by C. L. Polk
“Then we’ll do that now,” Father said. “There’s no other choice.”
“It’s too late, Father. I am a mage. I will conduct my life in the open instead of cringing in the shadows. As for Harriet, it may be best for her to travel abroad and board at a college.”
“Any college she chooses,” Ianthe Lavan said.
“She will have the best,” Ysbeta said. “She may attend my college. She will go to Highpath Women’s University. I will sponsor her myself.”
“Then that’s settled,” Ianthe said. “I can include it in the marriage contract.”
“If she’s done what you claim, that’s impossible.” Mr. Lavan’s mouth stretched into a sad line. “You can’t marry, son. Not her. She can’t be your wife.”
“She can,” Ysbeta said. “Hilviathras knows of a way for a sorceress to safely carry a child without a warding collar—and Hilviathras informs me that the knowledge is very old. There’s nothing stopping them.”
“No one in Chasland will marry them,” Father said, his face going red.
Mr. Lavan raised his hand. “That’s not a problem for them, Henry. My willful but clever daughter is the captain of record of the Pelican. All they need to do is sail three miles beyond Chasland’s shore, and she has the power to legally bind them.”
“But I hold the contract to Beatrice! I oppose it, and claim the rights of my contract,” Danton declared. “Move that ship an inch and I will sue.”
“I am not yours,” Beatrice shouted. Nadidamarus rose silently out of her body, spreading itself to its fullest size. Danton’s face went white. Mr. Lavan’s mouth hung open. Father couldn’t see what she was doing and continued to glower at her. “I will never be yours, Danton Maisonette. I am a master of fortune, and I can make your future a curse from which you will beg to be freed. You cannot own me, or any other woman. We are not objects to be locked up and used. Now get off this dock, and never bother me again.”
The terror on Danton Maisonette’s face deepened. “I withdraw my claim. She’s your problem, Clayborn. I am done with her.” The words were bold, but his voice quavered. Danton spun on the heel of his boot and hurried away without looking back.
Mr. Lavan gazed upward in thought. Father watched Danton leave, and then turned back to Beatrice. “It seems you three have an answer to everything. Mr. Maisonette has withdrawn. You will shield Harriet by removing her to an expensive school. What else do you demand?”
“I do not demand, Father. I ask—” Beatrice’s breath hitched. “We’re sailing out in the morning. Will you fetch Mother and Harriet, and bring them back here so they can see me married?”
“You—” Father stopped speaking. “You can’t expect—”
“They’ve outfoxed us, Henry. My daughter will not leave that ship until she’s miles from here. I know her too well.”
“I’m sorry, Father. But this is what I want.” Ysbeta joined Beatrice’s side. “I’m going to travel the world. I’m going to write my books. I will never marry, Father. I don’t want to. Mother, please understand.”
“Don’t you see what you’re doing to this family’s future, Ysbeta?” Mrs. Lavan asked. “I have done so much to make Lavan International the greatest firm in the world.”
“But if I did what you wanted, I would be miserable. It would break me,” Ysbeta said. “I know what I want, Mother. And it’s this. I want to explore the world. I want to discover knowledge. I want to write books and preserve the magic that is disappearing under the chapterhouse system. I’m sorry it’s not what you want for me, but I won’t be a sacrifice to your ambitions.”
“I don’t accept this,” Mrs. Lavan said. “What you’ve done—”
“You would applaud it if it were another woman,” Ysbeta said. “You would call it ambitious, and bold, and brave. Why can’t that woman be me?”
Mrs. Lavan went quiet. She gazed at her daughter and softly shook her head. “I can’t deny that. But what you want is dangerous.”
“I’ll have my crew,” Ysbeta said. “I’ll hire assistants and guards. And I will come home every year, if you want me to.”
Mrs. Lavan glanced at her husband. “You indulged her. Both of them.”
“Did I? I think we did right by them,” Mr. Lavan said. “We raised both our children to be independent, to know their own minds. I won’t complain that I taught them too well. Permission to come aboard, Captain? I hear my son’s getting married.”
Ysbeta let out a relieved sigh. “Permission granted, Father. Mother?”
Mrs. Lavan eyed Beatrice. “Well, then. Are you ready to learn how to be the wife my son needs?”
Beatrice’s heart beat fast. She tried to smile, but gave it up. “I’m afraid we have something we have to do first.”
“And what is that?”
“We have to find the secret to protect our children,” Beatrice said. “And then we have to tell the world about it.”
Mrs. Lavan mulled that one over. “Why? I want to hear your reasons.”
“Because sorceresses aren’t free,” Beatrice said. “All over the world, sorceresses face the same choice—they can pursue their magic, like the priestesses of Sanchi, or they can have children. How could I possibly learn this secret for myself and then hide it? The world has to know.”
“Hold on,” Mrs. Lavan said. “I grow weary of arguing with you by shouting up to the ship. Permission to come aboard, Ysbeta? I need to make sure your plans are going to work.”
“Mother?”
“If this is what you want, it’s my duty as your mother to help you.”
Ysbeta’s face glowed. Tears sprang from her eyes. “Really?”
“Really. Let me come aboard, little bird. We have a great deal of planning to do.”
“Permission granted,” Ysbeta gasped, and she ran to the deck to hug her mother, her captain’s hat falling to the boards as they squeezed each other.
Father stood next to Mr. Lavan on the deck, his face tight with anxiety.
“Father?” Beatrice asked. “I understand if you can’t, but . . .”
Father stood for a long moment, weighing his decision. Beatrice fought the urge to hold her breath. She kept her mouth shut and didn’t argue, didn’t wheedle, didn’t beg. She was a mage now. Father had the right to decide whether he could accept it.
He raised his head and looked at her. “What will people say?”
“Whatever they please,” Beatrice said. “Are their opinions more powerful than a father’s love for his daughter?”
Father bowed his head. “I wanted you to have more, growing up. I tried to expand our fortunes, but then you were the only hope I had left. I wanted you to have so much more than I was able to give you.”
Mr. Lavan put his hand on Father’s shoulder. “We all want that for our children. But sometimes, what they need isn’t what we imagined for them.”
“You’re going to upset everything, Beatrice. You aim to turn the world upside down.”
“I mean to do exactly that, Father. If that means you can’t accept me as your daughter anymore—”
“No. Don’t say that. Don’t think that.” Father’s shoulders rose—and then he sighed. “We’ll be a perfect scandal, but you’re my daughter. It doesn’t change anything. If I may borrow your barouche, Kalman, I should like to bring my wife and younger daughter to a wedding.”
EPILOGUE
Beatrice stood in the anteroom before the heart of the Great Chapterhouse in Gravesford and ticked off her mental list once more. She knew her speech. She had her pamphlet. Five miles away, the Redjay waited to take her family out onto the bay to meet the treasure ship Triumph of Azjat so they could leave Chasland behind.
Little Unknown Clayborn-Lavan had tired of dancing around inside her, for the moment. Fandariathras coiled protectively around Beatrice’s child, always vigilant. A new passage of her book was floating in her mind, distracting her from listening to the lodgemaster general. She set the thought aside and listened.
“We have verifie
d the child, based on every determination spell we have. The child is fully ensouled. We have the testimony of Master-Mage Ianthe Lavan, who dutifully logged every day of his wife’s pregnancy. We have thoroughly questioned and verified all he told us. They have indeed succeeded in carrying a child from conception to birth inside an unwarded sorceress. The woman is here to speak on the—” He consulted his notes and scowled. “The Clayborn Method of Fetal Protection.”
The lodgemaster general stepped away from the lectern poised at the end of the decagon, and Beatrice sighed. That, apparently, was all the introduction she was going to get.
A man in an olive coat stood up, and heads turned to regard him as he spoke. “That’s ridiculous. We should be hearing from the mage, not his wife. Why isn’t he here to answer our questions?”
“Because he’s watching our daughter,” Beatrice muttered, exasperated.
She bit back the uncharitable thing she was going to say when the room filled with the rustle of velvet coats and the slide of ceremonial swords. All heads turned to stare at her. Beatrice glanced at the ceiling, and quietly complimented the Hadfields on the acoustic skill that went into that dome. She hadn’t known her voice would carry all the way across it.
Well, nothing to be done. She strode out of the shadows and watched her audience gawk at her. She sailed down the aisle, dressed in a deep gray velvet gown that gathered just under her bosom to drape gracefully over the rounded fullness of her belly.
“She’s with child again,” someone muttered. “Skyborn, I can’t believe it.”
She smiled and said, “We’re very happy. I’m eight months along,” just as if he’d meant to say it to her face. She walked the rest of the aisle in silence, chin high, and accepted the lodgemaster general’s hand as she climbed the stairs. She settled herself at the lectern and pulled a pamphlet from the depths of her pocket.
She paused. Not a single one of these men looked at her with interest, curiosity, or respect. She had hoped to see a few people who wanted to know what she and Ianthe had done.
:I can make them spill ink on their clothes,: Nadidamarus said, and Beatrice smiled.
“I’m Beatrice Clayborn-Lavan, the woman who has challenged for the right to be admitted among the membership of the chapterhouse by right of equivalent degree. I have made the Great Bargain with Nadidamarus, Greater Spirit of Fortune.”
She paused as Nadi stretched itself outside the bounds of her body, shaping itself into the approximation of an enormous pair of wings. Shouts went up from the onlookers. They stared in amazement as the dark shimmered form grew in size, displaying the power willingly bound to her soul.
Fandariathras stirred, and Nadidamarus slipped back inside her body, ever watchful.
“But today I am here to speak to you of the Clayborn Method,” Beatrice said. “This simple ritual ensures the protection of the parents’ greater spirits guarding the unborn child growing inside a sorceress without the need for a warding collar, which cruelly bars her from exercising her Skyborn-given, inborn talents. It takes the full attention of those greater spirits watching tirelessly to ensure the protection never falters.”
“But you just displayed your bound spirit,” a man said, rising to address the room. “Isn’t your child now at risk?”
“Not at all,” Beatrice replied. “The bound spirits keeping watch over Little Unknown Clayborn-Lavan must be mine and Ianthe’s, as I said earlier. They protect the child and prevent the other from taking possession of the unborn fetus for themselves.”
She kept silent on the problem that nagged her. There wasn’t time to discover whether the spirits needed to be bound to the magicians involved in conception before this meeting. Ysbeta was still searching; perhaps she would know more when they met later in the year.
The man’s face slackened with dismay. “But that means Mage Ianthe Lavan is unable to cast the higher magics. He’s powerless.”
A horrified gasp went up from the mages.
“Ianthe can still perform minor charms,” Beatrice said, “but you are correct. My husband and I cannot use higher magic until our child is safely born, its soul developed and fully resident within its body. But once that’s done, he’s capable of working with Fandariathras once more.”
Every man in the ten-sided chamber looked on, appalled.
“We can’t do that,” one of them declared. “Give up magic while my wife does her duty? It’s unacceptable. It’s outrageous.”
“This information must be suppressed,” another man spoke up. “We cannot be expected to make such sacrifices. And this woman must go into a warding collar immediately. To think that a master-mage has been reduced to children’s rhymes for months? It’s horrible.”
So. They reacted just as Beatrice had known they would. Ianthe had believed that there were mages who would at least consider the idea. But she was never here to convince them. This was just a distraction to get them out of their houses.
:Sour their milk. Crack their carriage axles. An epidemic of stumbling,: Nadidamarus said. :I can do it right now, if you’d like.:
:As amusing as that would be, I think we should be circumspect.:
:Not even the stumbling?:
:Nadi.:
Beatrice waited for the lodgemaster to quiet the mages down. “I propose we vote, but first, let’s allow Mrs. Lavan the chance to conclude her presentation. Mrs. Lavan?”
Beatrice gave him her best, most sparkling smile. “Thank you, Lodgemaster. I knew that no women with the talent would be in attendance today. It’s a shame. Women should have a voice in their futures, and her decisions and her decisions alone matter when it comes to how she will use her own body.”
Bored looks from the mages. Beatrice kept smiling and held up the paper she carried in her pocket.
“This is a pamphlet that outlines and describes the exact ritual and process of the Clayborn Method of Fetal Protection. Since the rolls of chapterhouse members are all a matter of public record, and census data is available with reasonable requests, I compiled a list of all of your addresses.”
The room murmured. Some stared at her in puzzlement, but Beatrice watched the horrified faces of more astute members as they realized what she’d done. Her smile widened.
“A copy of this pamphlet addressed to your wives and any daughters over the age of sixteen has been mailed to them at home. They should all be delivered by now. Good night, gentlemen.”
Every mage in the room bounded to his feet. They all shouted, their voices layering one over the other, shouting even more loudly, trying to be heard above the others.
Beatrice left the pamphlet on the lectern, nodded to the lodgemaster, and took the stairs by herself. She breezed down the center aisle and out of the decagon, retracing her steps to the small room where she had left her cloak, her husband, and—
“Mama!”
Her daughter Ysbeta stamped her little feet as she slid off Bard Sheldon’s lap and barreled over to collide with Beatrice’s leg.
Clara laughed. “She only has one speed, Mrs. Beatrice.”
“She needs all of us to chase after her.” Beatrice bent down to smile at her daughter’s upturned, sunshine face. “Hello, little catkin.”
“Yes, ’Beta, Mama’s back,” Ianthe said. “Mama caused an uproar at the chapterhouse.”
“That I did,” Beatrice said. “We’d better go, before they realize I’m gone.”
Bard held one of the pamphlets in his hand. “They don’t sound happy.”
Behind her, the mages shouted at each other in outrage. Ianthe scooped the child up and smiled sadly at Beatrice. “Well, my sunrise, you win the wager.”
“I knew you had hoped.”
“Not even one?” Clara asked. “I had hoped for at least one.”
“I did too,” Beatrice said.
“You did get one,” Bard said, lifting the folded paper. “I count, don’t I?”
“You do,” Beatrice said, and Bard tucked the pamphlet inside his jacket. “But I did what I said
I’d do. All of Chasland will know of this by the end of the week.”
Ianthe bounced his daughter on his hip. “Chasland, done. Next stop, Llanandras. I’m sure you’ll get a better reception there.”
Clara swung Beatrice’s cloak around her shoulders and fastened the collar. “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we? They can’t all be like Chaslanders.”
Ianthe set down little Ysbeta and donned his own cloak. Clara knelt to fasten Ysbeta into a velvet sleeved coat. Ianthe picked her up again, and together they walked out of the chapterhouse and into the night. A carriage driven by a man in turquoise livery waited for them at the side of the promenade.
Bard blew out a frosty breath. “I wish it had gone better for you in there.”
“I never expected to convince them.” Beatrice reached over and patted Bard’s arm.
“It’s brave, what you did. And it’s smart of you to get on the next ship and flee the country before they figure out how to sue you.”
Beatrice gripped Bard’s elbow, and he saw her over an icy patch. “Cheerful.”
“Then I will change the subject. Sabrina Weldon has invited me to an outing with her and her father.”
Beatrice let out a laugh. “I knew she would! The way you two danced together at the Winter Ball—bring her to Jy after the wedding, will you? One good voyage before you settle down.”
“I’d love to. And then I’ll scandalize the country by adopting the Clayborn Method.”
They arrived at the carriage, where a footman held the door open for them. “You’d better go. The tide waits for no one.” Bard clapped a hand on Ianthe’s shoulder. “And wherever Ysbeta the Elder is, I hope she’s happy.”
“She’s probably digging up a lost city,” Ianthe said, “and that means she is very happy indeed.”
“We should go,” Beatrice said. “Bard is right about the tide.”
“Farewell,” Bard said, and when he took Beatrice’s hand he gripped her wrist the way he would greet a brother of the chapterhouse.
Ianthe let her board first, pretending to make little Ysbeta fly, and then tucked their child in the seat next to Clara. “So, it’s done. Are you worried?”