Breath of Magic

by Teresa Medeiros

  "Bring a torch," he commanded. "Let us put this witch to the test."

  Arian's fury infused her with daring. She grasped Linnet's starched collar and jerked him down to her eye level. "What have you done with my stepfather? He would never have allowed this."

  Linnet caught her wrists, squeezing them until pain forced her to loosen her grip. "He's on his way to Boston to fetch a magistrate for your trial."

  "Why, you treacherous has – "

  "Bind her," he instructed.

  A boy twisted a length of rope around her hands while another man knelt to tie her feet.

  Linnet leapt to a rock, torch in hand. An uneasy hush fell over the mob. "You are all familiar with the validity of the water ordeal. We throw the girl into the pond. If she floats, Satan has saved her. If she sinks, she is innocent."

  "And drowned before you imbeciles are quick enough to pronounce it," Arian cried, struggling against her bonds.

  "Silence her. She will have her say," Linnet commanded. The boy clamped a sweaty palm over her mouth. Arian tried not to gag. "The girl's own stepfather came to me with tears in his eyes and confessed she had tried to murder him by dropping a candlestick on his head while he prayed for her immortal soul."

  The crowd gasped with horror.

  Linnet's voice rose. "But the candlestick that almost deprived the devout Goodman of his life was not wielded by human hands. Indeed, it danced in the air of its own volition while this harlot of Satan laughed with pleasure."

  Goodwife Burke shrieked and fainted into her husband's arms. Arian rolled her eyes in disgust and sank her teeth deep into the boy's hand. He yelped and pushed her away, but before she could flee, Linnet sprang off the rock and wrapped an arm around her waist.

  His breath scorched her ear as he cried, "Speak, witch! Say what you may in your defense! Deny that these devil's toys belong to you."

  Arian watched helplessly as several women paraded past, displaying her vials, her motheaten ledger, the precious herbs she'd spent years foraging for in the forest. Last of all came Goody Hubbins, triumphantly waving the willow broom.

  "I witnessed the woman riding astride this devil's device with my own eyes," Linnet shouted. "Sailing across the moon to rendezvous with her master."

  A man shouted something about copulating with the devil that set Arian's cheeks aflame. Jeers and laughter greeted his words. The torches cast menacing shadows over the familiar faces, distorting them into nightmarish fiends. Buffeted by terror, Arian swayed in Linnet's arms, her consciousness hanging by a slender thread.

  He dug his fingers into her shoulders. "Speak, witch! Proclaim your innocence if you dare."

  Arian's eyes flew open as righteous fury buoyed her sinking courage. Her throaty voice cast a pall of silence over the clearing. "I am no servant of Satan! I am innocent!"

  "What of these devil's tools?" came a cry. "Do you deny they were found in your lair?"

  "And what harm are they? A bit of badly written poetry? A hearth broom? An herb I use to season stew?"

  A woman waved a cloudy vial in the air. "I know of few enough stews that call for 'crumbled adder's tongue,' nor do I care to."

  Arian waited for the laughter to die, her chin held high. "I practice white magic. I am a good witch, not a servant of Satan."

  Several of the villagers exchanged uncertain glances.

  Linnet bestowed an indulgent smile upon them. "The church does not recognize white magic. All magic comes from Satan and proclaims the evil of its doer." Arian smashed his toes with her heel in impotent rage; Linnet pinched her sharply.

  If she ever intended to put her faith in her own talents, now was the time, Arian thought grimly, relaxing against Linnet's chest in apparent surrender.

  "This is your last chance, ma cherie," he whispered. She stiffened with surprise as he slipped into her native French without so much as a stammer. "If you'll commit yourself into my hands, the two of us can rule this pathetic little world together." Returning his attention to the crowd and his language to clipped English, he asked, "Have you anything more compelling to say in your defense, Miss Whitewood?"

  Arian knew Linnet was giving her one last chance. One last chance to denounce her magic and surrender herself into his hands. One last chance to sell her soul to a devil more cunning than any cloven-hooved monster feared by these villagers.

  "Aye, I have something more compelling to say," she cried boldly. "Time halts but keeps on flowing. The winds cease but keep on blowing."

  A blast of hot wind whipped through the clearing.

  "Love hates but keeps on growing," Arian screamed, fighting the crippling fear that without the amulet, she had no chance of success. Even her fanciful grandmama had never done more than dabble with herbs and indulge in wishful thinking.

  Linnet tossed his torch to a nearby man and dragged her through the high grass toward the murky pond. Arian's voice rose to a shriek.

  A door opens, slamming shut.

  A knife seals, then makes the cut.

  The witch says absolutely… but…

  The wind gathered force, whipping her hair across her face. A clap of thunder sounded. Lightning sizzled across the sky. Goody Hubbins hurled the broom into the pond, then fell to her knees, covering her ears with her hands.

  Arian drew in a last frantic breath as Linnet lifted her up the steep embankment and shoved her into the chill water. She sank like a rock. Her hands twitched against her bonds. She kicked off her heavy shoes, her legs tangling around the broomstick in a desperate search for stability. She fought to remember the rest of the spell before her lungs exploded.

  Oh, yes. The ingredients. With hellebore and eye of newt, belladonna and ginger root, griffin's claw and ash and soot. But there were no griffins in Gloucester, Arian thought dolefully. As far as she knew, there were no griffins anywhere except in that ridiculous fairy book. And "soot" didn't really rhyme with "newt" or "root," did it?

  She was sinking, fighting against the primal urge to open her mouth and seize a breath.

  If only… she thought.

  If only Linnet had never witnessed her inauspicious flight…

  If only Marcus had loved her enough to trust her…

  As if in a distant dream, she heard Linnet's enraged bellow and old Becca's lilting words, "Ye be a bonny witch and I be a bonny thief. Ye take yer charm, lass. It rightly belongs to ye."

  A splash echoed in her roaring ears with hollow finality. The emerald amulet floated past her eyes and drifted behind her. She caught the chain, clutching at it with rapidly numbing fingers.

  If only…

  Her mouth opened of its own volition, gasping for air, but finding only water.

  3

  Arian prayed every prayer she could remember, both Catholic and Puritan, but unconsciousness eluded her. The pressure swelled. Water strangled the air from her lungs, the blood from her veins, the marrow from her bones. Her knees rammed into her chest with a heart-stopping jolt. She hurtled forward, the dizzying motion spinning her end over end until she feared her neck would surely snap.

  The pressure worsened for one endless moment. Then the earsplitting roar of shattering glass surrounded her. The impact severed her bonds, setting her free. Free to breathe. Free to wrap her fingers around the dear, familiar shaft of the broomstick. Free to soar.

  Arian opened her eyes to find herself astride the broom, sailing high above a patchy skein of clouds. The amulet's chain was still wrapped around her tingling fingers. The skirts of her dress flapped behind her, drying rapidly in the brisk wind. The inky blackness of night had faded to the mellow glow of morning. Her relief at discovering she was still alive was so keen that for a moment she forgot to be afraid. She whooped with triumph, relishing the music of her voice before it could be snatched away by the gusty breeze.

  The broom angled downward, parting the clouds to reveal a looming expanse of land and water. Had Arian's knees not been clamped around the broomstick, they would have knocked together in terror.

 
; The stony Massachusetts countryside had vanished. In its place was a vast bulwark of towers stretching to the water's edge.

  "Oh, dear Lord, I am dead," Arian muttered, frowning in disappointment.

  The monstrous glass-and-steel structures did not at all resemble the pearly gates of heaven she had so optimistically envisioned. Far, far below, a multitude of little yellow wagons went creeping along a web of tangled byways.

  Arian slammed her eyes shut and tightened her death grip on the broomstick, rendered both giddy and dizzy by the inconceivable height. If, perchance, she was wrong about her mortal status and took a dive similar to the one she'd taken in the clearing, the broom would be of little use except to sweep up her pulverized bones.

  The broom listed hard to the right. Arian's eyes flew open and she found herself heading straight for the mouth of a fat chimney. Squealing with alarm, she jerked up on the stick only to be enveloped by a cloud of smoke.

  She emerged from the sallow fog coughing violently and batting at the air with her free hand. It seemed there was little she could do to correct the broom's course. It persisted in heading straight for one of the tallest towers, a shimmering structure that insinuated itself like a sleek needle into the fabric of the sky.

  Mustering her courage, Arian jerked a crude knot in the chain and slipped the amulet over her head before tossing back her damp hair in a manner she deemed suitable for a flying enchantress. Whether she was to be greeted at her final destination by Saint Peter or Beelzebub, she refused to arrive a quivering mass of terror. But that was five seconds before she realized the bristles of her broom were on fire and ten seconds before the dragon swooped out of the clouds and descended upon her with a mighty roar.

  Copperfield was forced to shout over the deafening thunder of the helicopters buzzing the walled acre of grass Lennox Tower modestly called a courtyard. "Are you happy now, Tristan? You've got yourself a bona fide media circus and you're the only ringmaster in town."

  From his leather chair behind the conference table on the stage, Tristan drew a dark slash through another name and called out, "Next."

  A poodle-permed contestant wearing a flowered house dress trotted forward, waving a tiny pink sweater. "If you'll give me twelve hours, Mr. Lennox, I swear I'll find the missing Pekingese this sweater belongs to."

  The woman grunted as a reporter elbowed her out of the way to thrust a microphone in Tristan's face. "Is it true, Mr. Lennox, that a computer simulation has confirmed that Richard Rastasi of Iraq has bent the handle of a spoon a trillionth of a centimeter using only the power of his mind?"

  Tristan calmly pushed the microphone aside. "Next."

  "But I found my husband's car keys under the couch cushions and they'd been missing for over a year!" The contestant cursed in fluent Yiddish as one of Tristan's assistants gently led her away.

  Copperfield rubbed his throbbing temples. "I knew I should have taken five extra-strength aspirin this morning instead of only three." A turbaned swami carrying basket, cobra, and flute glided forward from the milling crowd. Copperfield groaned. "Or maybe a bottle of Prozac."

  He shot the sky a nasty look. The sporadic roar of the helicopters certainly wasn't helping his head. Both the Global Inquirer and the Prattler had been circling like vultures since dawn, their parasitic photographers hanging out open doors, telephoto lenses in hand. He wondered who at the Prattler fancied himself such a wit as to have had their helicopter painted to resemble a rather myopic shark.

  "Next," came Tristan's cool command. His pen descended with a methodical slash as the swami slunk away. A flashbulb popped, invoking a sullen hiss from the cobra.

  "How can you be so calm?" Copperfield asked. "Your credibility is in tatters. The front office has already fielded calls from Ricki Lake's booking agent, America's Oddest People, and four major stockholders offering referrals to their therapists."

  Tristan doodled a Pekingese that looked more like a cloud with legs on the steno pad before shooting Copperfield an arch glance. "Maybe you should review the numbers of those therapists. You look as if you could use some analysis."

  Copperfield threw up his hands in frustration. "Oh, do forgive me if spending the night on the floor of your closet aggravates my neuroses."

  Tristan shrugged, looking anything but repentant. "I thought you knew where the emergency release was."

  "It was a little hard to find in the dark. If you hadn't sent Sven to let me out this morning, I'd still be fumbling through your silk pajamas. And does any human male really need fifty pairs of silk pajamas?"

  Tristan's gaze flicked to Copperfield's chest. A knowing smile quirked his lips. "Nice tie. It matches your eyes."

  Their exchange was interrupted by a flurry of discord near the bank of glass elevators. "Unhand me, you Visigoth!" shouted a cultured voice. "You're wrinkling my cape."

  As the top-hatted figure broke from his captors and sped toward the stage, Tristan settled back in his chair, his legendary composure growing even more dangerous. An unnatural hush fell over the crowd. The reporters edged nearer, nostrils twitching like predators scenting the coppery tang of fresh blood.

  Never one to squander a potential audience, the newcomer swept off his glossy top hat to reveal a leonine mane of snowy white hair. "Wite Lize, illusionist extraordinaire, at your most humble service." He flicked the lid of his cane; a bouquet of carnations popped into existence.

  The antiquated trick was greeted by a smattering of cautious applause.

  The helicopters had withdrawn for the moment and Tristan's words shredded the tense silence like slivers of glass. "Get him out of here."

  Captained by Sven, a burly Norwegian whose budding acting career had been tragically cut short when he was fired from Baywatch because of his irresistible compulsion to gaze lovingly into the camera, Tristan's legion of omnipresent bodyguards moved in. They were distinguishable from the crowd by the suspicious bulges beneath their gray jackets and the regulation RayBans they wore despite the overcast sky.

  The intruder wagged a chiding finger at them. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, gentlemen. According to the newspaper, this contest is open to all. I have just as much right to that million dollars as anyone. If you cause me so much as a twinge of mental anguish, I shall have to call my attorney." He fished around in his top hat, drawing out first a squirming rabbit, then a cellular phone from its interior. A little girl clinging to her mother's hand squealed with delight.

  Tristan's fingers twitched, snapping the pen in two.

  Copperfield smiled, rather enjoying his employer's discomfiture. "He has a point. Another lawsuit would only generate more negative publicity."

  "He may have a point, but we have a restraining order. Would you rather I ordered Sven to shoot him on sight?"

  "Sven," Copperfield called out, already envisioning the grisly headlines. "Would you please escort Mr. Lize to the nearest exit?"

  The little girl started to cry as the bodyguards seized the magician by the arms.

  "You'll have to forgive Mr. Lennox, child," Lize crooned. "He doesn't like it when you make things appear." His veneer of civility crumbled as they dragged him toward the exit. "You only know about making things disappear, don't you, Lennox?" Shoving his face into a reporter's TV camera, he snarled, "Ask him about my son. Ask him how he made my son disappear all those years ago!"

  The familiar accusations continued to ring in the air long after Wite Lize was gone, but Tristan simply flipped to a fresh page on the steno pad, chose a solid-gold Cross pen from the breast pocket of his suit, and murmured, "Next."

  It was almost a relief when the hollow thud-thud of a returning helicopter broke the awkward silence. The mother knelt to dab at her daughter's cheeks, shooting Tristan a reproachful glance. "Now, honey, I told you before we left home that there was no such thing as magic. Poor Mr. Lennox simply has more money than he has common – "

  The rest of her words were drowned out by a scream of pure terror, so shrill it pierced even the rhythmic clamor of
the helicopter's blades.

  The little girl pointed heavenward, a snaggle-toothed grin transforming her tearstained face. "Look, Mommy – the Wicked Witch of the West!"

  Tristan came to his feet. "What the hell…?"

  Copperfield was so busy gaping at his employer's astounded expression that he failed to look up until the crowd let out a collective gasp.

  "That's odd," Tristan murmured, following the erratic path of the smoke trail across the sky. "I don't remember authorizing a skywriter."

  Copperfield's own jaw dropped as he realized the trail of smoke and cinders was being shed by a flying broom. A flying broom piloted by a petite brunette whose terrified shrieks verged on deafening.

  Copperfield winced as the contraption did several clumsy loopedy-loops around the helicopter, narrowly missing its twirling blades. Never one to disdain a photo opportunity, the Prattler photographer leaned out for a clearer shot only to drop his camera and grab for his safety strap when the helicopter swerved, avoiding a collision with the soaring spire of the Chrysler Building by a hairsbreadth.

  Choosing discretion over valor, the helicopter wisely retreated. A curious downdraft seized the broom, slowing it to a near float. It came tumbling end over end toward the courtyard, the squeals of its rider growing in volume with each dizzying flip-flop. The squeals ended with an ominous thud.

  Tristan was the first to reach her. Before Copperfield could even recover from his shock and leap down from the stage, Tristan was kneeling in the grass, the stranger's head cradled in his lap.

  From the haste with which Sven dropped to one knee, tossed back his sun-streaked mane, and drew his sleek 9-millimeter, Copperfield suspected the bodyguard had been waiting for just such an opportunity his entire film career. "Step away from her, sir," he commanded, doing his best Schwarzenegger. "She could be an assassin."

  His employer gave no sign that he'd heard the warning, much less had any intention of heeding it. With a tenderness Copperfield had forgotten he was capable of, Tristan brushed a curl from the woman's pallid brow.