‘He’s mine,’ she told him. ‘I told you not to mark him. He’s my favourite… mandolin player.’
As if aware she had said too much, she sank back into her seat, her face ugly with suppressed rage.
Behind them someone snickered. The queen’s head snapped around looking for the source of the noise. But every face was a mask.
Asher grabbed the man’s arm again, dragging him up and shaking him like a dog to get him to cooperate. For a moment nothing happened, and then, in front of everyone, the bone began to reknit itself, pushing back into the musician’s skin, which crawled back over the wound. In theory any Gore could do this, Grace knew that. They commanded the body and the blood. She’d seen one who could fix internal bleeding, broken bones, perforated lungs… anything. But mostly that particular magic lent itself to cruelty. They made excellent torturers.
The musician’s sobs died off. He blinked, staring up into Asher’s face. The general smirked, just for a moment.
And the mandolin player screamed, tearing himself free. He ran for the doors.
But he never made it. As he reached the threshold, Asher made one simple gesture with his hand, a quick circle with his wrist, practised and sure.
The musician’s head turned. With a sickening crack, his neck snapped and he fell.
Aurelie screamed. She lunged forward, then seemed to remember herself and stopped. She gasped out a sob, then another. But suddenly the grief stopped as she regained control of herself. Then she rounded on Asher like a fury.
‘What did you do that for?’
But Asher just looked unrepentant. ‘You know I never liked him. Or his whiny voice. Besides, we didn’t need him telling tales.’ He lifted the little orb, still glowing. ‘I can see many practical application of this, Mother Miranda. Not just healing. Torture too. Assassination. Combat.’
The Gore made a noise suddenly, a strangled sob. His body arched and he convulsed. Foam flecked with blood bubbled from his mouth. Miranda’s face froze and she ran to his side, snapping at the guards to get back. She checked his pulse, peeled back his eyelids, and cursed. She looked up with a look of rage on her face, her eyes searching the watching crowd for one man.
Grace felt a surge of magic and Bastien clenched his hands to fists at his side, his eyes tightly closed.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.
‘Putting a stop to this.’
‘Bastien, you’re killing him.’
He didn’t reply. The Gore arched up, twisting against those holding him down, and an agonised groan wrenched its way out of his mouth.
Then he fell down as if a string had snapped. The light in the twin orbs faded.
‘Well, applications that last for a little while.’ Aurelie gave Kane a smug glance. They didn’t even look at Bastien. They hadn’t realised what he’d done. ‘There are better things to do with magic. Come, everyone, let us celebrate. Get them out of here,’ she told the guards. ‘Miranda, this is meant to be a party. Not a failed demonstration of your experiments.’
Mother Miranda hid a scowl behind her flawless face and clapped her hands again. Globes of light appeared around her, little orbs like the jars in Bastien’s study. They bobbed across the room, dancing in the light, the flickering flames inside them casting wild shadows everywhere. The queen squealed in delight, her beloved mandolin player soon forgotten, and jumped up to catch one. The others all joined in, leaping up from their seats and lurching around after the bobbing orbs.
Bastien grabbed Grace’s arm. ‘We have to go.’
Grace didn’t even have the strength to fight him, allowing him to pull her after him. But before they reached the door, he glanced back and stopped, his hand releasing her abruptly. Bastien stared past her, dismay making his eyes huge, and Grace turned, slowly, reluctantly. Kane stood right behind her, towering over her, holding an orb in his hands. It glowed with a green light and Kane smiled, his eyes reflecting it. The expression on his face was even more frightening than the orb.
‘Take it,’ he said. There was no trace of drunkenness to him now. Not the kind that came from wine. He thrust the orb towards her. ‘Why not join us, Captain? Take it and drink.’
‘Yes, drink it,’ said the queen. She still moved like a dancer, graceful and elegant, but whether that was innate or stolen it was impossible to tell. She locked eyes with Grace, lifted the orb to her own perfect mouth and light flowed into her, illuminating the veins in her skin from inside. ‘Drink down the magic. We can all share in it. Command him, Captain Marchant. Make him share. You can do that now. Come on, Bastien. Don’t be greedy. You aren’t the only one any more.’
‘Where… where did it come from?’ Grace asked. ‘The magic, where did you get it?’
‘Oh, she brings it, silly captain,’ crooned the queen. Her eyes glowed now, purple like the light that had been in the now empty orb. She fumbled with it, dropped it, the glass shattering on the tiled floors. ‘We pay handsomely. And Mother Miranda provides. The Temple of the Little Goddess always provides.’
She laughed, and wriggled her fingers. The pieces flew up, whirling around her head like a crown made of shards.
‘Drink,’ said Kane. He held the orb out to her and Grace felt her fingers itch to take it. It called to her and she wanted it. Just from looking at it. She could feel the lure of the Maegen. ‘Fire at your fingertips. Fire in your blood. Grace Marchant, the Lord of Thorns can never offer you this.’
Fire? The last thing she needed was more fire. But all around her, the chosen nobles, the favourites of the queen, were dancing around like drunks, making fire, fanning it with a wind made of nothing, swirling the wine around like ink in the air. One of the men seized a hunk of lamb and bit it until it started to spout fresh blood and shake in his hands.
Grace retched, staggering backwards. Kane laughed at her and drank down the fire in the orb, the stolen magic of a Flint, just like her. How they had done this, how they were doing it, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to know.
Bastien caught her in his arms. ‘Grace, stay with me,’ he said and this time she nodded. She knotted her fingers with his and they backed towards the doors.
‘Spoilsport,’ the queen cried out. ‘Another, oh give me another, Mother Miranda. Make me a Lyric for a moment or two. Please. I’ll give you anything.’
‘No need, your serene highness. I have all you want,’ Mother Miranda laughed and held out another orb, this one filled with gold which Aurelie snatched greedily. The failed experiment and Bastien were clearly forgotten. Magic could do that to the unwary, make them forget. Zavi liked to say it fed on memories. What would they remember about tonight? Not a murder… two murders… or more.
‘Now, Grace,’ Bastien said. On the other side of the room a beautiful young woman wound her hands together and dragged the air out of the lungs of her companion. He went down on his knees, gasping, clawing at his own throat. She laughed as she smothered him.
They turned on each other as if it was all a game, tearing into each other, laughing at the pain and death.
Miranda blocked their way. ‘Leaving?’
‘This is an abomination,’ Bastien snarled at her, but she just smiled.
‘Because it’s what you do? Come, Bastien. We have no need for secrets, you and I. You enjoyed ending that Gore. Just as she enjoyed hunting him. We’re not so different, the three of us. I know you of old, remember? I can help you remember. Join me. You know you want to. Use your magic as it was meant to be used. Control these fools. Rule them.’
‘Hard to rule the dead,’ he replied, disgust seething from every word.
But Miranda’s smile didn’t fade. ‘Not if you bring them back from the Deep Dark. Not if you reach down there. You can do that, can’t you? I know you can. You told me once. Remember?’
Bastien just stared at her as if she was talking nonsense. ‘I… I never…’
‘No? Then who taught me this?’ she asked.
One of the courtiers was already on the ground, blood po
oling from his chest. She stretched out her hand and his wound closed, his chest heaved and his eyes opened.
‘What have you done?’ Bastien growled.
Miranda’s smile grew even wider, wolf-like. ‘Remember…’
Grace recoiled, but Bastien didn’t seem able to move, staring at the woman.
‘Divinities,’ Grace growled. ‘Are you mad? Move.’
‘He’s tempted,’ said Mother Miranda. And she smiled at Grace. ‘He always has been. That’s the danger of being mageborn, isn’t it, Bastien? I know that better than anyone. Of being the Lord of Thorns. Tell her.’
‘It’s… it’s always a temptation,’ he said, his voice pained and broken. It didn’t sound like his voice at all. The words seemed pulled from him. A compulsion? How was she casting a compulsion on him?
Miranda reached out her free hand and touched his face, drew him towards her. Magic coiled around him, cold and terrible. How strong was she? Grace’s skin prickled with the proximity. Miranda didn’t seem to even notice she was there now.
‘So deliciously powerful,’ she whispered, as if describing a favourite meal. Bastien’s eyes fluttered closed and he wilted, his knees beginning to give out. ‘You always were so powerful. Oh sweet Bastien, if only you were malleable like this all the time. Think of what we could do together.’
Grace moved without thinking. She grabbed Bastien’s arms.
‘Bastien.’ It was a voice of command, of the warrant. She felt it heat against her skin, her power and its power entwining. ‘Bastien, come with me now.’
He jerked back from the woman, and turned to Grace in horror.
Miranda laughed, releasing him. ‘You always were headstrong, Grace. Take him, then. Command him and teach him to obey. He hates that, but he can be made biddable. I’m sure you’ll manage. I’ll find him again. I always do. Just remember, you both belong to me.’
I remember her, Grace thought. I remember. Her voice, her laugh, the mockery, the hatred buried beneath it. I remember.
She stumbled but forced herself up and onwards, dragging Bastien with her. Out into the corridor, down the stairs and back up again until she reached his tower, his home, his sanctuary. They fell in through the door, Grace managing to get back up on her feet to slam it shut. The hall where they had eaten that same morning was empty, silent, and dark.
She slumped down against the door, a sob finding its way out of her lungs. Her hair spilled everywhere, the dress, the beautiful silken dress was torn and soot-stained. Blood splashed across her chest, or perhaps it was wine. She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
‘Grace,’ Bastien whispered, his voice hoarse. He was still sprawled on the ground, his shoulders shaking.
‘It’s okay, we’re safe now. We’re safe here. Aren’t we?’
‘Yes. Safe. Here.’
‘Who let her in?’
‘Mother Miranda? She… she’s Mother of the Temple. You met her before. Interviewed her. She’s a Leech, powerful but—’
‘I know,’ Grace said. ‘I remember now. She’s the one.’
Bastien shook his head, confused. ‘The one what?’
‘The one who stole my magic.’
Chapter Eighteen
Her hands were shaking. He hadn’t thought anything could make Grace tremble, but here they were. Bastien tried to pull himself together and felt the edges crumbling.
He’d been so tempted. A moment longer and he would have given Miranda anything. Where the surge in her power had come from he didn’t know, didn’t want to know… but he could guess. What had she done?
And what had she done to Grace?
‘Grace?’
She didn’t answer. Grace sat with her back to the door, that gorgeous red hair spilling down from the elaborate style into which Lyssa had fashioned it over her bare shoulders.
‘Grace, please.’ He knelt before her and took her hands in his, stilling them. ‘What do you remember? Please, tell me.’
Something seemed to snap her out of it. She looked up at him, and he saw her wind that iron control over herself. ‘It… it doesn’t matter. What the hell happened back there? What were they doing?’
He grimaced. ‘What the rich have always done. Entertaining themselves at the expense of the poor.’
‘They’re using magic? For… for fun?’
‘It’s an addiction,’ he replied. But Grace didn’t look convinced. If anything her disgust deepened.
‘Did you supply them? Did you take it from those kids with a syphon?’
He recoiled. ‘No!’
‘Did she?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But I don’t… I don’t think she has reason to. If she wants…’
‘Why not?’
‘She has a ready supply.’ He couldn’t explain, not easily. Not with words. There were no words for what he had to confess. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you. I’ll show you everything.’
He’d never promised so much to anyone. He’d never dared to.
There was no one he trusted enough.
But now, he was trusting her, willing to tell her every last secret. He couldn’t bear for her to keep looking at him like that. But perhaps… perhaps, when he showed her, it would be even worse.
It was a risk. But it was one he would have to take.
He’d never met anyone who every instinct begged him to trust until now.
‘Fine. But no more secrets. Tell me everything.’
Everything. The thought of it made his stomach turn, but still, he nodded.
Grace slid her hand into his and let him pull her back to her feet. She raked her other hand through her hair, trying to get it back into some sense of normality. Her eyes glittered but she wound that steel around herself and he couldn’t help but gaze at her in wonder.
The stairs seemed even longer than usual. There was no sign of her team, Lyssa or any of his servants. He led her past the study, past her bedroom, under the watchful eyes of the Hollow King window and finally up to his own apartment. If she hesitated when he opened the door it was only for a moment.
Grace made her own decisions. He understood that. She went where she would, walked the path she wanted to walk. He wished he could be like that. Like her. He wished he was half as strong.
His rooms. No one else came in here. No one at all. It was his world. His place. His sanctuary. What was he doing bringing her in here? If he wanted to keep his place of safety to himself, he was going about it the wrong way. He knew that. It just didn’t seem to matter any more.
The first room they entered was the sitting room. He liked to read here some evenings. When he had time. He worked in the study, but here he could relax.
He kept the mirror covered. That was just common sense. And if he needed to look, needed to talk, all he had to do was uncover it.
The soft cream cloth slid off and he held onto it, winding it between his fingers.
It wasn’t big. Just the kind to hang on the wall at the right height to reflect his face. Luckily Grace was much the same height as him. Around the edge, set into the frame, were enamel medallions containing images of the divinities, and others showing the different powers of the mageborn. It was old. He didn’t even know how old. And precious. More precious than anyone knew, because it was one of a pair.
Grace peered at it, then turned her head, looking at his chairs and the bookshelf behind her. When she looked back at the mirror, she tilted her head to one side. Her reflection wasn’t there. It never was. Neither was the reflection of his room.
‘Celeste?’ he said softly.
It took a few moments but his sister wasn’t always the most cooperative. She never had been. Headstrong, Marius’s father, their uncle, had called her. Never in an approving tone.
She was still beautiful. Always beautiful. Like their mother had been, or so he was told. The only portrait he had of his sister didn’t capture the madness.
But Celeste’s face did.
‘Hello Bastien,’ she said. He almost breathed a s
igh of relief. She was pale and hollow-eyed, but her voice was relatively calm today. A good day. ‘There were mice in the walls again. They danced and sang for me, like the stars did once. And… who are you?’
‘Celeste, this is—’
But Grace held up her hand. ‘I’m Grace.’
Celeste studied her in that way she had, as if she saw things in Grace’s face that no one else could see. She probably could, Bastien thought. There was very little she couldn’t do.
His sister looked past the captain, seeking him out. When she saw him she smiled, that brilliant, beautiful smile that contained all the joy in the world.
‘Bastien, you have a friend.’
Did he? He looked to Grace in a moment of panic, but she was still looking at the mirror and his sister, locked away on the other side of the city.
Using magic as if she had done so all her life. Talking to his insane sister as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
‘Yes. He does. Where are you, Celeste?’
Celeste laughed, that high, giddy laugh which he knew meant she was on the edge, that any moment now she would tip over.
‘I’m in the arms of the Little Goddess, in the little house, in the little room where I have been for longer than there has been a kingdom of Larelwynn. But we were gods once. We danced with the stars, we danced in the sun, in the pool of light. And in the darkness too. The deep darkness. They make you forget and forget and forget, but I remember. I remember everything. It sings to me. I want to dance again, Bastien, but Mother Miranda says it isn’t time yet. When will it be time again?’
Bastien stepped up close to the mirror, pressed his hand to the glass, and Celeste did the same. She closed her eyes and he felt the ripple of power coming through. So much power.
‘Have you had your treatment today?’
Her voice came into painful clarity. ‘I’m not crazy, Bastien.’
The rush of pain made him close his eyes. ‘I know, sweetheart.’
‘There was a fire. I didn’t start it. And then a flood. That wasn’t me either.’ It was never her. Except it was. Or most of it was. And it wasn’t her fault. She had no concept of control, not any more.
Mageborn: An absolutely gripping fantasy novel (The Hollow King Book 1) Page 23