by Trish Telep
"Aye," he said, nodding slowly. "No one needs to know."
Ah, lovely. I had a conspirator.
TWO
Despite my misgivings about our encounter, I hung the portrait of Pick on my wall. Or rather, the staff did. I certainly was not to be trusted with hammer and nails. I might crush one of my thumbs, and that would render me unattractive to the prospective suitors my father intended to bring home the following week. I wondered whether he would line them up for me and let me choose according to the cut of their coats or the shape of their skulls.
Unlikely. I would play no role in their selection at all. They would be assembled by bloodline, property holdings, and how badly they wanted to join House Magnus. Certainly, the majority of suitors would come from lesser houses, or perhaps younger sons with no hope of inheritance. Otherwise they would not be so willing to renounce their own names and take mine.
Supper that night was a gloomy affair. My parents both had social engagements, and Viktor--well, my brother never dined at home if he could help it. He was forever chasing sin in opera houses and dark theaters. Not that I was supposed to know, but I had ears and I couldn't help but overhear the gossip. Once a week, my father rang him a thundering scold about his general lack of regard for the Magnus name. Yet by the morrow, they would be drinking together whereas if I enacted even a quarter of my brother's mischief, I would be sent to the country for all eternity. Rules of gender were wretchedly unfair.
So I sat alone at the long dining room table, the chandelier throwing harsh shadows overhead. I would much prefer to eat in my room, but if I did, my mother would hear of it and chide me for avoiding the obligations inherent in my station. I had been hearing about such responsibilities for most of my life.
For reasons I could not have named, I was in a hurry to return to my room, so I could stare at the face of the boy who had, by turns, unnerved and excited me. At last, the staff cleared the final course and I hastened back to my chamber. Ordinarily I might stop in the library to find a book, so I could curl up to read until I felt sleepy. Tonight, I thought only of Pick.
When I returned, the bed was already turned down, a merry fire crackling in the hearth. The maid had laid my nightgown--a demure white lawn with pearl buttons, edged in ecru lace--across the pillows in anticipation of my usual routine. And from across the room, I gazed at the portrait. Somehow it seemed even more vital than it had before, almost as though he could see me, and I felt loath to change in front of the picture--nonsense, no doubt, just girlish fancy.
Yet I drew nearer to gaze into those eyes, like moonlight on the ocean, and I murmured, "What is it you want of me, hmm, Pick?"
To my astonishment, silver light blazed from the frame and it shivered, becoming simultaneously less and more, expanding--no, unfolding--into a doorway. Shimmering darkness lay beyond and the enchanted chime of fey music. Unearthly laughter echoed in the distance, and I took a step forward, thrumming with curious enticement. My heart thumped as I drew close to the passage that had not existed before I spoke his name.
I hesitated. Many times, I had railed against the constant nature of my life and the lack of surprises. Each day was much the same as the next, and I, a creature of unshakable routine. If I craved adventure, here it was.
Making a swift decision, I took up the beaded purse that contained the remainder of my pin money and the letter opener on my writing desk. I did not fool myself I could do much with it in the event of physical harm, but it seemed better to attempt to be prepared. I also snatched my second-best shawl in case it was cold where I was going, and then I stepped through.
The air felt thick on my skin, almost like honey, and it carried an indistinct sweetness that drifted across my senses in a drugging swirl. From behind me came a soft pop as though the world had corked itself. I whirled and put my hands up against the now solid wall. Unthinkable. And yet, not so surprising. I could conjure fire, after all. There was magic in my world, but most citizens had long ago lost the art of its mastery. The great houses governed now, not the Ferisher courts.
Ahead, a party seemed to be in full swing. I hid the letter opener in my purse and went forward as if this weren't the most daring thing I'd ever done. Pearl Magnus, I thought, intrepid adventuress. How Viktor would laugh--he was the wild one, always in search of the greatest thrill. And yet the memory of the timorous creature I had been did not prevent me from taking those last steps down the dark corridor toward the circle of golden light.
Within, I found the most amazing spectacle--a court of dancers, some in harlequin rags and leather masks, others in torn velvet and donkey ears. The music I had heard came in part from a giant music box, its immense gears ticking over with metronomic precision, but there were also more vibrant airs granted by live musicians on pipes and flutes, spurring the carousers to greater exuberance. The scent of honey lingered in the air, as I'd first noticed when I crossed, and it came from great shining goblets--wine, perhaps.
In my ordinary, at-home gown, I did not fit this scene, but I didn't have a way back either. For a moment, I merely watched them, unsure what revel I had joined. And then a lean figure broke from the throng; I recognized the patchwork gray and black jacket first. Before I raised my eyes to his, I knew who it would be.
"You unlocked the door and you came," Pick said, removing his mask.
A hiss of disapproval surged from the proximate crowd. A few dancers broke away, encircling us, and their merriment assumed a threatening air. One creature wore no mask; its own features were warped enough, its body bent, twisted into unspeakable lines. Another held a gleaming knife and it cut patterns into the air.
"Take care of her," one of them sang. "Take care of her, Pick. Or we shall."
"Enough." He threw up a hand, subtly imperious despite his patchwork coat.
A chill spilled through me. He put his hand on my arm and towed me away to a quiet corner, where only the music surrounded us. They followed his lead, though I did not know why, and left me to his guidance.
"Did you glamour my picture?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Not I, precious Pearl. But my name did serve as the key. You spoke to my picture, then? What did you say?"
Heat flushed my cheeks and I ducked my head. How humiliating for him to know I had stood before his image and done precisely that. And how could they know I would? Yet with his sharp, wild beauty, I supposed it was only natural I would play the fool for him.
I ignored his query, mustering some composure. "Why have you drawn me here? And where is here for that matter?"
His lovely smile flared. "If I am to answer you, we must have a bargain."
"Of what sort?"
"The reasonable sort, of course."
Traps and snares might as well litter the ground between us. With more bravado than courage, I said, "State your terms, and we'll come to some arrangement."
"An answer for an answer."
I considered, and that did not seem too dire. "Very well, with two rights of refusal if the inquiries become too personal."
"And the game is done once both refusals are used."
"Certainly."
"Then I will give your two answers with the understanding you owe me in turn. We are the Wild, in whom Ferisher blood burns the brightest. We use our magic without shame or fear of condemnation. We are freedom, and we have drawn you here, as you say, because you belong with us. I see the fire beneath your skin."
The intensity of his regard sent shivers through me. Can you, indeed? I had never heard of such a thing, but in the great houses, potent Ferisher blood had long since diluted from marriage with other nobles, whom put secular power ahead of arcane gifts. Yet I knew without question that I was a cuckoo in the nest.
I lost my breath at the idea he could see inside me. The pleasure at being recognized also carried a dark edge with its base in fear. I was not ready to be identified when I did not even know myself.
Personal uncertainties aside, I'd never heard of the Wild, so curiosity frothed as I wat
ched the dancers. He followed my gaze and read my interest; for some reason, he answered without my needing to ask, outside the parameters of the game.
"They're just like me," he said quietly. "That girl sells oranges on the other side, near where we met. And that gentleman--" He nodded at a man in donkey ears, "if I may be so bold as to use the term--he runs a rag-and-bone shop."
"This is their escape," I surmised.
From the world the great houses stole, turning to clockwork and steam engines in place of magic, and driving away anyone who cast a glamour.
"It is where we plot and plan and host our revels. There used to be great magic here, but it has long since fallen into disrepair, like so many of the old ways. But they were not all wicked."
"I expect not. And history ought not to be discarded completely."
"No, indeed." His gaze caught mine then with such sweetness that I momentarily forgot our planned exchange.
It took me long moments to recollect what I'd meant to ask next.
"And the answer to where?" I asked softly.
"The barbarians once called this place Under the Hill, though of course there is no hill. And only those with strong blood can survive the crossing."
A strange sickness seized me. "That doorway could have killed me?"
"Not you, Pearl. Another, yes. But not you." His sharp features gained an impish cast. "But that is three questions answered, and so I believe it is my turn."
"Ask. I will honor the bargain." But my fingers were cold; there was no question I was, now, elsewhere.
Pick gazed down at me in the flickering gaslight, and the otherworldly dancers faded from my perception. Though they still snared and snarled and drank their wind in this wild revel, there was only him with his looming height, his ragged elegance, and his brilliant eyes.
"The first question is: does House Magnus realize how powerful you are?"
"They suspect I'm stronger than most, but I've never been tested or trained."
A pleased look fluttered beneath his lashes, a softening like that of wax applied to a strong flame. I didn't know what I'd done to kindle such an expression, but by the warmth in my belly, I wouldn't mind seeing it again.
"Have you practiced your own tricks in private?" Something about the way he stressed the word tricks sent warmth streaming through me. I knew he was teasing me, but I couldn't put a finger on precisely how.
I swallowed twice before I could speak. "Of course. But I don't know what I'm doing, and I've been afraid of calling more magic than I could discharge."
In the library, I'd found old texts, cautioning Ferisher images. They were spotty on the "hows" and instead focused on the "you mustn't" aspects of casting a glamour. There were confusing bits about energy exchanges in place of true creation, and if one place pulled too much, then the world shifted to restore the balance. It hinted at dire consequences of that return to equilibrium without articulating what those might be. At the time, I'd been frustrated in my attempts to learn, but caution had gotten the best of me, so I'd stopped trying.
"Then I suppose I've only one question left," he said. "I had best make the most of it."
"Ask."
"Have you ever been kissed, precious Pearl?" His starlight eyes, fringed in sooty lashes, twinkled at me.
I could use my right of refusal here, but I sensed I would lose his respect if I did. So I lifted my chin. "I have not."
"Would you like to be?"
Heat spilled through me, setting my cheeks aflame. My lips tingled, though he stood a full handspan away from me. Oh, but he had a mouth made for kissing--superbly shaped, lovely as a sunrise. I struggled to keep my wits; that might itself constitute a glamour, if he could make sensible young women like myself feel so.
"That's a fourth question. I believe I should hear another answer before you receive yours."
"Truth," he admitted.
Oddly giddy, I felt as if I'd won more than an answer from him. The dancers twirled on, though I did notice a few studying us in their spins. It wasn't a look I'd seen before--measuring, calculating, as though they pictured me as a sacrifice--an odd sensation, to be sure. The bent thing bared yellow teeth at me, playfully snapping, and I drew back, forcing myself to focus on the game.
"What purpose do you intend me to serve here?" It was another version of the question I had asked before, but this time, shaped so he could not wriggle out of it.
"You're clever," he said. "That will help."
"That's not an answer."
"No, it's an observation. It is simple, my precious Pearl. I intend for you to use your magic to circumvent the infernal devices protecting the archives of Atreides."
THREE
"You're mad."
He grinned. "So they say."
"Never mind that it's impossible--"
"A frontal assault would be suicide," he agreed. "But I know another way in."
"And why do you want to get into Atreides' vault?" Too late, I realized I owed him an answer.
"My query first, if you please."
"Of course." Those two words served as reply to both his statement and his question, and it took him a minute to realize this.
For a moment, I thought he would grant my first kiss, there and then, but instead, he filed away the information with an inscrutable nod. "To retrieve old records, spells and incantations, locked away as too dangerous for public knowledge."
"I'd like to end the game and have a conversation now," I said.
His smile grew roguish. "You trust me enough to dispense with your own rules? I take that as a good sign."
He might be playful as a cat with a rodent, but I didn't feel mousey. "Take it as you like. Tell me more about this alternate way in."
"Long ago, there were passages within the city, traveled by the princes and princesses of the two courts."
I nodded. That much I'd heard in stories, but I hadn't believed in such magic, not as more than just a legend anyway. "But doesn't it take an artifact to control the hidden doors?"
"Precisely. And I shall find the one keyed to the old prince, who once controlled these corridors."
"Can you do that?" I didn't mean to sound doubtful; it was just all so overwhelming.
"Absolutely. They'll never expect it. In fact, I'll wager they've forgotten about those passages entirely."
So he expected to locate a lost key and raid the archives.
"How do you think I can help? Without those forbidden tomes, I don't know how to use my magic as you require. That leaves us in something of a paradoxical situation."
"I shall tutor you. I possess the theoretical knowledge necessary for our purpose."
"So why can't you undo the glamours yourself?" I tried to ask intelligent questions; I didn't want to rush into a foolish decision.
"I lack the power."
"I see." I sensed he wasn't being completely candid with me. "Is there no one else who can do this then?"
"It must be a sorceress from one of the ten great houses."
"And the magic has nearly died out among the nobility."
"You understand why you're so valuable to us."
Indeed. Someone finally found me invaluable due to the freakish aptitude I displayed. It was the combination of my blue blood and my rare power they required. It would undoubtedly be dangerous, no matter how forgotten this route might be.
"So, for a fool's errand, one needs only a suitable fool."
"You could change everything," he said, cajoling. "Don't you want to?"
Hm. Lessons in magic from a mysterious boy who belonged to a hidden Ferisher court called the Wild--I couldn't think of anything that would horrify my parents more. Therefore, the proposition became exponentially more enticing.
"I can't be gone from home too long at one time."
"Tell me when, and I can come to you."
"But only if I open the door first?"
"Certainly. The power is all yours."
Though I didn't believe the latter statement, I nonethele
ss turned the idea over in my mind. Did I want this--an adventure, a minor rebellion, culminating in an impossible task? Of course. It was like something straight out of the stories, and I would be a poor specimen indeed if I refused. My heart fluttered at the notion of having him alone in my bedchamber; I'd need to bar the door during our lessons. Anything might happen.
"Come to me tomorrow evening," I said softly. "At this same time."
"I will await you on the other side of the wall."
The music rushed back into my ears then--as if we'd occupied a space apart--coupled with my cognition of the dancers watching us. Seeming as though he didn't wish to leave me alone with them, Pick took my elbow and escorted me from whence I'd come. The hall was dark, ancient crumbling stone walls on either side.
He placed a blue, graven token in my hand. "This permits you to open the door on this side, should you ever become stranded here. There are no others keyed to my portrait."
I didn't know if I could believe him. Perhaps I might awaken some night to find him perched on the side of my bed.
"You'll find a key like this to get into the archives?"
"By the time you complete your lessons, I will have it," he promised.
I curled my fingers around the item. As soon as I did, silver light sprang up around us. He backed up a step as the doorway opened, and I went home.
* * *
Things should've been different, given the pact I'd made, but no. My bedchamber remained the same. I sank onto the mattress and gazed at the disc in my palm. Taking a deep breath, I dropped the boundaries in my head that penned in my magic to keep it hidden from my parents, who cringed at any reminder of it. In response, the fire rushed from my skin, pale as moonlight, and the token crackled in reaction. Truth. I had an artifact from the old courts. I banished the energy then and found the perfect hiding place for it.
By the ornate pendulum clock on my mantel, it was nearly midnight, so I got into my nightgown. With the events of the day, I should have found it impossible to sleep. I didn't. In the morning, I awoke and trudged through the routine: breakfast and lessons. This time, however, I paid special attention to my tutor's remarks on Old Ferisher. If I was to acquire ancient tomes for the Wild, then they might, conceivably, also need my aid in translating them.