Witherward

by Hannah Mathewson

  “He showed me ’round, is all,” said Ilsa, taking a long sip of tea. Eliot must have been right about what the other lieutenants thought of him. “I said I wanted to see some Psi magic, and see what’s different ’round Camden.”

  Fyfe nodded a little too much throughout her explanation, then became very interested in his cucumber sandwich, apparently out of things to say.

  Ilsa would have steered the conversation into safer territory, but she was saved by the distraction of two wolves, identifiable as such by their red armbands, passing by the conservatory. Ilsa wondered why they were completing their patrol in human forms, until they came within earshot and she realised they were talking.

  “Hester must be livid.”

  “I don’t think it’s like that.”

  The first wolf scoffed. “You don’t really believe she’d step down quietly, do you?”

  “Oh, stars no. I meant that I don’t think they mean to give it to the girl. I hear she was some kind of street urchin.”

  “Well, I’d hope they wouldn’t give it to her regardless. Some child from the Otherworld springs up out of nowhere and all of a sudden—”

  Fyfe rapped his knuckles on the window and the wolves started. One man paled, the other – the one Fyfe had cut off – hid behind his comrade, giving Ilsa pause about the bravery of Camden’s militia force. They mumbled apologies and retractions before escaping at nothing short of a run.

  “Something I weren’t s’posed to hear, I take it?” said Ilsa politely, though frustration was mounting. Was there something else she didn’t know?

  Fyfe rubbed his hair and frowned in sympathy. “They’ve been asked not to speak about you like that.”

  “Why? I was a street urchin,” said Ilsa a little defensively. “I meant the part about Hester stepping down. What’s that got to do with me?”

  He hesitated. “Nothing, yet. It’s just that there’s a line of succession to being alpha. It was your grandfather, and then your mother, and after Gedeon it’s… well, you.”

  Ilsa laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was absurd enough that they had plucked her from her old life and transplanted her here, into a dynasty and a mansion. The idea that she could ever be in charge, simply because of who her mother was, was an absurdity too far. Then she thought again of the wolves’ exchange and dread put an abrupt end to her humour. “Wait. No one’s expecting me to actually…”

  “Of course not!” said Fyfe hastily. “But it’s come up, that’s all. Stars forbid, if Gedeon never returned… but he will, and in the meantime Hester is just the warden. There’s no rule that says that ought to be you, even if Hester hasn’t… warmed to it yet. She will.”

  Ilsa wanted to ask if Hester could be persuaded to remain alpha permanently if there was a need, but the possibility was too distressing to utter. Gedeon had to come back, one way or another; it was the only solution.

  Fyfe gathered up his books as Ilsa crammed a final finger sandwich into her mouth before leaving the conservatory.

  “Are you ready for your lesson in Whisperer magic tomorrow?” Fyfe said, mischief sparking in his dark brown eyes.

  Ilsa came to a halt. “Come again?”

  “Cassia asked me to arrange a meeting with my astrology tutor. She’s a Whisperer, and we hope she’ll agree to teach you.”

  “Teach me to… read minds?”

  Fyfe laughed, his whole face creasing. “To strengthen your mind against intrusion. It’s an essential skill for those who can find a way to learn. Supposedly there are a handful of Whisperers in the city who will teach it, for a considerable fee of course, but Alitz is a friend.”

  “Have I got to have lessons for all the magics?” said Ilsa warily.

  “If only such a thing were possible. Whisperer magic is unique in that it’s of the mind, and so the mind can fight it. There’s no protection against the other magics except our own.”

  It was a reminder Ilsa didn’t need of the new dangers that had entered her life; things her previous fears and defences hadn’t prepared her for. That gut-wrenching, blood-soaked feeling of being out of her depth settled in her stomach. She recalled the feeling of the Oracle leaping onto her back in Bill’s flat. If the only protection was Ilsa’s own magic, her magic needed to be up to the challenge.

  “Fyfe,” she said. “I need a really big mirror.”

  * * *

  The ballroom looked like a jewel. The polished marble floor reflected the summer shades of the ceiling, which was painted to resemble the sky at sunset – oranges, yellows, blush pink. Accents in gold leaf caught the light pouring in from tall windows on two sides. The crystal droplets of the chandeliers dappled every surface with rainbows.

  It was so fine, Ilsa wasn’t sure she should be there.

  But Fyfe had directed her to the largest mirrors in the Zoo, as requested. They stood either side of the fireplace and reached from the floor to just below the ceiling. Ilsa imagined the ballroom full of dancing couples in their finery, and how the mirrors would create the illusion that the party was twice as grand.

  For now, it was just her. Which was a relief, since she was sprawled on the floor struggling to catch her breath.

  She had shifted into a wolfhound a dozen times already, and each time she pushed the size of the beast a little further, milking every last drop of her magic, pushing her body to its very limits. Sweat misted her forehead and dampened her dress, every part of her hurt, and nausea was starting to descend, signalling that she had overdone it – and yet the improvements were minimal. She was a couple of inches taller and a few pounds heavier than she had been in the form in Bill’s flat.

  It wasn’t enough. She had tried some other dogs – breeds built for power – but her magic couldn’t compensate for their size compared to the wolfhound. With practice, perhaps she could make up a dog’s shortcomings with skill, but she suspected the perfect animal wasn’t currently within her range.

  She climbed shakily to her feet, ruminating on the best way to fix that, when she noticed a second figure in the mirror.

  Oren stood at the door.

  “Are you well?” he said, peering across the ballroom at her through his glasses.

  “Fine,” said Ilsa, failing to muster a convincing tone.

  Oren hovered awkwardly in the doorway a moment. His fingers toyed with the notebook he carried. Ilsa didn’t know if his hesitancy was out of a wish not to disturb her, or the desire to avoid an encounter altogether, but eventually, concern must have won out, and he crossed the ballroom.

  “I was just practising shifting, is all,” said Ilsa by way of explaining her visible exhaustion.

  “Ah.” Oren pushed his glasses up his nose and looked her up and down again. “Any form in particular?”

  “Some dogs. I’ve been trying to make strong ones. Dangerous ones.” She shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance, but the memory of fighting for her life still plagued her. Her voice grew quieter. “I don’t want to be a liability if I got to fight someone again.”

  Understanding crossed Oren’s face. He nodded. “That’s very prudent. Though I hope you know we don’t intend that you will have to.”

  “I know that,” said Ilsa hastily. “And I feel safe here, really I do. It’s… it’s just that…”

  “It’s just that everything is different here.”

  Ilsa nodded. “So different.”

  “And I have always counselled caution and preparation.” He tucked his notebook into his jacket. “A dog is your preferred combat form?”

  “My what?”

  “It’s a transformation you practise specifically for strength and skill in combat.” He tilted his head to one side. “Perhaps you had no cause for such a thing in the Otherworld.”

  It sounded foolish, that Ilsa had barely used her magic in that way before. “It ain’t that I never thought of shifting as a way to defend myself. I s’pose I just never knew the worst of what I’d be defending myself against. I din’t know how strong I’d have to be. And dogs just ain�
��t strong enough.”

  “Is there something else suitable in your repertoire?”

  “I’ve done some bigger animals before. I used to practise a horse in the cellar sometimes when I lived with Mrs Holmes, but all they can do in a fight is kick. And I’ve tried some zoo animals, but they ain’t no use in public so I never practised them. And when I don’t practise, and I ain’t looked at one up close in a while, I forget all the details.”

  “Alright,” said Oren thoughtfully. “Why don’t you tell me which animal you would like for your combat form.”

  Ilsa chewed the inside of her cheek. She had one on her mind, but what if it was stupid? “They got this leopard at the zoo in the Otherworld, right? ’Cept her fur is white and silver, instead of sandy.”

  “Ah. A snow leopard.”

  “Yeah. And she ain’t all that big, not like wolfhound big, but she looks strong and she’s got these really big paws. And I figure, maybe if I could do a snow leopard, but bigger…”

  “Yes, I see,” said Oren, nodding, and Ilsa breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t appear to find the suggestion ridiculous. “It seems appropriate that you would favour a cat. Gedeon and Hester both do.”

  Perhaps it was a small thing – she had seen Eliot as a big cat too; there was only so many powerful animals to choose from – but Ilsa felt a thrill at the connection.

  “A snow leopard,” Oren repeated to himself. He was rubbing his chin in contemplation. “Alright. I think I can…”

  He tucked his glasses away, rolled his shoulders once, and shifted effortlessly into a larger than life version of the leopard in Ilsa’s memory. He prowled slowly back and forth in front of her in a figure of eight; the perfect case study. Ilsa beamed.

  There was an ease to Ilsa’s understanding of anatomy to which she could only credit her magic. When she concentrated on the shape of an animal, the way it moved, she felt a flicker of the charge that entered her bones and let her shift. Apes, she understood best, followed by other mammals. Birds were harder. Reptiles gave her a headache, and she had never accomplished one.

  Ilsa watched Oren make his slow figure of eight half a dozen times, then he sat on his haunches and let her come closer. Ilsa had seen the wolves behaving like humans, and she’d seen dozens of other Changelings in animal form the day Captain Fowler had brought her through the portal. She had even flown alongside Eliot and marvelled at the newness of being among her own kind. But it was another novelty entirely to stand so close to a leopard that was not a leopard, to see the wonder of her own magic before her eyes in a way she had scarcely dared to imagine. A smile played on her lips the entire time.

  The leopard came to life in her mind smoothly, and when Oren jerked his head, halfway between a nudge and a nod, Ilsa understood it was her turn.

  She shook off the aches and nausea of her previous attempts and felt her way into the form, letting go when she felt her magic take over. She pitched forward, landing on heavy paws. Her skin tingled sharply as a coat of dappled silver fur was thrown over it. Strength poured into her every muscle as she grew pointed teeth, a lustrous thick tail, rounded ears, and whiskers. She tried to concentrate on the feeling of her muscles growing, her body lengthening, pushing herself to be larger, stronger.

  Too late, she felt her magic stutter as it lost its grip on the form. Her bones began to scream at her again; an aching protest that they couldn’t go any further. It only lasted a moment before panic took over, like snatching her hand back as it brushed a hot stove. She crashed back into her true body, heaving a breath, then another, dizzy from the exertion.

  Oren shifted too. He watched her catch her breath, hands on her knees, and nodded in understanding when she straightened.

  “You’re not hurt?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I tried to go too big, is all.”

  “Don’t,” he said. Ilsa made an exasperated sound at that “advice”, and Oren raised a hand to halt her protests. “That is to say, do not focus on growing at all.”

  “But how am I s’posed to get bigger?”

  “If you can maintain the transformative state, you will grow to the limit of your magic quite naturally, if you wish it. Cede control. Your magic knows what you want. Your only focus should be the form.”

  “I din’t know that,” said Ilsa, though it sounded obvious now. She let her magic lead when it came to the form – it was the breakthrough that had finally let her escape the orphanage all those years ago – but she still exhausted herself by forcing other things. She wondered what else she was getting wrong.

  “Do you want to try again?” Ilsa nodded. “Envisage the animal with the size and strength you desire, but remember to let go of it all when you begin to shift. Keep letting go, and see what happens.”

  He stepped back, giving her plenty of space. Ilsa commanded her body to shift, and once again, her hands flew out to catch the ground as she changed shape. She tried not to think of completing the transformation; she simply kept the form in her mind without tugging on it as her magic did its work.

  It was a matter of a second, then at the moment she knew the leopard was complete, years of habit compelled her to push the transformation further or shut it down. She resisted, holding her calm, not stoppering the magic as it continued to work. Her paws spread under her; strength poured into her legs and shoulders. The second she braced for the pain that told her she’d gone too far, her magic cooled. She didn’t choose to finish shifting; her body did for her.

  “No pain this time,” said Oren, smiling in that reserved way of his.

  Ilsa padded over to the mirror, a thrill of success rushing through her at what she saw. The menagerie snow leopard Ilsa had seen in the flesh was no larger than a dog. The beast looking back at her was twice the size at least, and built to kill.

  She sat back on her hind legs, extended her claws, and took a vicious swipe at the air. She could feel the weight of her paw, the power of the strike. If she had to fight for her life again, she would be ready.

  “You must practise,” said Oren as she shifted human again. “Do not let your grasp of the animal grow stale.”

  “I won’t,” Ilsa promised, beaming. “Thank you. That mean you practise a snow leopard too?”

  Oren took his glasses from his pocket again and began polishing them. It appeared to be a force of habit. “I practised a great number of animals for a great number of years. I practised until the forms were stuck in my mind and my muscles.”

  “Can you do reptiles?” Ilsa said eagerly.

  “An unimpressive lizard or two,” he said with a small smile. “I believe Eliot can accomplish a serpent. The marine science faculty of Lenarth College are known to swim the Thames as dolphins two Fridays a month.”

  Dolphins. Ilsa had always suspected she could push her magic that far, if only she knew the form better. If it took the knowledge of a marine scientist, she probably never would, but now that she was in the Witherward, surrounded by other Changelings and their wondrous talents, so much more was possible. She felt a buzz of excitement and awe; of pride in her magic.

  But the feeling was followed by the memory that there were those who reviled what Ilsa and her people could do. Who believed the Changelings to be base and beneath them for the shape their magic took.

  Oren must have seen the dark direction of her thoughts in her expression, as he looked at her quizzically.

  “Cassia told me ’bout the Fortunatae. ’Bout the night my parents died,” she explained. Her bones hurting from her poor attempts at shifting, Ilsa sank down, her back against the wall. “She said you was the one what took me to Lord Walcott.”

  Oren smiled wistfully. “The last one of us to see you for seventeen years,” he said. He shot an unsettled look at her fine dress, then at the chairs against the far side of the ballroom. He gestured at them. “Would you not prefer a chair?”

  Ilsa smirked. These rich people were awfully proper, and she would have been lying if she said it didn’t tempt her to scandalise them. “I
’m perfectly comfortable, thanks.”

  “Well. Alright.” He went to the far wall and returned with a chair for himself, the exact position of which he fussed with fastidiously before sitting down.

  “I had been a wolf for less than a year, but I would have done anything for your mother. I owed her a life debt, and that night she gave me the chance to repay it. I hope she died trusting that I did. Trusting that you were safe.”

  The truth of what happened to Ilsa’s safety in the years that followed hung between them, unspoken. “What happened that you owed her?”

  Oren laced his fingers together, unlaced them, laced them again. For a long moment he was silent and contemplative.

  “I’m not from this starsforsaken city,” he said eventually.

  “You ain’t?”

  Oren shook his head. His fingers continued to fidget. “I came from Brema. It was a city a two-day voyage from here, to the northeast. I believe on the world map you know, Brema would fall somewhere in Denmark, if that’s helpful.”

  The things Ilsa didn’t know about the Witherward were becoming a source of headaches, and she hadn’t even begun to contemplate geography, but she nodded all the same.

  “You said Brema was two days’ voyage from here?”

  “I did. The city was not built to suffer earthquakes,” he said. “Most of it is in the sea now. The rest is ruin. That was the year my parents brought me to London. I was a little younger than you are now.”

  Ilsa screwed up her face. “They came here on purpose?” she said.

  “London was founded to be a utopia,” he said. “Five magical peoples living in harmony. We heard tales of the experiment’s dramatic failure, of course, but we did not understand the extent. There was a war going on in Brema at the time, and my mother and father believed London would be better. That there would be real opportunities to build their fortune here.”

  A shadow crossed Oren’s face, and Ilsa knew what she had to ask. “What happened to them? Your parents?”

  Oren sighed. In different circumstances, Ilsa would have mistaken it for a sigh of contentment. “We had paid a fair price for passage from Brema. High, but fair. But it was a cheat. When we docked in London, the captain told us we owed him more. Much more than we had. He brought a Sorcerer named Lazaro Tilley on board and told us Lazaro would buy our debt, and we would work for him until it was paid. My mother and father tried to refuse, but we were given no choice. They kept us on the ship until they relented. So we became indentured servants.” Oren spared her a weak smile. “But at least we were together, my father would say.”