had some embroidery of little white sheep around the throat.

  The children were dressed in similar sturdy but warm and well-made clothes.

  “Thank you for your help.” He smoothed the little girl’s hair—she was still crying, but in startled little gasps. “I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t arrived, mage…” He finally shifted his gaze to Angelique, and his words seemed to die in his throat.

  The children had no such reactions.

  When Angelique extended her hand, the little boy latched on. She smiled at him and gently squeezed his hand, but she could feel the way his fingers shook in hers as she helped him through the jumble of trees.

  Once he hopped onto the ground, Angelique came back for the little girl since the villager was still occupied with gaping at her.

  The gaping wasn’t unusual—mages were relatively rare, and enchantresses, even ones in training, were even more so. But the way he studied her held more scrutiny than usual, as well as a good dose of shock. (Maybe he was light-headed from his shoulder injury?)

  She scooped up the little girl and made a soothing noise as she picked her way across the trunk and set her down next to the little boy on the ground.

  Angelique turned back, wondering if she’d have to fish the villager out of the fallen trees as well, but she heard a scuffle behind her as he dismounted a flattened log. “Lady Enchantress Angelique?” he asked.

  She paused, surprised he knew her. “…yes?” Her eyes dropped to his shoulder—he had put on the cloak so she couldn’t see how much blood he was leaking, but she should patch him up before sending him out.

  The man laughed and a generous smile relaxed his pleasant face. “Thank you for saving me again—and for saving my children.” He bowed deeply, then picked up his little girl, a friendliness Angelique wasn’t used to seeping into his posture.

  She watched him as he took the boy’s hand. “You’re welcome. It’s my honor to help. But…again?”

  “Oh.” The man shook his head. “Of course you wouldn’t recognize me—I was a child when we met!” His smile returned, this time with an edge of sass evident in its slight crookedness. “I’m Wybert, from the village of Boyne.”

  It took a few moments for the man’s name and village to sink into her mind before she finally recalled meeting him. “Wybert? Is it really you?” Her voice went high pitched with her surprise.

  Her first assignment as an enchantress-in-training had been to offer guidance to a shepherd boy who had a penchant for lying and calling out that wolves were attacking the flock just so he could laugh at the villagers when they came to fight the nonexistent wolf.

  Angelique had…helped him to see the truth—or more correctly, she had traumatized him onto the path of righteousness by setting four illusionary wolves on him while his village ignored his terrified shouts.

  It had been a long time ago, but Angelique hadn’t realized just how long ago it was. I don’t believe it. Bratty Wybert is grown up with children of his own?

  Wybert laughed at her shock. “It has been many years, Lady Enchantress Angelique. You look just as beautiful as I remember.”

  “You’ve…grown…taller,” Angelique tactfully said.

  Internally, she still scrambled for equilibrium as she studied his face. He was nearly unrecognizable as an adult, to the point where she wondered if someone was funning her. But as she tried to calculate the years, she realized it had been nearly twenty years since she met Wybert. The thought was staggering—it seemed like only months ago she and Evariste had been laughing in Wistful Thicket.

&nbs
p; She knew as an enchantress she’d have a lifespan closer to an elf, and even regular mages tended to age slower, but Angelique’s appearance was that of an eighteen-year-old—perhaps twenty on the right day—while Wybert had grown, filled out, and had the beginnings of wrinkles around the corners of his eyes.

  “Indeed!” Wybert winked, showing the glints of boyish impishness he had evidently retained even as an adult. “I never got the chance to thank you for your guidance when I needed it.”

  “Yes, guidance.” Angelique wished the ground would swallow her up—she’d terrified the snot out of little Wybert because he’d been so naughty, but looking at him as an adult, she had to wonder if she’d perhaps been a little too vindictive. “I hope I didn’t scar you for life.”

  “Not at all. You proved your point and taught me an important lesson. I’ve told my own children the story at least a hundred times, haven’t I?” He smiled down at his son—who was slowly starting to relax—then jiggled his daughter in his arms, wincing when his shoulders moved.

  “Ahh yes—I saw you were injured. If you’d remove your cloak, I can see to it,” Angelique asked. “I have some healing spells at my disposal.”

  Wybert set the little girl down and shrugged off his sheep-embroidered cloak. “I see to all the village’s domesticated animals, now,” he grinned when he saw Angelique’s eyes lingering on the embroidery. “But my friends and family do persist in giving me sheep-themed gifts.”

  A crooked grin settled on Angelique’s lips before she swapped it for a more appropriate smile as she benevolently nodded to the children when they kept staring at her.

  She didn’t care too much about her reputation anymore, but for the sake of the younglings, she’d play the part of the Lady Enchantress she was supposed to be—if she hadn’t had such a cynical and sarcastic streak to her personality.

  “That is quite amusing,” she said. “Now sit down on a trunk, and let’s take a look at your shoulder.”

  Wybert gamely plopped down on a fallen tree trunk, and Angelique twisted her silvery magic into a healing spell as she studied the red stain on his shirt. “It doesn’t appear to be bleeding too badly.”