Mageborn: An absolutely gripping fantasy novel (The Hollow King Book 1)

by Jessica Thorne

  Rathlynn was a dangerous place to be. The death rate was high. The streets were not kind. Even accidental death and disease had a habit of catching Academy officers faster than most. City life. Illness could quickly become an epidemic. You could be knifed in the back going for a drink after a shift, just for looking the wrong way.

  But standing anywhere near Bastien Larelwynn was probably the most dangerous place in the world to be. It had been for Childers.

  Daniel was still there, watching her, waiting.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, forcing herself to be patient. He thought something was funny.

  ‘Lyssa’s looking for you.’

  Oh. Great.

  ‘I’ll… fine. I’ll be there directly. Tell her…’ But while Grace was faffing around here, nothing was happening in their investigation. ‘No, don’t. I’ll tell her. I want you to go and find Hale. Ask him about the marks on the hands. Find out if anyone has come in to the Healers’ Halls with similar burns for treatment.’

  ‘Sure boss,’ he said. Always happy to help. That was Daniel. If he was any perkier and more eager to please, he’d probably be a puppy. ‘Is it a lead?’

  ‘I hope so. We need one.’ She wasn’t terribly confident about it. ‘This case is getting swallowed up in…’ she waved her arms around her ‘… all this. I don’t like it. We were meant to find out who killed that Leanese girl and all the others. The mageborn who were syphoned. Send a message to Craine and tell her to bring in Arlon Griggs, that soldier Ellyn and I brought in, the one who was using magic but not mageborn. He’s involved with the assassination attempt on Bastien, the one that killed Childers, and he was one of ours.’

  She paused, raking her fingers along her scalp. She could turn most of it over to Craine and another squad, even though it galled her to do so. She wanted to finish it. She needed to. And she needed information. More than she could gather herself. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the two were tied.

  ‘And Danny, get word to Kurt. See if there’s anything he can find out for us. Off the record. Any rumour, any stories, understand? Anything about the attack on us, and about the kids with burns on their hands. Anything. Tell him I need it.’

  His face fell a bit at that order. He dreaded dealing with his brother, with his old life. Grace understood and hated getting him to do it, but she still would when it was necessary. Kurt might answer her. He might not. He’d never deny Daniel.

  ‘He’ll want something for it.’ The warning in his voice was clear, and for a moment he wasn’t just ‘Danny’ any more. She could hear the hint of Parry in his voice, the echo of his brother. Kurt would want something from her. A favour. It was never a good idea to owe anything to the devious bastard.

  Of course he would want something. She’d be shocked otherwise. But what choice did she have? And she’d only owe him if he delivered.

  ‘Sure, but tell him I decide what it’s worth, not him. And tell him if he wastes my time, the prince and I will pay him a visit he won’t forget.’

  Bastien would probably be horrified that Grace was using him to threaten the criminal underworld of Rathlynn. Or maybe not. He didn’t seem averse to terrifying Sylvie the would-be assassin to find out who had sent her. Or using Grace to do the threatening.

  Which brought her mind back to the sketch. Bastien had recognised him, Arlon Griggs, who worked for Lord Asher Kane. She recognised him too. The not-mageborn guard from the quays.

  ‘And find out if Kurt knows Griggs. But careful. I don’t want to spook anyone. Take Ellyn with you. She knows what Griggs looks like. And Kurt likes her.’

  ‘She doesn’t like him.’

  ‘Remember that. I don’t want her stabbing him. Your mother would never forgive me. I mean, I know he gets handsy but Ellyn doesn’t hold with that and I don’t blame her.’

  Daniel just grinned at her, relieved that talk had turned a little lighter. ‘Stop putting it off, Grace. Go play at being a noble. Date with a prince and all that.’

  ‘It’s not a date.’ She cut in too quickly, too sharply, and Daniel’s grin grew even wider. Damn it, she was never going to live this down. It was going to be all over the Academy by the time they finally got out of this nightmare and back to normal. She could picture it now, the laughter in the mess hall and the training room, the jokes, the constant teasing she’d be subjected to – good-natured, sure, but still… That time Grace went on a… not-a-date with the Lord of Thorns. That time she was dolled up like some kind of freak and paraded around in front of the highest echelon of nobility Rathlynn had to offer. That time—

  ‘We won’t wait up,’ Daniel told her, waving her off.

  ‘Tell Misha I said hello,’ she snapped after him and had the satisfaction of seeing him turn scarlet again. ‘Maybe you could interrogate him as well. He’d probably enjoy that.’

  ‘Turn around,’ said Lyssa. Grace did so reluctantly. The dress felt wrong. Her hair felt wrong. So did the tiny slippers on her feet instead of her boots. Everything felt wrong.

  Lyssa darted forward and pulled at her hair again, teasing a few locks loose from the sophisticated and unnatural style into which she had spent an age sculpting it.

  ‘Now,’ she said, with an air of satisfaction. ‘Look.’

  Grace didn’t recognise the woman in the mirror. She wasn’t wearing enough clothing for one thing. Her neck was long and elegant. Her shoulders were bare and there was a bosom that was on the verge of heaving in a ridiculous way. The embroidered green fabric flattered her skin and hair in ways she had never considered possible. She didn’t look like herself. The Academy uniform was always dark and drab, the colour of shadows, moss and mud. This shone. And so did she.

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘You don’t need to know,’ Lyssa said. ‘You just need to wear it and smile.’

  Grace glared at her instead but that didn’t seem to have any effect at all. Lyssa carried on, fussing and adjusting the outfit that belonged on someone else. As if it needed adjusting. Well… maybe pulling up…

  ‘This is a terrible idea.’

  ‘The queen invited you herself. Well, not herself, but her master of entertainments sent the invitation and she’s never sent an invitation like that to us before. Not even to the prince.’

  ‘She’s never invited Bastien?’

  ‘Not to a dinner party like this. Oh, she wants his company at times, of course…’ She stopped, as if aware she had said too much. To recover, she fixed Grace with a schooling look. ‘She’s the queen consort, child. She doesn’t invite. She commands. As queen she outranks him, barely. She clings to that. And she’s Tlachtlyan originally, of course. They’re obsessed with formality and protocol.’

  Grace grinned, falling back on the one reserve that had always kept her sane in the past. She dragged her gaze away from the horror in the mirror and down to the diminutive woman fussing like a grandmother over her.

  ‘Obsessed? Really? Who would ever be obsessed with protocol?’

  But Lyssa wouldn’t have recognised sarcasm if it danced naked in front of her. Oh, she’d be shocked and appalled, but she wouldn’t have recognised it. Or if she did, you’d never have known.

  ‘Don’t make that face, Captain. It’s common.’

  ‘So am I. Always have been.’

  Lyssa shook her head and gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Well I suppose you’re as good as you will ever be. Just try not to speak. Now, how’s your curtsey?’

  Grace thought about that. Then she bowed, a formal, military bow of the deepest respect that was definitely not a curtsey and was never going to be. Lyssa openly scowled at her this time.

  ‘Don’t make that face,’ Grace parroted back at her. ‘It’s common.’

  To her surprise, Lyssa laughed, a broad, delighted laugh that almost seemed too big for her. ‘Well, you’ll have to do. You’ll shake them up, at least, and his highness will be there to guide you. And protect you. Just keep your wits about you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Grace said solemnl
y, meaning it, and Lyssa flushed.

  ‘Not at all, child. You’re beautiful. It’s an honour.’

  It stole every smart-mouthed reply from her. Not one had ever called her beautiful before. Not like that.

  It’s my honour to serve. The formal words echoed through her mind. Was that what she was doing?

  A discreet knock on the door made them both turn.

  ‘That’ll be him,’ said Grace, shaking off the shock that had silenced her.

  ‘A prince doesn’t just come calling at a lady’s chamber door,’ Lyssa told her. Grace swallowed down the urge to shout that she wasn’t a lady either – she was worried poor Lyssa might actually collapse. ‘He will receive you downstairs. You aren’t even late yet.’ As if that was something to be expected rather than avoided. Trained to be punctual all her life, Grace smiled at the thought.

  But when Lyssa opened the door, Bastien was standing there, looking darkly handsome and mysterious as ever.

  ‘Is she ready?’ he asked and Lyssa opened the door wide with a knowing look on her face. Now who was grinning?

  Bastien looked like he had been about to say something else but his voice had suddenly stopped working and his mouth hung open as if he’d taken a blow to the head.

  ‘I’m ready,’ Grace said.

  He stared at her as she came towards him, and then seemed to shake himself back into this world from somewhere else. Years of diplomacy, decades of training and instruction, and maybe a deep-seated survival instinct finally made him react. His bow put hers to shame.

  And as he moved Grace found her own breath stopped up in her throat, her heart crashing against the inside of her ribs.

  He wore black, of course, because he always did. But it was the black of raven feathers, the black of the deepest night. It was smooth and glossy, and it hugged his body in ways that didn’t seem so much formal as sinful. The Little Goddess would hide her eyes.

  The other divinities, however…

  Yes, the others would be looking as much as possible.

  Grace forced herself to breathe. She shouldn’t be reacting to him like this. It wasn’t safe or sane. But she was. She couldn’t deny it any longer. Safe and sane remained to be seen.

  She thought again of the woman’s voice she was sure she had heard. No one had mentioned anyone else living here. She hadn’t seen anyone. And yet she couldn’t shake the memory. She hadn’t imagined it. She knew that. She just wished that she had.

  ‘Shall we?’ he asked. Grace watched him swallow, the movement of his Adam’s apple in his throat almost hypnotic.

  ‘Shall we what?’ she asked.

  ‘Go.’ He held out his arm and she stared at him.

  Touching him would be a really bad idea. Every instinct in her told her that while at the same time they screamed at her to do it.

  She folded her hands behind her back, then realised that doing that made her chest more obvious. Instead she tried to cross them in front of her.

  ‘Here,’ said an exasperated Lyssa, and she draped a silken shawl around her shoulders. It was the same emerald as the gown that clung to her, embroidered with shimmers of gold. Tendrils that glittered and shone wound around her shoulders and upper arms like vines. Lyssa fussed and adjusted it so that it draped around her front, and either end trailed down her back like wings.

  ‘You’ll be late. Too late for politeness. Get a move on, both of you,’ she said at last when neither of them seemed inclined to do anything but stand there.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ Bastien said as they stepped out into the hallway beyond his tower. The tone was not what she’d expected. It sounded like wonder.

  ‘I’m… I’m just a…’ Just an officer of the Academy. Just no one. That was what Grace wanted to say. It felt disloyal, somehow. To be here, like this, when the Academy had given her everything. Men had told her she was beautiful before, once or twice. They had never sounded like that when they said it.

  What was she doing? This wasn’t some sort of fairy tale. She had to remember that. She had to focus.

  ‘Why are we doing this, Bastien?’

  ‘Because we have no choice.’

  She gave him that look. ‘Come on, there’s always a choice. I mean, we might not like the repercussions but there is always a choice.’

  That same brief smile flickered over his lips. It made a rush of heat flood her body and she hurriedly looked away, studying the portraits they passed, the carpet under their feet, anything else.

  ‘Well then,’ he said, a dark chuckle entering his voice. ‘We’re going because I want to look in the face of someone who might be behind the assassination attempts. And you’re coming because you’re astute, quick and now, apparently, the perfect distraction.’

  ‘I hope I’m more than that.’ She shivered, uncomfortably. ‘I wish there was somewhere to keep a weapon in this thing.’

  He looked her up and down in a glance. ‘There really isn’t, is there?’

  The way he said it made her skin flush red. Damn him. He knew it too. And then she realised that he found it funny. Of course he did.

  ‘No,’ she told him coolly. ‘Just as well I don’t need one.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. We’re going to a dinner party, not a gang fight.’

  Were they? She wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Besides,’ Bastien went on. ‘There will be knives on the table. And I can’t wait to see the damage you can to do with a spoon.’

  She would have laughed but they turned into the corridor and there were guards flanking the door at the far end. Before she knew what was happening, Bastien had entwined his arm with hers and was leading her effortlessly onwards.

  Into the den of the she-wolf.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The doors opened before they even approached them. The guards didn’t move, their attention fixed in the middle distance. Not that it meant anything. Tempted to throw something at them and see if they reacted, Grace pursed her lips. That would be the test. It was easy to zone out on guard duty. She remembered Craine telling her that a guard lost in their own thoughts was as useless as a mace to an archer.

  What she saw next drove all thoughts of guards and procedure from her head.

  Overhead, in the vast space beneath the vaulted golden ceiling, illuminated by the evening sun streaming through panes of coloured glass, half a dozen figures twirled and danced on thin air. Grace tilted back her head, staring, her mouth open at the aerial ballet. Music filled the room, delicate and beautiful, and at first she couldn’t see the source. But she could feel it. There was a shiver in the air, the touch of magic creeping all over her skin. She looked around, to find a young dark-skinned Lyric spinning music with his hands. He stared into nothingness, entirely enraptured by his art: she had to admit, he was a master. Other musicians accompanied him, on mandolins, violas and flutes, each one making music with magic. Or perhaps the other way around. The dancers were mageborn too, she realised, Zephyrs, using their magic to lift themselves and move like elementals.

  They all wore collars. The sigils in them glowed faintly. They all had a dull sheen to their eyes. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Every instinct told her that. Magical and mundane.

  In the middle of the room, as the Lyrics made music and the Zephyrs swirled through the air, a group of people sat at an elaborately set table, ignoring both dancers and the music, ignoring everything except each other. They laughed and drank the rich red wine from crystal cut glasses. The food heaped on the table was enough to feed areas like Eastferry or Belport for a week.

  ‘Bastien, you’re here!’ the queen said in an overly loud voice. Her face was flushed and her eyes shining. She’d clearly been enjoying the wine. Hopefully just the wine. ‘You’re late.’

  Bastien just bowed. ‘Apologies, your serene highness. We must have misjudged the time.’

  They hadn’t. The invitation had been specific. If anything they were early, in spite of Lyssa’s fears. But Grace didn’t dare to argue. She bowed, and the qu
een smiled in bemusement. She probably should have curtsied like Lyssa wanted but that was just not happening.

  If the queen took it as an insult, so be it. Grace hadn’t liked her the first time she’d seen her. She hadn’t learned anything to change her mind since. Far from it.

  ‘Captain Marchant, how different you look. Doesn’t she look different, my darlings?’

  All eyes turned on her and Grace struggled to hold herself still and not back away, or, worse still, flee from their presence.

  Different. What a word to use. Different didn’t mean good. Not to people like this.

  The world suddenly felt very dangerous indeed.

  Someone laughed, a nasty underhanded laugh. Grace couldn’t help it any longer. She flinched back. She didn’t belong here. She should never have come. She looked ridiculous in this dress. She had scars and callouses. If only she’d just refused, or at least worn her uniform. If only she had her sword. Or even her knives. All she had was the warrant and Zavi’s sigil hanging around her neck.

  A hand caught hers, a strong and gentle grip, his fingers threading in between hers. Just for a moment. Bastien squeezed, and the breath suddenly flooded back into her lungs. Her spine straightened.

  She couldn’t run. More than that, she wouldn’t.

  Yes, she looked different. She glanced around her and slowly dragged her gaze back to the queen. Different from her. She looked strong and capable. She looked like she did something every day rather than waft around a palace. Good.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Bastien said on a breath. He crossed to the table and pulled out the nearest chair for her. As she sat and he pushed it in, he leaned in close by her ear. ‘Don’t listen to them, to anything they say. You are magnificent. They are nothing next to you. Look at them, really look at them, drunk and stupid, inbred fools with no taste. Remember that.’

  She looked up the length of the table, directly at the queen. Aurelie’s sapphire eyes locked on her, and the practised smile slid from her face. It was a challenge. Both of them knew it.

  Bastien pulled out his own chair ready to sit.