by Eden Reign
Not that he’d gotten any rest the night before as he’d thrashed in his hotel bed and worried about this appointment, among other matters.
The scent of tobacco stung Jackson’s nostrils as he entered the attorney’s office.
“Master Coal! Welcome!” Lawrence Easterly, Esq. was a small, almost dainty man in a linen suit with an ostentatious gold watch chain dangling from his waistcoat. The chain reminded Jackson of the haunting talisman he’d carried from the Chalton explosion: his father’s watch and chain. He patted his pocket where it hid, a constant reminder of culpability and disaster. The cursed thing still worked; its only damage had been the small crack on its face. No other person or thing involved in that horrific afternoon could say as much.
Lawrence Easterly’s handshake was limp and clammy. “Have a seat, Jackson. May I call you Jackson?”
Jackson grunted. He wasn’t surprised by his instant dislike for the attorney; he’d never liked any of his father’s associates.
“My condolences for your father’s passing, Jackson,” Easterly said as he settled behind his broad mahogany desk. “But, as I’m sure you’re aware, your father has left behind a considerable estate. And you, of course, are his only heir.”
“I am?” Jackson said in disbelief. His father’s parting words from twelve years ago echoed in his ears. If you leave here, Jackson Coal, do not expect to come back. Coalhaven will be forever barred to you. Are your childish notions of equality really worth so much? This place has been in our family for over two centuries, since Arcanan mages first settled these lands and pushed back the Nanu tribes. This is your birthright, Jackson. Do not give it up lightly.
But Jackson had. At the age of fifteen, he’d given it up and thought never to return. “So—you’re saying Coalhaven’s mine?” he asked.
Easterly nodded and shuffled papers. “Your father’s will was straightforward, though some of his friends argued that it was old and that he’d since wished for changes. Nonetheless, I hold the only extant copy of any will, and it clearly left everything to you. Daniel Lake and his Brotherhood allies also raised a ruckus about your position during the war, but I have here the writ of your agreement to the Armistice and the signed document from General Asher verifying your pledge of allegiance to the newly unified Arcana.” He lifted one of the papers, perusing it through his half-specs. “The Articles of Armistice state that all ‘property-holding fullmages, excepting those who served as colonels or higher in the Leveler Army, are to be restored with all their properties and possessions by the grace of the Council of High Families.’ Your rank was Major, was it not?”
“Yes,” Jackson replied, his mind spinning. Coalhaven was his. Merciful Rivers. But why had ‘Daniel Lake and his Brotherhood allies’ tried to prevent him from his inheritance? Likely pure spite. Or they’d known Henry’s true wishes.
“So, as you have the rights of property restored to you, it is official,” Easterly confirmed. “You are the new owner of Coalhaven, its acreage and indigo fields, as well as the Coal Townhouse here in Savana and various other holdings your father amassed in his lifetime. Congratulations, Master Coal. You are a very rich man.”
Jackson frowned. He had not been destitute, though he’d fled from Coalhaven without a penny. He’d worked for his position in the world, and he’d been proud of the farm he’d purchased north of Chalton. It was nothing compared to Coalhaven, one of the largest plantations in Arcana, but it had been the fruit of his own labors.
“I assume Coalhaven is still run primarily as a sharecropping plantation,” he said.
“I have no knowledge of such matters. I can provide you with the tax records of the past five years, however, and you may discern its operations for yourself.” Now that Easterly had given his news, he pulled out his timepiece and made a show of checking it.
Jackson didn’t need to examine the tax records to know his father took advantage of those who grew and produced the Coalhaven indigo. Henry had been a piper with only one melody: power above all.
Jackson was inheriting a way of life he could not condone, but as Easterly pushed a thick leather folio at him, his hand reached for it, anyway. Coalhaven. He closed his eyes as he thought of the old everbloom magnolia tree by the creek, the one he and Lige used to climb as boys. More than dry history tied him to that place. There was love in that land, even if it was buried beneath years of Henry Coal’s tyranny. And Jackson could initiate change on his plantation, bring restitution for the many years of oppression the croppers had suffered under Henry’s heavy hand. It wouldn’t be an overnight fix, but it was Jackson’s moral obligation. He’d grown up playing with the croppers’ children; he’d seen their families’ suffering. Now he was in a position to help them.
“These are the relevant tax records, the various property deeds, and all the legal papers transferring your father’s estate to your name, Master Coal. Feel free to contact me if you have any questions, although I assure you, the estate transfer has been managed with admirable efficiency.” The lawyer straightened his lapels as he stood, tucking away his half-specs in his waistcoat pocket with his timepiece. “The only issue was the material contested by Daniel Lake, but that was quickly put to rest.”
Jackson nodded numbly as he stood and shook Easterly’s hand. As he stepped out into the muggy afternoon, an unexpected feeling of freedom opened in his chest. He could go home. To the home his mother had created, in spite of her husband. He could bring Lige’s son back there, instead of to the farm north of Chalton. He could assist the croppers with whom he had shared his childhood. Higher wages, better living conditions, fairer requirements as they worked the magical grade indigo, a crop much in demand.
Coalhaven exuded magic; Jackson’s mother, Julia Coal, had put her very soul into the plantation. Jackson wasn’t sure if he was capable of restoring the place to what it should be. He still remembered well-trimmed lawns, exquisite magnolia-and-oak-dotted gardens, acres and acres of neat indigo fields on all sides. Henry Coal had also owned massive fallow acreage to the northwest of the manor, but Jackson could survey the extra land and explore its possibilities. He had to try. Having a young watermage about—halfmage or not—would be fitting. Beneath its fiery exterior, Coalhaven had a watery heart. There were some secrets Henry had not known.
Jackson pulled out his father’s timepiece to check the hour. It was nearly four in the afternoon. If he hurried, he could request that the governess be delivered to Coalhaven Plantation in the hired carriage, rather than to Jackson’s farm. Borrowing pen and paper from Easterly, he also jotted off a quick message to the employment agency where he’d hired a few new staff members for his farm before his father’s funeral, to have them rerouted to Coalhaven. He’d arranged to have the new maid and man-of-all-work taken together in a hired carriage to the Chalton farm tomorrow morning; they could just as easily go to Coalhaven. That would free Jackson to fetch Lige’s son first thing in the morning, and return with him to Coalhaven by afternoon. He’d also send a message to Coalhaven, alerting whoever remained there of his imminent arrival.
With all his other errands completed, Jackson found he still had a half-hour remaining in which to pursue his final business in Savana: researching magemarks in the main library on Bell Street. The mark itched constantly on his back, and he’d been wearing a high-collared coat everywhere, despite the unseasonal warmth, in order to conceal the mark should it wriggle up to his neck.
“Do you have a library pass, sir?” asked the fussy-looking mage waiting inside the building’s double doors and colonnade.
“A pass?” Jackson fairly growled. “No. I’m Master Jackson Coal.” He drew himself to his full height and scowled down at the librarian. His privileges would grant him access to the library, if nothing else.
The man paled and pushed his sliding spectacles up his nose. “M—Master Coal. The new Master Coal. W—welcome to the Library. You haven’t frequented our hallowed halls. My apologies; I did not recognize you. ”
Jackson glared at him.<
br />
Hastily, the librarian stepped out of his way.
Jackson strode down the “hallowed halls” and scanned the shelf tags. He moved purposefully to the section marked “M” in fancy calligraphy, checking his shoulder to make certain the librarian did not follow.
The shelf devoted to magemarks was, unsurprisingly, sparse. There was only one slim volume. The Nanu tribes that dwelled on the lands west of the Arcanan coastal cities were not known for writing down their histories or their knowledge of magic. Yet, in the years of the war, all avenues and advantages had been exploited by both sides. Though the Nanu tribes had remained neutral in the Arcanan conflict, both Levelers and Brotherhood had sought their secrets. Use of magemarks by the Brotherhood had spread, which told Jackson that a Nanu tribesperson had given over information—why? What bargain had been struck? Had Henry been part of it?
Jackson yanked out the thin folio dated only two months past—and flipped it open to the table of contents, running his finger down the list until he came to a likely heading: Magemark Curses: Fire—Roving Marks.
He flipped to page thirty-two and began to read.
For decades, rumors have abounded about a grave curse developed among the Nanu tribes, specifically among the Nanuren people, the tribe of firemages. The Nanuren fire mark is known for being the most dangerous and deadly of the magemark varieties. A firemark is characterized by several features. First, it is always cast by a firemage. Second, and most notably, it moves across the skin as though it had a life of its own, often causing great distress to its recipient, thus giving it the common name of a Roving Mark. Some Roving Marks also glow or change colors when they are active. It is widely acknowledged among the Nanu that Roving Marks and their watery counterparts, Drowning Marks, are not amenable to remediation. Few who have been so marked have recovered. Indeed, among the Nanu, Roving Marks and Drowning Marks are considered fatal unless removed. The more a magemark roams over the flesh, the more deadly it is considered. The victim is subject to a miserable decline, first into madness, and then into death.
Death!
Jackson’s mark was clearly one of these “roving” ones. He swallowed. He was dying, then. His father’s cursed magemark was killing him. First, driving him to insanity, and then snuffing the life from his body. Sacred Wells.
Jackson’s hands shook. He tried to calm his breathing, but a tight constriction took hold of his throat. His father, on that ashy deathbed, had taunted him that he’d face a slow and agonizing end on account of the mark. But only as Jackson read did it truly sink in. Dying! The word seeped through his mind like insidious poison, destroying his concentration. He read on.
During the War of the Rebellion, Arcanan research into magemarks has flourished. Due in large part to the efforts of the Blazen Family, the nature of these Nanu curses is better understood.
A magemark curse originates from the Indigo Wells, and thus is fullmage spellwork. But once it strikes, it connects to the flesh of its target, in a manner more like what we would consider halfmage spellwork—and it should be noted that the Nanu tribes do not look upon these distinctions as unfavorably as we do. Among the tribes, halfmages are accepted. But this dual full-and-half nature makes the marks difficult, if not impossible, to treat. In the case of Roving firemarks, the fullmage ember of the spell is housed inside the target’s body, impossible to remove.
As part of a war research effort, the Blazen Family began research into magemarks; however, the Family retains patents on their research as proprietary secrets at this time, and even the War Department cannot compel them to reveal this knowledge.
Jackson checked the date on the folio’s spine again. January 1865. The volume had been written by Lt. Jeremy Sparks for the Arcanan Department of War.
Lige had been right. The Blazens could help him. Jackson scratched at his neck with his bandaged hand. He turned the page, though the words left him heavy and hopeless.
He was dying.
“M—Master Coal?”
Jackson whirled. The librarian stood at the end of the aisle, clutching an armful of heavy tomes.
Jackson slammed the folio closed and shoved it back onto the shelf. “What?”
“Sir, the library closes at five of the clock, sharp. I’d be happy to help you check out a book. One of your stature has unlimited borrowing privileges—”
“No, thank you. I’ll be on my way.” Jackson stepped into the aisle, hoping the librarian hadn’t noticed which shelf he’d been studying. He’d already revealed too much to Wilcott Blazen at his father’s funeral. He couldn’t afford to incite more curiosity.
Jackson had far too many secrets.
Chapter 4
Manda
Attention, ladies!” Mrs. Hurley’s strident voice at the front of the schoolroom cut through the hubbub. Manda stood with some of the older girls along the back wall as the younger girls took their seats.
“Attention!” Mrs. Hurley called again before the chatter gradually died away. All-orphanage meetings were rarely held, as space presented an issue, so curiosity burned as whispers about the meeting’s content filtered through the hot upstairs room.
“I know what this is about,” Manda’s friend Caty whispered. “I overheard it earlier when I was taking Mrs. Hurley her chocolate.”
Manda's eyebrows rose. “Overheard what?”
“Her door was closed, and she—”
“Miss Rivers!” Mrs. Hurley’s voice cracked like a horse whip, and she mounted her hands on her prodigious, poplin-covered hips. “Was I not clear that I wished to have your attention?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Manda answered quietly.
“And you still insisted on carrying on a conversation.”
Manda flushed, half in embarrassment, half in anger as Mrs. Hurley conveniently ignored the fact that Manda hadn’t been the only one speaking. Caty, however, was not a halfmage, and thus rarely received reprimands. Mrs. Hurley ground Manda beneath her heel whenever she had a chance, out of loathing for her kind.
“I ask your pardon, Mrs. Hurley.”
“I refuse to extend it. Now, go in the corner and stand facing the wall. Keep your impertinent tongue still. Honestly, for a girl with Nanu blood, you talk far too much. I thought nutskins were quiet by nature.”
The whole room was silent. Though Manda was accustomed to such treatment, it still stung. Her cheeks burned. It wasn’t only the humiliation; it was also the fact that Hurley’s punishment was of a variety reserved for the littles, and Manda was no longer a child. In fact, Manda’s hard work and adult sense of responsibility was what often kept the orphanage out of crisis. Take Frances and her leg, for instance. The accounts could hardly have paid for a doctor’s visit, so Manda had taken matters into her own hands. Manda also filled the roles of maid, healer, cook—however inexpert—and laundress, too; whatever was needed. Not a fullmark of recompense did Manda ever see. Yet Hurley always treated her as though she were a recalcitrant problem, a wayward child—all on account of her mixed heritage, both the secret one as a halfmage and the open one, as a half-Nanu. Manda bobbed a curtsey and turned to the wall, holding her head high though her face heated. Tears that could not emerge beneath Mrs. Hurley's public castigation burned suppressed as Caty, Manda’s roommate, squeezed her hand.
Most girls who were eighteen, as Manda was, were either married or had found work. Many employers came to the orphanage to find cheap labor. Manda bit her lip as Hurley cleared her throat. Perhaps she could leave. Marriage wasn't a likely option; she knew few men in Savana. The war had left a dreadful shortage, and those who hadn’t gone off to fight were very young or very old. As soldiers returned, there would be more eligible men, but her work at the orphanage left her no time for socializing, and Mrs. Hurley did not permit “fraternizing,” especially not for someone like Manda.
“Listen, girls,” Hurley began, her voice ringing behind Manda’s head. “Today I have received a new opportunity for one of you. The position is offered by a fullmage who requires a governess
for a young boy, a boy with ‘special needs.’”
Here Hurley broke off as a few daring murmurs rippled through the room.
“Quiet!” Hurley demanded. “I will have no one else following Manda Rivers’s bad example.”
Manda rolled her eyes, but of course no one could see.
“The candidate will go to live at Old Milton Farm, north of Chalton,” Hurley went on. “The charge is seven years old. The employer is from an important family, but has fallen into a less exalted life due to the war. I expect any of you wishing to apply for the post to present yourselves to me tomorrow at noon. The applicant must be prepared to depart at two of the clock tomorrow. Once you have committed yourself to the position, you will be enlisted to serve in the role for three years. Think hard on whether you can commit to such an amount of time before applying. Now, off with you all.” Hurley made shooing motions with her hands, sending the orphans scurrying.
Manda hurried out with the rest of them. A governess. She could teach; she had sometimes taken over for Miss Fernn when the woman’s sick headaches had kept her in bed. A governess position would suit her better than other opportunities. Manda didn’t sew well enough to be a seamstress, though she dutifully hemmed tablecloths and darned stockings and pieced together her own simple clothes. She certainly couldn’t be a cook. But she got on well with children, and her mother had taken pains that she should read in her youth. Perhaps the position was worth considering. Manda took the stairs down to the kitchen to prepare dinner, praying to the Good Waters that she would not burn it again.
That evening, after the younger girls were tucked into bed, Caty sat drying her damp curls by the fire while Manda sank wearily into the big, wooden tub, the last one to bathe.