by K. C. Finn
“Here, let me help you back to your chair,” Lily urged.
She raced forward and took the old woman by the elbow again, until Forrester let herself be guided back into the cosy rocker. When she was in place, she stuffed the piece of paper she’d been writing on into Lily’s hands. Lily looked down at the crumpled sheet of parchment, trying to make out the shaky script penned by the gnarled hands of an ancient shade.
“This is an open invitation to Pendle,” Forrester explained. “Keep it to yourself, and never let it out of your sight. This is our covenant, and so is the sword. Not a word to a soul about them. You must go now, Lily dearest, for there is much still to come before we meet again.”
“I don’t understand,” Lily pleaded as she clutched the invitation. “Novel said you were going to advise me on the djinn curse?”
“You don’t need my advice, sweet child,” Forrester answered. She reached out and ran a finger down the edge of Lily’s cheek. “Call upon your instincts. Do what you think is right, and when your heart is ready for what must be done, you will return here.”
Lily swallowed hard at the lump of raw emotion that rushed to choke her. She folded Forrester’s invitation, and tucked it into her bag between the first two pages of the book Baines had given her. She bowed again to the ancient shade, and found that there were tears brimming in Forrester’s eyes. Though she did not understand them, the same tears caught in Lily’s gaze, and she tried to suck them up as she turned and left the golden room. As she opened the door, the faint hum of the Diamondblade echoed in her ears one last time.
Pascal
“She sort of just said that things would work themselves out,” Lily explained.
Novel was holding her elbow tightly as they walked a little farther up the cobbled street of the hidden town. He made a scoffing noise and scowled.
“Surely she told you more than that?” he demanded. “You were in there twice as long as me.”
That much was certainly true, but Lily had been told to keep the open invitation to herself, and she couldn’t find a way to explain the rest of what had happened without mentioning it. If she told Novel about the Diamondblade, she feared that he might return to challenge Forrester about her meaning, and something deep in Lily’s heart warned against that move. The ancient shade had told her to follow her instincts and, much as Lily felt the weight of guilt settle into her stomach, her instincts told her that it was her turn to keep a secret from Novel now.
“Where else can we go for help?” Lily asked in a bid to change the subject. “You said there were more elders here, and isn’t there a council?”
“Yes,” Novel replied, pointing ahead. “The Council Hall is higher on the hill. I’m hoping they’ll be in session, and we can put your case to them for consideration.”
“No chance of that, ducks,” said a voice nearby.
The voice had come from a shop doorway, under a scarlet sign that read: Pritchard Potioneers: Pendle Office. It was a woman who had spoken, and Lily took in her multi-coloured garb and layers of clothing, all of which seemed to have pockets stuffed with vials and jars. She looked as though she had taken the entire contents of Jeronomie’s attic office and decided to wear it, and she was pushing a sweeping brush towards the open doorway of the establishment. Lily saw, with mild horror, that among the things being swept out onto the street, there were tiny animal bones and bloodstained rags.
“What do you mean by that?” Novel asked.
“The council are no longer resident, Sir,” the potioneer replied.
Lily looked to Novel, whose reaction was flush with confusion.
“That’s absolute rot,” he exclaimed, “who would dare displace the council from their own offices?”
The potioneer woman looked the illusionist over, and a wry smile came to her lips.
“The House of Novel, of course,” she replied.
Any peaceful feelings left over from Forrester had evaporated from Lily’s heart by the time she and Novel reached the top of the hill. The Council Hall was unmistakeable in its grandeur, standing several feet higher than any of the other buildings at Pendle, and easily three times as wide. It looked like a stately manor fit for a Tudor baron, its black panels and dark brown wood blending to make it look as though it was made of shadows. Lily hated the look of it at once, her stomach twisting into a horrible knot the closer she got to it, and there was only one thing that made the whole approach to the building even worse.
There was a man waiting for them at the top of the hill.
He stood with legs apart and hands collected, in a thin black suit that made him look like a patient spider. His grey-white hair, slightly curling at the ends, told Lily that he was a senior shade, and even from the distance between them, she marked the high cheekbones and sharp, pale features of his face. He was related to her Lemarick, it was evident in every look and move the man made, and so far as Lily could tell, there was only one crucial difference between the two relatives.
This man had one golden eye. There was no pupil, no iris, no white, and not even a real sphere to speak of. The closer Lily came to the stranger, the more she was able to make out the swirling mass of golden liquid rotating in his dark, empty socket. Lily saw his other eye, which was frosty like Novel’s, and wondered fearfully why the liquid in the left socket didn’t simply bleed onto his pale cheek. When she felt a hand take hold of her own, Lily couldn’t help but shudder.
“Be calm,” Novel said, giving her hand a squeeze, “it’s only a glamour.”
“Who is he?” Lily whispered.
The pair were already too close for Novel to reply without being overheard, and instead he stepped towards the man and offered his hand. The pair shook, and Novel led his senior relative by the forearm towards Lily.
“Uncle, this is Miss Lily Coltrane,” Novel said stiffly. “Lily, this is Pascal Novel, my mother’s little brother.”
Pascal grinned at the introduction, and his mouth was filled with teeth that were just a little too sharp to be charming. Lily couldn’t stop staring into his golden eye, and she knew she was making it frightfully obvious even as she offered her hand to him out of politeness. When Pascal took her in his grip, he bowed his face out of sight and placed an icy kiss across her knuckles. He looked more amused than ever when he straightened up and let her go.
“Indeed,” he said, and his low voice rumbled like the purr of a gleeful feline. “It’s a rare treat to find you out and about so near to your birthday, Lemarick. The whole family has come to bid you good tidings.”
There was suggestion everywhere in Pascal’s words, and he had that lazy, graceful way of speaking where it became hard to tell if a person was serious or not. Lily had not previously thought it possible for Novel’s face to be paler than it was, but it seemed that every drop of blood had left his visage when he replied to his uncle’s words.
“The whole family?” he repeated.
Pascal only grinned.
“Come inside, both,” the senior shade urged playfully. “Lily, it’s high time you were introduced to our family’s greatest traditions.”
It was clear that Pascal was the oldest living member of the House of Novel from the moment that Lily passed through the grand double doors of the Council Hall. There was a circular foyer daubed in black lace curtains, with two staircases spiralling up on either side of it, and at the foot of each staircase stood a young man with eyes like steel. One look between them told Lily they were twins, and both were dark-haired figures with broad bodies. At once the pair began to approach Pascal, bowing themselves over-double to show respect. When Pascal stood between them, a proud arm over the shoulder of each, the reason became apparent.
“My sons,” he explained, “Theophile and Remy.”
Novel regarded them coolly, but inclined his head.
“You never change, boys,” he remarked.
Pascal ruffled the hair of the boy on his left, Theophile, who bit back his anger quite visibly. Lily felt the waves of hostility all
around her, and she found herself fearfully reminded that the three men before her may well be just as magically powerful as Novel was. In fact, by the sound of it, there was a whole congregation of fiercely powerful and noble shades waiting just beyond the confines of the grand foyer. Lily swallowed hard, and she was sure that Pascal had seen her do it, for his wicked grin widened.
“Boys, this is Lemarick’s… Well, are you engaged yet?” Pascal asked.
The couple’s look of shock was mutual, and Lily felt small when Pascal and his sons expressed a raucous bite of laughter. Pascal shook his head and let his sons go, where they took up position ready to lead him to the main room. The senior shade held out a hand to Lily, his one good eye sparkling with mischief as the last of his grin died away.
“Forgive me,” he crooned, “I can’t resist shaking the young people up. Would you be presented to the family, Miss Coltrane?”
No thanks, I’m all right here.
How Lily desperately wished she could voice that thought, but Novel’s obedient behaviour was just as it had been in the winter of last year, when Mother came to pay a visit to the Imaginique. Novel was only that well-behaved in the presence of senior power, and Lily knew she had very little choice in whatever was going to happen beyond the next set of double doors. She took Pascal’s hand, trying with every muscle not to shake in his grip, and in seconds she found Novel at her other side.
“I won’t leave you alone in this place, I swear it,” he promised quietly.
His solemn words gave her some comfort, but Lily’s heart was still in her throat as she prepared to face the House of Novel.
Blood Sports
A shock of flames flew across the room no sooner than Lily was in it. There were subtle hints of what the Council Hall should have looked like here and there, for example in the golden portrait frames that hung on the vast, curved walls of the oval chamber. Those pictures had been covered with the same black drapery as the staircase in the foyer, and even the windows were garbed in shadowy, spider-like nets. The flames were the only real light in the room, and they blasted to and fro sporadically, as Novel’s family members threw them at one another for fun.
There were easily fifty people dotted about the room, reclining on fine furniture, or standing at small tables where they conversed over drinks. None of them seemed to mind the wild flames that were flying all around them and, when one such fireball shot straight towards the new entrants at the doorway, Pascal leapt straight through the middle of it with a gleeful shout. His sons looked less than impressed with the older man’s playful attitude, and Lily wondered, as she had with Novel some months ago, whether Theophile and Remy ever had occasion to smile with genuine joy.
“Uncle,” Novel pressed, stepping forward just a little to catch Pascal’s slim sleeve. “I confess I didn’t come to Pendle for celebrations. I wonder if I might seek your council on an urgent matter?”
Lily wanted to protest at once. She wasn't sure she wanted Pascal to know that she’d been cursed by a djinn, lest it should spark another bout of cruel laughter, this time with fifty other shades joining in the hilarity. Pascal seemed interested in the look of worry on Novel’s face, and he licked his lips thoughtfully.
“I’ll make you a deal, nephew-mine,” Pascal began, “win a challenge here today, and you’ll have my help in any matter you desire.”
Novel’s cool gaze narrowed over the older man.
“And your discretion?” he said.
“That too,” Pascal confirmed.
The illusionist spared one look into the congregation, who had fallen into a lull and noticed his arrival, then he gave a curt, somewhat regretful nod.
“One challenge, then,” Novel agreed.
“A challenge!” Pascal repeated with a shout.
The House of Novel erupted in a sharp cheer, but Lily found herself shrouded by worry. Novel turned to her and removed his greatcoat, followed by the pinstripe jacket of his suit. Lily held onto them tightly as she watched him rolling up the sleeves of his bright white shirt, and she marked the way his teeth were gritted, either in fury or reluctance.
“What are challenges?” Lily demanded in a whisper. “Are you going to fight them?”
She wanted the answer to be no, and when Novel nodded, her heart sank so low she felt as though it had fallen out of her body.
“It’s always this way,” Novel said ruefully, “violence first, sensibilities later. I might have known they’d show up here to scupper our plans.”
Lily was relieved, at least, that Novel seemed as unhappy as she was about their situation. When he was prepared for combat, the illusionist turned to find that a great circular space had been cleared in the centre of the room. At the opposite position on the circumference of the ring, either Theophile or Remy had stripped down to the waist. The broad, muscular young man had fists the size of cannonballs, but Lily knew by the way her blood was humming that a magical bout was brewing, not a physical contest. Looking at Novel’s sleek form, it was just as well.
“Cousin Helene will take those for you,” Pascal said.
Lily felt Novel’s things being lifted from her grip, and she turned to see a thin woman waving her arms in a gravity cast. Novel’s coat and jacket arced through the air of the dark, vast room to some unknown place, and Lily inclined her head to the cousin with thanks. Cousin Helene didn’t seem to care about being thanked in the least. She looked Lily over with narrow, beady eyes, and left without a word to find a space to watch the challenge.
“So rude,” Pascal said with a chuckle. “Come here, my dear. You’ll sit with me to watch the fun.”
There was no choice in the matter, but at least sitting with Pascal afforded Lily a marvellous view. Two huge seats, which looked more like regal thrones than armchairs, were raised on a platform to one side of the room. They had been quickly vacated by whoever had used them last, and as Pascal led Lily by the hand towards the raised area, a young woman came to stand behind one of the seats. She had pure white hair, the same colour as Novel’s, which was plaited with impossibly fine precision all the way to her waist.
“My beloved daughter, Océane,” Pascal said as he approached his throne.
Océane had a delicate beauty, with a porcelain face that looked as though one touch would shatter it. Unlike her father and brothers, she seemed frail and quiet, but she smiled when Pascal took his seat, and put one hand over the back of the chair to rest it on his shoulder. Her father reached up and took hold of it lovingly, and Lily felt a sick twinge of jealousy at such a paternal act.
“Océane,” Pascal said briskly, “Lily is a bastard child of Maxime Schoonjans.”
It wasn’t the remark that cut Lily deep, so much as the cruel amusement on the young woman’s face as she beheld her. Océane nodded, as though she understood something Lily didn’t, then spoke in a whispery, ethereal sort of voice.
“My father took your father’s eye,” she explained proudly. “He wrestled it from the socket with a rip of magic.”
The gleeful description of such violence made Lily feel sick. Pascal held out his other hand with a palm-up gesture.
“Now, now,” he crooned, “Maxime took my eye first. It was only fair, dearest.”
Lily found herself watching that swirling golden mass in Pascal’s left socket as Océane leaned in, her cruel smile diminished.
“Yes, Father,” she answered softly. “Sorry, Father.”
“No matter now, child,” Pascal said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Lily, take your seat. The first match is due to begin.”
A jaundiced man with a round belly announced the fighters, and Lily learned that Remy was the one to take on Novel. For his part, the illusionist seemed more irritated by the whole thing than nervous about fighting, and Lily felt calmer when Novel rolled his eyes in exasperation. Remy stamped the ground no sooner than the match had begun, sending an earthquake of gravity through the room that shook the Council Hall violently. As dust emerged from the high and ancient rafters of the buildin
g, it was only Novel who seemed unsurprised by the attack. His feet were already floating several inches off the ground.
Remy looked a little younger than Novel, but there had probably been decades of history between them, and Lily fancied that Novel had fought him before. Judging by the determined frustration on Remy’s face, Novel had bested him before too. Remy clearly favoured gravity as his cast of choice, and he was in the swift and endless process of lifting furniture and portraits to hurl at Novel. Though the speed of Remy’s massive casting arms was intense, Novel was sharp and precise as he had ever been on stage at the Imaginique. He flew through Remy’s obstructions without even bothering to deflect them, ducking and diving past each projectile, until he was close enough to strike a shock of lightning straight down the boy’s cheek.
Remy cried out, and Lily saw the red, veiny marks of a Lichtenberg figure forming on his face. The bout was child’s play for Novel, and as Lily watched him soar gracefully into the echelons of the usurped hall, she felt a gloat coming on. She allowed a proud smile to creep onto her face, eyes darting everywhere to follow Novel’s swift attacks. A groan emanated beside her, and she turned to see Pascal shaking his head wearily.
“I can’t watch, it’s simply embarrassing,” the uncle moaned. “Tell me Lily, were you acquainted with your father?”
With Remy struggling pointlessly again Novel in the corner of her vision, Lily mulled over the question.
“Not at all,” she replied coolly. “I knew him for a day, maybe less, before your big sister snapped his neck in front of me.”
The air of casual violence was such that nothing Lily said shocked Pascal or Océane. The senior shade simply rolled his eyes and patted his daughter’s hand, which was still placed dutifully on his shoulder. Pascal craned his neck up to see his daughter’s pale eyes.
“Your Auntie Evangeline always went for the neck,” Pascal told her, “choking, snapping, beheading. I believe she had quite a fixation.”