Dead Magic

by A. J. Maguire

  "Here we are." Master Walter returned to the chairs and handed over a sheaf of paper. "I understand that advertisements cost per letter, so I'll leave it to your discretion on how it's done. It's imperative, however, that the Engineering teacher has a specialty in water pumps."

  That statement drew her attention. "Water pumps?"

  "Indeed."

  He didn't elaborate further. In fact, something flashed in his eyes that told her not to question further. As she rose to leave, thanking him for his time and promising to see to the advertisement as soon as she got home, her mind flashed to Delgora Manor. To the night she'd stared out the window at the ridgeline in the south, watching the light rotate and overtake the darkness, she remembered.

  The ark, she thought. By Fates, this was how the Lady was gathering the people she needed to build the thing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Elsie growled in frustration and tried the summoning spell again. Salt and fire whirled around her, hiding from view the trappings of her bedroom. Though she couldn't see him, she knew that Dorian had entered at some point and was standing just beyond the whirlwind. Still, she had to try one more time.

  "I, Elsie Varene Delgora, House Witch, call forth Magic to my side."

  In answer, the swirl of flame and salt stopped, poised midair, and waited. Elsie could see Dorian now, a silhouette through the fog of orange-speckled salt. It was comforting to know he was there, and at the same time, she cringed. He knew what she was doing, or trying to do, and her failure would only cause him pain.

  "Find for me Lord Winslow Agoston."

  Her command sent the salt back to spinning, whipping through the air with the force of fire behind it. She concentrated, barely able to see an image forming in the chaotic swirl before her. But the image was a blur and the most she could make out was a vast forest of coniferous trees. There was no strain on her magic, though she knew there should be. Her union with Dorian stretched her Talent beyond the normal capacity of any Witch-Born. This was the main reason the Council had attempted to block their marriage. There was a different sort of power growing between Dorian and herself, something that frightened the noble Witches.

  And yet, as powerful as she and Dorian could be together, Elsie could not clear the vision. She couldn't find Winslow, and no matter how long she stood there, the picture before her wouldn't change.

  Flinching, she released the spell.

  It's very likely, she thought, as the flames returned to their candle wicks, that Winslow is dead. The blurred trees, the blobs of what she assumed were boulders, were probably his final resting place. And Fates forgive her, it was her fault.

  "Still nothing?" Dorian asked. The grimness in his voice cut into her heart.

  "Nothing. Just those cursed trees." Because she couldn't bear to look at him, Elsie turned away.

  With one sweeping motion, she commanded the candles and salt back to their respective places. The candles swished through the air, stacking themselves neatly into a chest on her vanity table. The salt gathered and deposited into a small sack just beside the candle box, and then there was silence.

  Dorian was debating what to say, she knew. The poor man was stuck between defending her actions and the prospect of a dead friend. Dead, she thought with a great deal of self-condemnation, because of a silly order I made.

  In her defense, Winslow had been miserably restless.

  "Perhaps Miss Quinlan will uncover something," Dorian said quietly. "By all accounts, she is a determined reporter. She won't rest until she has answers."

  "As demonstrated by her appearance here at Delgora Court," Elsie murmured.

  Another long silence cloaked the room. Elsie remained at the center of their room, staring at the cream and blue quilt stretched across the bed. Leona had commissioned it from a notable quilt-maker in Three Points, Broska. It had probably cost a year's stipend, which made Elsie vaguely uncomfortable. She was used to being the giver, not the receiver.

  In fact, Elsie felt far more comfortable in her little old shop down in the township than she did in the Manor. Everything was on display in the Manor. She felt vulnerable, open, and not at all like a House Witch. Though, to be fair, Elsie wasn't certain how a House Witch was supposed to feel. Eight years in the position and there was still an awkwardness about her.

  Dorian moved to stand behind her, pulling her into a firm, reassuring embrace. "This is not your fault," he said.

  She felt the rumble of his voice and closed her eyes. "It certainly feels like it."

  "Winslow needed something to do, even I know that. If he'd stayed here, he would have continued to mope."

  "I'd rather he be moping and alive than missing and possibly dead."

  His grip tightened on her at the statement. He didn't move, didn't try to contradict her, just held her. That, she thought, is the remarkable thing about my husband. Dorian had such control, such quiet command of himself that he could speak to her even in silence. He agreed with her, at least in the desire to see Winslow safe, but could offer no words of encouragement. What he could offer was strength, security and compassion.

  Fates bless the man for his patience. True, he'd shouted at her earlier, finally demanding the truth of what they were fighting, but Elsie had expected that fight years ago. He had quite a lot of fortitude in waiting so long.

  Seeming to sense her distress, Dorian ran his hand over her arm, barely hissing as the tattoos zapped him. Elsie knew the pinpricks of gold peppering her arm were defending themselves, she could even understand that Magic didn't like to be touched, but she needed to feel Dorian's hand in hers. There were moments it felt like the entire arm didn't belong to her anymore, and she needed the normalcy of this small act.

  Sighing, she determined to enjoy the quiet moment and turned to face Dorian. He smiled down at her, though he looked more tired than anything else. Reaching up, she brushed his jaw with her knuckles and smiled back. It was unfair that she couldn't push the worry away from her mind. Dorian deserved a peaceful, warm life. He deserved better than the insanity she had put him through over the years.

  "I can sense the regret in you," he said. "Quit it. I chose the woman I love over being pampered at court. Deal with it."

  Elsie breathed a faint laugh. Sometimes she forgot that their Talents could communicate. He knew her on a deep, quiet level that spoke beyond the physical realm.

  Giving her a real smile, Dorian kissed her. She leaned into him, forgetting about Magic and the ark and Winslow.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Winslow wasn't certain what bothered him more: the fact that he still couldn't heal himself, or the damned walking stick he was forced to use. By mutual agreement, they had decided it was time to move again, injury or no injury, and he clumsily negotiated the tracks with the thing. He'd never endured a wound for this long and he suddenly had a healthy respect for the Untalented.

  Pain spiked through his leg and shoulder at every step, and he imagined his body was justifiably angry with him for the movement. Not even the verue plant concoction slathered over his shoulder was much help.

  "Tell me about the Tre`ow," he grumbled, grunting as the toe of his boot snagged on a bit of rock. He over-corrected, jarring his body and intensifying the pain. "Mother, Maiden and Crone!"

  "Do you need to rest, Lord Agoston?" Fayree asked.

  "No. If I rest I might not get up again." Winslow continued forward and slanted a glare at her. "Distract me. Tell me who the hell you really are."

  Fayree glanced down at where Mirabella kept pace beside her. The little girl's green eyes were wide with wonder. He got the distinct feeling that this was a story she hadn't been told before. That seemed a bit curious, but Mirabella was still very young. It was possible that Fayree was trying to shield her daughter from the revelation. Still, he couldn't feel any remorse for asking. Even at their slow pace they would reach Three Points by midday the next day, unless a rescue train came for them.

  He wondered what was taking the personnel at Three Points so d
amned long to get out there.

  "I'm not sure how to explain this to you," Fayree said after a long moment. "Your own history books cannot recall a time without the Pillars. You have no concept of the culture you come from, and even if you did, you wouldn't recognize it. Magnellum has grown into a culture of its own, with customs and traditions far removed from its origins."

  Winslow kept hobbling forward, frowning as he digested her statement. "You mean to tell me that Magnellum was once a part of the Wild?"

  "Yes," she said. "A very important part."

  "Is the land sacred or something?" Winslow could picture some kind of religious motivations spurring the Wild to attack them. It would explain why the Wild continued to assault the Pillars, he thought. But it also meant there would be no end to that assault.

  "No," Fayree said. "But there is something sacred to us here."

  "Well, what is it?" he asked. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can return it. Anything for peace . . ."

  "Magic," she said grimly and he faltered. "Magic itself is what we hold sacred."

  "But . . ."

  "And time."

  "Time?"

  "Outside the Pillars, time has stopped."

  Winslow paused to lean on his stick some more. His shoulder flared with dizzying pain and he had to take several breaths to steady himself.

  "That's impossible," he said. "You can't stop time. Life would cease to exist."

  "Nothing grows," Fayree said quietly. "We live and breathe and consume, but nothing new grows. There are no new births. Our children do not age. If time has not stopped for us, then it is moving at such a slow pace that we may never see our old age."

  Winslow felt a shiver crawl over his neck. Somehow, this seemed far worse than religious motivations. But how? he wondered. How could they have lost time outside the Pillars and what good did it do them to attack Magnellum?

  "How is that possible?" he asked.

  "It happened the day Magic was taken from the Host tree," she said. "We were a great people once, the Tre`ow. Skilled farmers and tradesmen, much like Magnellum is today, but with a far simpler political system. We all used the Talent you Witch-Born possess, just in smaller portions. And we all paid homage to the Host tree . . . the place where Magic dwelt."

  He didn't like where this story was going. Magic, according to Fayree, originally belonged in the Wild and the Wild wanted Magic back. There wasn't a Witch in Magnellum who would willingly give up their Talent, and even if there were, he doubted that would appease the Wild. Besides, Magic Himself had been stolen from them, too. They literally had nothing to give the Wild.

  "A woman named Median devised a way to extract Magic from the tree," Fayree said. "The intention-or so she said-was to give us a chance to speak to Magic. To give Magic a voice. She took a young man named Brasen and tattooed him with wards in the finest gold."

  Winslow could remember those wards. He'd seen Magic up close the day the Dellidus attacked. Even in the horror of the moment, the man-god had been beautiful, shimmering golden light as power was drained from him.

  "When Brasen touched the Host tree, Magic poured into its new corporeal form. We were all of us amazed," she continued, as they resumed hiking. "We'd lived for centuries with Magic, but never had the opportunity to speak with it. In the months that followed, we all took our turn with Magic, learning how best to harness our Talent. But the longer Magic stayed in Brasen, the darker the Host tree became.

  "Our Talent started to change. Instead of being able to work our craftsmanship, we began to . . . shift. At first we couldn't predict it. One moment we would be ourselves and the next . . ."

  "An animal," Winslow said, realization hitting him. Fayree really was a great cat.

  She nodded at him and smiled sadly.

  "I've never seen you as an animal," Mirabella said suddenly.

  Fayree brushed curly hair away from her daughter's face. "I've had a lot of practice learning how to control it."

  Mirabella seemed to accept this answer and continued walking. He watched her for a moment, thinking of Fayree's description of the timeless world outside the Pillars. He wouldn't want to raise a child that couldn't grow. That would be heartbreaking to the extreme.

  "Mirabella . . ." he started to say but Fayree must have anticipated his question.

  "My daughter was born in Magnellum. She isn't like the rest of us."

  "Ah," Winslow said. "So . . . what has time got to do with this?"

  Fayree sighed and shook her head. "We demanded that Median put Magic back."

  "And . . . she refused?"

  "No, she tried." Fayree frowned, her whole face pinching in concern. "But when Brasen touched the Host tree again, something else happened. Some say Median was standing too close. Others say she misplaced a ward on Brasen. The theories vary, but whatever it was that went wrong, it cursed Median. And through her, we are cursed."

  "I don't understand. What kind of curse?"

  "Median is stuck. She is constantly pushed through Past, Present and Future. You know her as Fate."

  Winslow stopped walking again, this time out of shock.

  "Mother, Maiden and Crone," he said reflexively.

  "Her body shifts because it cannot stop. She is constantly in flux, you see?" Fayree said.

  "Let me get this straight," Winslow said. "Fate, the Deity that all of Magnellum worships, is really a cursed Tre`ow named Median who may or may not have intentionally stolen Magic from a tree in the Wild?"

  "The Host tree is not merely a tree, sir. Please do not take it lightly," Fayree said stiffly. "For thousands of years it protected us and brought us prosperity. Without Magic it has continued to decay, slowly dying right in front of us. And believe me when I tell you that any Tre`ow would gladly give their life to heal it."

  "Is that why you're here? To find Magic?"

  Her expression suddenly closed. "No, Lord Agoston. I already told you. I am a fugitive from my own people."

  A hollow hooting belched into the air and Winslow glanced down the tracks. Another train was coming.

  Though it had taken them a disgracefully long time to send it, the depot in Three Points had finally come to see about their missing passenger train. Winslow could feel the rumble of it through the tracks and hobbled for the side, quickly ushering Mirabella and Fayree out of the way. The hurried movement jostled his injuries, but he was too pleased at the prospect of rescue to grumble about it.

  He didn't know what he was going to say about his sudden lack of magic and he really didn't care. The other Tre`ow was still tracking them and he wanted Mirabella safely away. He looked from the girl to her mother and then at the approaching train. Fayree had taken a big risk by saving his life and exposing herself. Damned if he knew all the consequences to it, but he could smell the fear in her.

  "Your secret is safe, but if you have any hope of survival you will go to Lady Elsie Delgora." He had to raise his voice against the roar of the locomotive. "At the very least, she can buy you a little more time."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Cringing, Winslow hobbled down the short steps and onto the platform. For various safety reasons, not the least of which was a concern to keep Fayree's secret, he'd been forced to scrape off the verue goo. He'd done this in the privacy of his cabin, insisting that the Untalented physicians were unnecessary in spite of the gaping wound. He'd expected the pain to double without the numbing agents of the plant, but Winslow had grossly underestimated the damage to his shoulder.

  Now that he could feel it, the entire arm was only barely attached. His bones shifted every time he moved; like they were floating in a viscid sea of torn muscle and cartilage. Giddiness made the world swirl in his vision as his feet settled onto the wooden deck and for a horrified second he thought he might faint.

  "Winslow!" a familiar voice shouted above the throng of people.

  Winslow hadn't really noticed the crowd at first, he'd been too damned focused on not vomiting all over himself. The unpleasant prickle of fever made h
is skin damp and his vision fuzzy, and he suddenly wished they hadn't been rescued. The verue plant was far better than dealing with the unnatural tide of heat, the nausea threatening him, or the confusion of bodies just below the platform.

  "Winslow!" The voice came again and he tried to concentrate.

  He was holding up the line of people behind him who wanted to disembark the train, but if he wasn't careful he thought he really would pass out. So he used the unidentified caller as an excuse and scanned the crowd. His vision blurred at the edges, smearing people together and making them indistinguishable from storefronts and streets and grungy market tents. Blinking hard, he finally located the voice in his memory.

  An instant later, Bartholomew Feverrette-Kelemen broke free of the crowd. He was intercepted by a Warder, who was obviously trying to quell the fascination of the crowd. It had been twenty years since the last train accident, making this an unprecedented debacle. There were a scant few, however, whose anxious faces gave away the hope of finding a loved one among the survivors. Winslow wondered which one was Fayree's husband.

  "Sir." Bart's voice cut through the clamor with cold authority. "I am Lord Feverrette, Consort of House Witch Caresse Feverrette, and you will stand aside."

  The Warder looked conflicted for a moment, but conceded. Tugging once on his suit jacket, Bartholomew strode forward, clearly angry but too gracious to complain. Winslow found himself smiling, though he knew it must look weak to his friend. Bart reached his side, took in his battered state, and then grabbed his elbow.

  "Fates alive, Winifred, if you tell me you've strained yourself out of Talent, I will kill you where you stand."

  The reprimand was quite serious but for the use of Winslow's teasing name. He couldn't remember exactly when he'd earned the title "Winifred"-sometime during his University years-but he was fairly certain Dorian was the instigator. The rest of their little group had taken to the nickname shortly after.