He could sense it at the core of his being, faint from over-use but still there. Slowly, meticulously, he took an inventory of his injuries. His magic led him, pinpointing several lacerations, a fracture in his left elbow, a large contusion on the left side of his skull where the seat had snapped free of the train and hit him. Concussion, more than likely, but not nearly as disconcerting as the collapsed lung, he thought. His right leg was broken in no fewer than three places, mostly near his foot, where the floor of the train car had been sandwiched against the wall of the train.
"Have mercy," he winced and wheezed at the same time.
Another droplet hit his jaw and Winslow focused. The map his magic had made of his battered body consumed his mind. He could see it, feel it, as he commanded his Talent to mend the lung. It was an agonizing moment as he bent time, speeding up the recovery process for the injury and he cried out from the pain of it. The sound of his own voice seemed very small, as though the train had swallowed him whole.
His lung patched and inflated and he took his first full breath of air since the crash.
After three deep breaths, Winslow concentrated his Talent on escaping from the train. The window would have been near his feet, or at least, that's where he estimated it would be. When he'd landed on the floor, his head had been half in the aisle and his body managed to lodge itself there. He could feel indentations in the metal floor where his elbows pushed back against the crumpling train.
He heard a small whimpering sound, muffled through the metal surrounding him. Winslow flinched, his heart twisting at the anguish he heard. It came again, originating from somewhere to his left. Craning his neck back, he squinted at the dark, calling on his magic to pull his vision into sharp focus.
A jagged tear made a vent in the iron floor, exposing shadowed ground that looked impossibly far away. The tear was a good two feet from him, but by the angle of it Winslow could calculate that their car was jammed up on top of something.
"Hello?" His voice was raspy, sounding eerie even to him.
A sniffle and a light movement came from just beyond the tear, and Winslow's stomach dropped. The little girl and her mother, he thought.
"Hello?" He said, more forcefully this time.
"My hand is stuck and Mother's asleep."
Winslow closed his eyes again, his chest locked in grief. Fates have mercy, he prayed, may that woman just be unconscious.
"What's your name?" He tested his moving room, hissing as his fractures came roaring to life.
"Mirabella."
"It's nice to meet you, Mirabella. My name is Winslow."
Gritting his teeth, he forced his Talent to mend his body. He had to go one injury at a time, but none of the fractures were quite as agonizing as the lung had been. His magic still needed rest, but little Mirabella needed rescuing now, too. And if he was fully honest with himself, Winslow was starting to get claustrophobic.
"Are you hurt?" Mirabella asked.
"Only a little," he bit back a curse when he realized he couldn't fix his leg until he freed it from the bent metal.
"Mother says men swear a lot when they're in pain because it makes them feel better."
He smiled briefly before pressing his palms to the seat half folded on top of him. "I don't know that it makes us feel better, but it certainly lets us focus on something else. Are you hurt, Mirabella?"
"My hand is stuck and I can't feel my fingers."
"What's it stuck in?"
"I don't know, I can't see around Mother's head."
Winslow fought back the images that brought to mind. Imagining the girl staring at her dead mother for however long he'd been unconscious, he felt terrible that he'd been so frustrated with her before. Of course, he didn't know that the mother was dead. He prayed she wasn't, but someone had lost enough blood for it to drip into his face. It seemed uncharitable to hope that fate belonged to Cosata Divenhurst-Lorlain.
"Mirabella, I'm going to move the seat that's on top of me. There's going to be a lot of noise. Try not to be frightened."
He waited for her to acknowledge him before he pushed at the seat. It was a joint effort of his natural strength and his Talent to move the thing, straining muscles and magic to an almost painful point. Iron scratched into iron, screeching in a spine-tingling pitch. Something shifted higher up in the train car, slamming into the row of seats as it came free. Winslow felt the shock of it rattle into his arms and through his shoulders but didn't let go.
Mirabella screamed in pain and Winslow stopped, panting and alarmed. "Mirabella?"
She continued to cry, great gasping wails, and Winslow panicked. He tore his foot out of the vice it was stuck in, shouting in mingled fear and pain as the metal tore deep into his leg. All the fractures in the offending appendage shifted to squeeze through the opening. He fought his way up to the tear in the floor, placed his good foot on the jagged lip and shimmied his way up to where Mirabella should have been.
He found a booted foot first: feminine, with a half an inch of pointed heel and several dainty buckles up the side. By its size, he could tell that this was the mother. Carefully, trying not to jostle the train any more than he already had, Winslow reached out and circled the woman's ankle with one hand. He concentrated on the sensation of touch and tried to ignore Mirabella's hiccupping cries.
A rapid, stuttered pulse beat into his palm and he exhaled in relief.
The mother was alive.
"Mirabella?"
"My hand . . ."
Fates alive! He wished he could see through metal. "I know you're hurt, but I need you to be brave. Can you be brave?"
"Mother says being brave means you look at the thing that scares you most and tell it to scram."
Winslow smiled and wiped blood and grease from his brow. "I like your mother. Do you think you can be brave?"
"Yes."
"Good." He paused and bent to duck his head through the hole.
Their train had leapt the tracks. In the shadow of their particular car, Winslow could see the railway tracks more than five feet away. The ferny, mountainous landscape of southern Clenci meshed with the white-washed gravel that held the train tracks. He was grateful for the sudden brush of late autumn air through the vent on two accounts. For one, it smelled a damn sight better than the wreck of the train; and for another, it meant less of a chance of a fire. At the moment, he had quite enough trouble to cope with.
"Mr. Winslow?"
"One moment, Mirabella."
He didn't want to move anything on the inside of the train again. Fates only knew what else might fall on top of them if he did. They didn't have time for him to climb on top and work his way down to them, either. Pulling his head back inside the train, Winslow glanced between the snaggle-toothed metal and feminine boot. There was no way to help Mirabella or her mother until he could see what he was dealing with.
Setting his hands against the edge of torn iron, he summoned his magic once more, growling as he ripped the train floor further. He kept tearing, folding the iron away, ignoring the sharp bite of broken metal in his palms. His own blood started a slow roll around his wrists, soaking into the sleeves of his dress shirt. The tan, linen material turned a rusty color at the cuffs and for a moment he turned his attention to that instead of the strain. Then he redoubled his efforts, widening the hole until he reached the mother's knee.
Pausing for breath, Winslow balanced on the shredded floor and considered the tangle of iron and woman before him. The best way to get the girl and her mother out of the train was just to continue ripping the hole in the floor, and then lower them down. But Mirabella's hand was stuck on something and he had to get around the mother to see properly.
With a resigned sigh, Winslow got back to work. Bracing himself on either side of the hole, he peeled back the floor, pushing warped curls of iron away until he encountered Mirabella's leg. Then he continued further, inch by painstaking inch, scooting his own body along for better balance.
He found the trapped hand fir
st. A little arm in pansy-printed sleeves led up to the seat just beside them. A seat that had come loose and now sandwiched Mirabella's hand to the train floor. Gingerly, slowly, Winslow worked the metal away from her hand. It was more than broken, he realized with a pang of sympathy, it was crushed.
"Mr. Winslow?" Mirabella's voice was closer now, and he could hear the tremble of fear in it.
"Just call me Winslow." He freed the hand and carefully pulled it away from the seat.
"Are you a Witch-Born?"
"Would it matter if I was?" Grunting in effort, he pushed at the metal caging them in, dragging it back and away, and shoving with his shoulder when it got too high.
"I can't imagine an Untalented man staying behind to free me."
"Nonsense. There are some perfectly sensible Untalented men who would do everything they could to save you." His fingers found a shock of curly hair and he breathed in relief. With another two bends and rips he revealed her face and, panting, tried to grin at her. "Hello there, Miss Mirabella. Would you like to get out of the train now?"
She nodded at him, her green eyes blinking.
"Excellent. Scoot closer to me and I'll show you the way out."
Careful not to jostle her mother too much, Mirabella shimmied her way toward him. When she reached the lip of the hole, her eyes grew wide with surprise. He knew she was still in pain; she had to be with her hand the way it was. Still, she didn't cry out when he took her by the arm and lowered her down. Even with his body stretched as far as it would go, it was still a drop, but aside from a small oof on impact, Mirabella kept calm.
The mother-Fates be praised-wasn't stuck on anything. Winslow pulled her by the waist, then fought to sling her limp form over one shoulder. When he was confident she was secure, he lowered himself until he dangled from the awkwardly positioned train car.
It really is a drop, he thought, as he stared past his boots and at the ground. He tried to calculate if his magic could withstand a time-bend, and realized that if he tried that, he'd never recover from it. Grimacing, he took a deep breath and let go.
His still broken foot hit the ground first and he yelped. His body collapsed under the weight of Mirabella's mother and jolts of pain shot up and down his leg. Dizzy sparks overwhelmed his vision when his head smacked into pebbly ground. Dazed, hissing in anguish, Winslow stared up at the underbelly of the train car.
"Mother, Maiden and Crone," he muttered.
CHAPTER THREE
She's important.
Elsie tugged on her earlobe, knowing the voice hadn't been audible to anyone else, but feeling self-conscious just the same. Despite the rumors that she was going crazy, Elsie knew this voice; had known it all her life. From the moment she was born, magic had been a part of her, growing with her, sharpening as she'd learn to use the Talent inherent to her race. But until recently, it hadn't manifested itself in such a clear, undeniable way.
Her.
Looking up, Elsie watched Leona escort Ambassador Taven and a mousy-looking woman into the gardens. Since she knew Magic wasn't trying to point out Leona, Elsie focused on the other woman.
Cropped dark-brown hair with tints of red that warmed under the sun curled in disarray around the woman's head. She looked stylish without appearing to fuss over it, which meant there were more important things on her agenda. Dove-gray eyes flicked over the gardens, widening as though she were startled and impressed. There was a bird-like quality to the woman, gentle and small curves in her oval face, a slightly pointed chin, and a mouth that looked a smidgen small, but when taken with the rest of her face was proportioned just right.
As they neared the gondola where the table had been arranged, Elsie relaxed in her lattice chair and surveyed the woman openly. She was, after all, the House Witch of Delgora and did not have to apologize for taking an interest in an uninvited guest.
Whoever had dressed the poor thing should have been shot. The caramel-colored skirt didn't complement her hair and the cream lacing almost exactly matched her skin. Something red would have looked better.
"You've got that displeased look again."
Elsie smiled just as Dorian's hand squeezed her shoulder. She'd known he was coming but hadn't heard his approach. With a fluid movement he bent to kiss her cheek before settling in the chair beside her. For a moment, Elsie allowed herself to bask in the feel of her husband's presence. Reaching out, she took hold of his hand and felt the purr of his magic through his skin. He smiled back at her before turning his attention to the approaching emissary.
"Montgomery Taven." His mouth twitched down and she sensed his annoyance. "No doubt bringing more recriminations from my stepmother."
"He could be here on your father's business." Elsie squeezed his hand in what she hoped was reassurance.
"Father would have come on his own."
They quieted as Leona presented their guests, gesturing first to Montgomery, who gave them a perfect bow in greeting. His copper buttons gleamed in the sunlight and Elsie calculated that his beautiful coat was going to have him sweating before the tea was served. As nice as he looked, the thickly embroidered material wasn't practical for the Delgora tropics.
No, Elsie thought. Poor Taven is better suited for the high woodlands of Orzebet House. Situated on the furthest northern border of Magnellum, Orzebet lands had some of the longest winters around.
"You look splendid, Ambassador Taven," Elsie said. "Those buttons are quite clever."
"You flatter me, Lady Delgora." Montgomery's cheeks flushed, either from heat or pleasure, and he bowed again.
With deliberate movements, Elsie turned to regard the woman beside him. Up close, there was an undeniable shine to her, something unnatural that seemed to warm out through her skin. Elsie met her gaze directly and held it, seeing the anxiousness in her but nothing that could explain the strange glow.
She's Fated.
Startled, Elsie reflexively tightened her grip on Dorian's hand. She'd never known an Untalented to be Fated before. The Fates normally delved into the lives of the Witch-Born, leaving the Untalented to their own devices. Dorian squeezed her hand back, helping her to focus on propriety again.
"And who is this?" Dorian nodded to the woman in question.
"Ah, I do beg forgiveness. This is Miss Valeda Quinlan of the Tormey Regular. She has been a delightful distraction in the waiting hall." Montgomery emphasized the word "waiting", letting them know he was peeved about how long they'd left him.
Elsie ignored the implied accusation.
"The Tormey Regular?" Elsie smiled and gestured for them to be seated. "I've read several articles from that distinguished paper."
"You have, my Lady?" Valeda's eyes widened in surprise, but she managed to take her seat beside Montgomery.
"Yes, we Witch-Born do learn how to read, Miss Quinlan." Elsie continued to study the woman, who flushed a painfully bright pink under the scrutiny.
"No, of course, my Lady. I only meant that . . . well, Tormey is so far away. I wouldn't have thought a person of your distinction would have the time to bother." Valeda bit her lower lip, glanced at Montgomery, then Dorian, and finally back to Elsie.
Her mind mapped out Magnellum. Tormey House, she thought. Eastern Magnellum. She really didn't know much about the Tormey family. However, those lands were very popular with the Untalented and Elsie had a particular interest in its Universities.
"I take an interest in all of Magnellum, Miss Quinlan," Elsie said. "Isn't that right, Ambassador?"
"It would appear so," Taven said. He was too well-bred to squirm, but she had the distinct feeling that he wanted to. The attention of the table moved to him and Elsie spotted a bead of sweat rolling from his temple. The poor man was sweltering in that coat. If she asked him to, he would likely take the thing off, regardless of the social faux pas that would make. One did not dress down in the company of a Witch.
Elsie felt a wave of humid air pass over her and glanced at the garden. Strong purple and pink hues overwhelmed the greenery in
the space, still keeping the jungle feel with the hibiscuses in constant bloom. There was only one bush that looked awkward in the bunch, set nearest to the gondola and small by comparison; a rose bush. Her mother had determined to have one many years ago, but it was Brochan Delgora-Fie, Elsie's father, who had managed to bring a potted rose into the tropics.
Leona kept the thing alive, mostly by her gentle willpower, or so Elsie thought. For years it had been a symbol of pain for Elsie; a dark reminder that the ambitions of men could end in murder. Her heart ached for her parents and she took a deep breath.
"Tell us, Ambassador, what news my stepmother sends." Dorian slouched in his chair.
"Lady Orzebet wishes to meet with you both at Winter Tournament." Taven remained poised but sweating, inclining his head just-so as he made the request.
"We were not intending on going to Winter Tournament," Dorian said, glancing at Elsie.
Elsie's mind went to the ark. Seven long years of construction and they were nearly done. There was an ominous growling in the back of her mind, a warning that they might not be done in time. That she would fail all of them, that she had somehow misinterpreted Magic's guidance, but even as she contended these thoughts, there was a greater fear. The ark was a colossal, sprawling, floatable dome of brass and iron, built to house many people and withstand any assault; and the Fates only knew why she'd had to build it. Magic only told her so much, shedding light only when it pleased him. She wasn't certain if he was just capricious or if he was hiding something from her.
Maybe she really was going crazy.
***
On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most bizarre, Valeda decided that House Witch Delgora qualified for an eleven. She was beautiful, make no mistake, with the richest, blackest, shiniest hair Valeda had ever laid eyes on, and exotically curved features offset by lush eyelashes, perfectly arched eyebrows and a full mouth that seemed always to be half-smiling. But there was something preoccupied in the steady, umber gaze the woman sent her, something that made Valeda nervous.
Dead Magic Page 2