Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  Copyright © 2011 Sabrina Chase

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations for the purpose of review.

  * * *

  Cover art by Les Petersen

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9852704-5-2

  1

  “It's a bookshop. It's been there for years. Why are you staring at it?”

  Dominic blinked, suddenly aware of the wind biting through the holes in his threadbare coat. Phillipe looked at him with exasperation, stomping his feet to warm them. A bitterly cold wind blew through the streets of Dinan, stirring up yesterday's snow and bringing the promise of more.

  Why had he stopped? He couldn’t remember. “Why don't we go in and warm up? Perhaps they have the Solstice displays.”

  Phillipe shook his head. “Bodin’s never has them up this early. Magic like that is expensive to maintain, you know. Why are you so fascinated by them?” He made no objection to Dominic’s suggestion, though, and they began to cross the street towards the bookshop.

  “I don't know. When I was young my parents would take me every year.” His mother would complain about how long they took, for while his father pretended they went only for Dominic's entertainment, he loved the displays as much as Dominic did. Now that his parents were both gone, it remained a bittersweet memory.

  A strong hand on his coat collar jerked him back, out of the way of a large coach pulled by two steaming horses.

  “I swear you should not be allowed out of doors without a minder,” Phillipe complained, giving Dominic's collar a shake for emphasis before letting go.

  Dominic smiled up at his lanky friend. “Where could I find a minder that would meet my exacting requirements? Strong, capable, and willing to discuss literature and philosophy at any hour of the day…rare indeed.”

  They crossed the icy street without further incident. Dominic opened the heavy door with inset leaves of leaded glass and sighed with pleasure. Warm air, laced with the dry scent of leather and paper, and books as far as the eye could see. Unconsciously he began to read the spines, pulling out one book after another that caught his fancy.

  “You’re in the Mechanical Arts section,” Phillipe muttered in his ear as he went by. “Literature is over by the far wall.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Dominic blinked and turned to leave, but his glance snagged on an intriguing title and he stopped again. Constructing the Tannen Firth Bridge: Being a practical Treatise on the Difficulties encountered and the Means by which they were overcome. He’d always wondered how they had built the supports in the middle of the ocean—well, in the middle of the Alban Strait, which was essentially the same thing. He turned the pages, fascinated. As he had hoped, there were illustrations.

  At length, he realized what he was doing and resolutely put the book back on the shelf. How long had he been distracted? He searched for Phillipe. They both had work to do.

  A man passed by, deeply engrossed in an illustrated journal. Dominic frowned. It looked like The Family Museum, but he didn’t recognize the cover. Had they come out with another issue? He struggled with himself for a moment, and decided to just take a look.

  The snow fell softly outside the diamond-paned windows, and Dominic wandered by the neat piles of journals and papers, stopping when he saw The Family Museum. It was an issue he had not seen before, a special Solstice edition, which would account for why it had appeared two weeks earlier than usual. Joy surged through him as he read the list of articles inside: astronomy, magical theory, etheric harmonics, and an account of an expedition to an ancient observatory recently discovered deep in the Atlantean mountains. A sinking sensation immediately followed. He didn’t have the money for luxuries like this.

  A deep sigh told him his friend had found him. “What now?” Phillipe wanted to know, then saw what he was looking at. “Don’t you have enough of those? You don’t even let me burn them when you are finished.”

  “I like to read them more than once. They’re interesting. Bové has an account of another expedition,” Dominic said.

  “Oh, he’s the one that traveled to the Asean desert, right?” Dominic looked at his friend in surprise. “I read some of them. You had them all over the place.”

  Dominic fingered the few coins in his pocket. They were all he had to provide his supper, and he was hungry. Then again, if he had something fascinating to read, he could eat the remaining end of his stale loaf dipped in tea and he wouldn’t notice. He picked up a copy of the new journal and walked resolutely away before he saw anything else.

  As they walked towards the counter, Phillipe stiffened beside him and muttered an oath that earned a reproving glance from an old woman with a sable stole and muff. “You knew, didn't you?”

  “What?” Dominic glanced around the front of the bookshop, seeing what had made Philippe exclaim. The Solstice displays were, at that very moment, being set up. A small horde of gape-mouthed children surrounded a man setting in motion a floating model of the sun and planets. The magician considered his work for a moment, then made a gesture that added a swift, feathery comet to the display.

  Three automata, made to look like pixies, already flew about the bookshelves and the customers gathered in the aisles. Unlike the usual display automata, these had moveable limbs and eyes and were made and animated with such skill they seemed alive. Bodin’s always had the best displays, as befitted a bookshop renowned for its specialty in magical texts.

  “Something must have caught my attention in the street,” Dominic said, apologetically. “Truly, I didn't know.”

  Phillipe snorted. “Were you ever tested for magic?”

  “Twice,” Dominic said, making a face. “My father had great hopes, but I can't even light lamps.”

  “We should leave now,” said Phillipe. “This is pleasant, but we ought to be reading the dry, dusty tomes we spent our last guilders on so we have a faint chance of passing the graduation exam.”

  “What’s the point?” Dominic asked, watching one of the pixies as it sat briefly on a book, wings fanning gently to and fro, before it flitted off again. “If I fail, at least I will have an excuse for not finding work.” He regretted saying the words as soon as they left his mouth. Phillipe looked crestfallen.

  “I asked if there were any literature positions, even assistants, but….”

  “No matter. I make no doubt the weather in Nantes would aggravate my gout.”

  “You don't have gout,” Phillipe snapped. “We're too poor for such genteel ailments.”

  “If I were an assistant at Université Nantes I'd soon develop it, or something worse. I don't want to teach, anyway.” Phillipe turned to look at him, curious, and Dominic cursed himself. When would he learn to keep some things to himself? Once roused, his friend’s curiosity would not rest until satisfied. “I, ah, want to write. Literature, you know. Look, there's a lighting storm!”

  An illusionary storm enlivened the section of the store devoted to the natural sciences. He found it amusing they had used magic for a display of something completely non-magical.

  They had to wait some time for their turn at the counter. The store was thronged with customers and the clerks looked harassed beneath their professional demeanors.

  With my luck, I may be joining them, thought Dominic, feeling depressed. He was barely managing to get through the university. Even if he did graduate, which was looking more and more unlikely, what employment could he find? Phillipe complained, but he had wealthy family connections that could be relied on in times of financial crisis and a position waiting for him. Dominic had no family except for some cousins in even worse straits than he, and the meager inheritance that had supplemented his scholarship had vanished long ago.

  Money was not the only problem. What he really wanted was adventure—an expedition to some uncharted corner of the globe, searching for a lost city or ancient treasure. How could he do that stuck behind a counter selling books?

  No, th
e only adventures he would have would be the ones he made up for himself, fantastic voyages that would never be. He would never find anything out of the ordinary at a bookshop in the middle of Dinan.

  Then again…his imagination took up the challenge, and as they waited to be served, he began weaving a tale based on Bodin’s famous specialty.

  The customer at the counter finished his business, and the tall lady ahead of them took his place. She wore a shabby traveling cloak over skirts barely half as full as fashion currently dictated and a hat with the merest trifle of a bow by way of decoration. Something about the whole appeared vaguely foreign. Soft folds of veiling draped the hat, concealing her face, and she carried a faded carpetbag as if about to depart on a journey.

  He idly wondered how he might fit her into his story. A spy, he thought happily, looking for a secret document hidden in an old book during the Mage War.

  The clerk looked up at her, then sharply aside. “Madame wishes?”

  The lady had been tightly clutching a folded paper, which she handed to him. “I can’t seem to find them on the shelves,” she said, and Dominic abruptly lost the thread of his tale. What a fascinating voice! It was rich, resonant, and wholly unsuited to the shabby cloak and unfashionable hat.

  Taking the paper, the clerk looked at it and then at her, startled, before looking away again. “Madame, these are books of power. I regret, but you cannot have any use for such things.”

  Dominic saw her fingers tighten on the handles of the carpetbag. “They are for my elderly relative. He was an ars magica instructor and still takes interest in research, although he is no longer able to travel.”

  “I see. I, ah, must consult.” The clerk gave her a nervous bow and vanished into the inner offices of the store. Even though the lighting was more than adequate, Dominic could see nothing of the lady's face other than her profile behind the veiling. Shadows fell where there should have been none. The lady moved restlessly, glancing at the store entrance as though she were thinking of leaving.

  The clerk returned with a senior Bodin’s employee in a frock coat.

  “Madame, you must understand these are not books one can leave in one’s drawing room. They can interfere with other magic, with potentially disastrous results, so we cannot sell them in good conscience to someone who might not have the requisite ability to guard against this.”

  The senior employee seemed to be addressing the slip of paper in his hand instead of the lady.

  “But my great-uncle purchased many such books here, when his health permitted.”

  “What is his name?”

  The lady hesitated. “Yves Morlais, of Peran. Please, I am in haste. He has asked me to bring these books to him, and my train leaves within the hour.”

  The senior employee’s expression changed to a relieved smile. “I have had the pleasure of serving Magister Morlais here for many years. Of course we would be happy to assist you.” He gestured sharply to the clerk waiting nervously beside him, who took the paper and left with alacrity. “I regret to hear he is unwell.” He reached beneath the counter and took out a slim pamphlet. “Perhaps he would like a copy of our latest catalog? He can then write and order books for us to send, and you will not be put to the trouble.”

  “Thank you, that is most kind.” Did she smile? She certainly sounded pleased.

  The clerk returned, harried and out of breath, with several books wrapped in silver tissue.

  “Madame should understand this is for the protection of the books and to prevent any interference with other magics,” the senior employee said, tapping the silver tissue. “It should not be removed save by a magician. Even to look at the binding.” He gave the lady an avuncular smile.

  “Oh no, he has warned me very strictly about such things,” the lady said. Dominic frowned. Her words were demure, but carried an undertone of amusement.

  The lady paid for her purchases and left, walking with a hurried step. Dominic watched her leave, troubled and unsure why. Something was missing….

  “Dominic. Dominic! Wake up! You aren't in class, you great idiot! Come on, they are waiting for you.” Phillipe looked at him more closely. “I hope you aren't ill. What's the matter with you?”

  “Didn't you notice the lady?” Dominic handed most of the coins in his pocket to the clerk. He hoped the loaf was not too stale, and that the mice hadn’t gotten it first.

  “What lady?”

  “The one before us.”

  Phillipe glanced eagerly about. “And I missed her? What bad luck! Was she pretty?”

  “I hardly know. I couldn't see her face at all.” They left, and the cold was even worse after the comfortable warmth of the shop. Dominic shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing he could afford thicker gloves.

  “Are you sure you didn't just imagine her?” Phillipe asked, skeptical. “I've never seen you notice a real woman, even when they want you to. Grillot's sister has tried every trick save fainting at your feet.”

  Dominic started, and nearly slipped on the ice underfoot. “How strange you should say that. I saw her faint just three days ago.”

  “And?”

  “I found another lady nearby to assist her, of course. What else could I do?”

  Phillipe sighed. “Assist her yourself, which is undoubtedly what she wished.” They reached the entrance to their lodging and began climbing the creaky stairs with care.

  “Are you sure? I only thought to spare her any embarrassment.”

  Phillipe shrugged, his face bland. “There is no accounting for tastes.” Dominic knew Phillipe spoke from considerable experience of feminine wiles, but it still seemed incredible to him. He couldn't even remember Mademoiselle Grillot's face; all the ladies he knew seemed to strive to look identical to one another. And why would she notice him? He had no illusions about himself, especially compared to Phillipe, who was tall, handsome, and of good family. All the things he was not. Of course, he did not take as much care of his appearance as Phillipe did, either.

  Dominic unlocked the door to their rooms. Nothing had changed, except that they had gotten colder.

  “Hmm. Half a scuttle left,” Phillipe said, glancing at their supply of coal. “And the old man on the second floor will be leaving to visit his daughter soon.”

  “Yes, but Madame Caisson will be baking for the holidays,” Dominic replied. The secret advantage to their quarters lay in the brick chimney that took up half of one wall. With heat from the other tenant's fires, they were able to conserve their coal.

  There were shadows in the corner of the room, but they matched the light. Dominic frowned. The other shadows had not….

  “It's my turn to put my bed against the bricks,” Phillipe announced in a cheerful voice. After a silence, Dominic felt Phillipe's hand on his shoulder. “But perhaps you should stay there for a few more days.” His friend searched his face, a worried expression on his own. “When I leave Dinan, you will write to me regularly? I'll think you've been run over by a cart, otherwise.”

  With an effort, Dominic shrugged off his distraction. “Of course I'll write to you.” He grinned. “I doubt I'll have much else to do.”

  Marie poured the tea from the delicate gold-traced teapot, and Ardhuin got up to get her great-uncle’s cup—then remembered. She sat back down, fighting sudden tears, and tried to concentrate on the soothing warmth as she drank.

  Finally, she had to say something. “I don’t understand. When he wrote to me…his last letter, he mentioned nothing of being ill.”

  Marie dabbed at her eyes, her thin, gnarled hands shaking. “No more he was, my dear. A blessing, and a testament to his sober and regular ways that he did not suffer through long illness. Why, I doubt he truly realized how ill he was even at the end, it happened so quick. It was easy to forget, but he was nearly ninety-four, or would have been in April.”

  There was no use in Ardhuin telling herself that she should have known, should have done something to answer his summons more quickly. What could she have done? She
’d left the same day she had received his letter. A strange letter….

  “There hadn’t been anything…troubling him, had there? Or anyone?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that,” Marie said, patting her hand. “He overtaxed himself, that’s all. One of his special projects he was working on, and outside in the cold. You know what he is…was like. Never took note of how long he spent out there, and is it that surprising a putrid cough would be the result?” The old cook shook her head in sorrowful exasperation. “He never would listen to sense, never!” She dusted some nonexistent crumbs from the tablecloth severely and rearranged the teapot and creamer.

  Ardhuin glanced up, her own pain momentarily forgotten. A special project would mean magic. And outdoors would mean—defensive magic. There would be no other reason to spend so much time outside the protective wards of his house, unless it was magic that could not be done within them.

  “You mentioned that his mind seemed to wander a little,” Ardhuin said.

  “He was all but dead!” Marie bristled. “And I only said I could not understand him. He kept saying your name,” she continued slowly, “and something that sounded like ‘they seek Oron.’ I don’t suppose that means anything to you?”

  Ardhuin shook her head, feeling suddenly cold and hoping her reaction did not show on her face. Fortunately, it appeared Marie was not expecting any answer. His mind had been wandering, or he had been so delirious he had not realized who was present. While his few remaining servants were completely loyal and knew he was a magician of some repute, none knew that he had another name—Oron—or that Oron was one of the most powerful mages of Aerope.

  He had written vaguely of threats, and now it seemed he thought the threat was connected to his secret. “I should have come sooner,” she whispered, and felt the hot tears falling down her cheeks again.