Dead Magic

by A. J. Maguire

  "Oh, you know me, Barty," Winslow mumbled as Bart began to lead him out of the way.

  "Curse you, Winslow Agoston. When I heard about the accident, my heart nearly failed." Bart took a slow pace away from the train, toward the private stairs that would take him into the depot. "You could try to have more consideration for my nerves, you arrogant, thoughtless man."

  Winslow was too ill to argue. In fact, given the last few days, he was honestly pleased to hear his friend's voice again, irate as it might be. He found weird comfort in Bartholomew's tirade. Winslow didn't catch it all, just the familiar rumble of his friend's voice as they proceeded into the station's formal offices designated for nobility.

  The building around him was a dizzy swirl of wood and brass fixtures, but he caught the privacy of the room they stopped in. Bart helped him settle into an overstuffed sofa that seemed utterly out of place. They were in an office, not a lounge. The fraying, brown catastrophe that he sunk into belonged someplace else. The overwhelming scent of stale smoke wafted from the thing, and he had to take a moment to fight his nausea down.

  Winslow decided instantly that the sofa needed to be burned and put out of its misery.

  "Now then," Bart said, returning from closing the door and reaching for Winslow's shoulder, "let me have a look."

  He knew his friend meant to heal him, and for some reason he became alarmed. He jerked to the right, and his shoulder snapped to life with sudden, acute pain. He lost control and wretched all over the couch. Bart swore, which was funny because he never swore, but Winslow was too busy being sick to laugh.

  "Fates alive, Winslow! Just let me fix it!"

  But all Winslow could think of was Mirabella, proud as a shiny whistle, declaring that he had a little Wild in him. He wouldn't risk hurting Bartholomew, not even if it meant the end of his misery.

  "D-don't," he wheezed.

  "What?" Bart hesitated. "Why ever not?"

  "Just . . . don't."

  "To hell with you, Winslow Fagen Agoston. I'm not watching you bleed to death. Now quit whining and let me help . . ."

  "Crone's teeth, Bart! Leave me be!"

  Obviously shocked by the outburst, Bart stepped back. There was cursing, Winslow thought wryly, and then there was 'cursing'. "Fates preserve us", "Fates alive", even the unsavory "Mother, Maiden and Crone" could almost be construed as a prayer or a plea. But "Crone's teeth" was something you only heard muttered in a black alley somewhere with murder in the air. Given what he knew now about the Fate's origins, Winslow couldn't work up the superstition to apologize, either.

  Someone knocked on the door but Bart didn't move, he just kept staring at Winslow.

  "You really have lost your magic, haven't you?" Bart said quietly. "I thought maybe you'd just been resting it after helping the other survivors, but . . ."

  The knock came again.

  Winslow met his friend's light blue eyes and held them. He trusted Bartholomew with all his might, but he couldn't part with Fayree's secret. Not here, he thought. If someone else heard him, he'd have more to worry about than his silent Talent. He could be branded a heretic for revealing Fate as no more than a cursed Wild woman. Now that he thought of it, Winslow had no idea how to tell his friends-especially Elsie-what he had learned. They would have to know, and soon, if anything was going to be done about it.

  But Fates help him, he wasn't certain they would believe him.

  Just before the door opened, Winslow nodded to his friend. He consoled himself with the fact that it was only partially a lie. At present, he really was Talentless. He wasn't certain how he was going to explain to Bart why he didn't want to be healed, but he hoped he would think of something soon. Bartholomew's expression turned pained and he closed his eyes, ignoring the fact that their privacy had been intruded.

  "My Lord Feverrette," a professional needle of a man said from the doorway, "are we to assume that the gentleman is indeed Lord Winslow Agoston?"

  "He is," Bart said quietly, opening his eyes.

  "Excellent. We have arranged lodging at the Pinnacle and Pyre." The man glanced at the soiled sofa, but his face never faltered from its polite, careful expression. "We will, of course, want to hear His Lordship's version of events so that we can discover what happened."

  "I'm certain that can wait for a day," Bart said.

  "Yes, of course."

  "Wait." Winslow fought another bout of nausea before he could finish his sentence. "Mirabella and Fayree . . ."

  "Mrs. Cornelius was met by her husband. They are filling out some forms for us and are free to go."

  "Give them my room number at the Pyre," Winslow said. "I . . . wish to see them again. Before they go."

  The man looked puzzled at this but nodded acceptance. A moment later the door was closed, presumably so that Bart could heal him in privacy. It was sometimes funny, the things society took for granted.

  "They're going to notice if you won't let me heal you," Bart seemed to read his mind.

  "I know."

  "You're not the first Witch-Born to strain himself out of Talent," Bart continued. "From all appearances, you did it to save those two females. That's as noble a reason as any to lose your magic."

  "Barty," Winslow struggled to his feet. He swayed until Bart steadied him with a hand on his good elbow. "Stop trying to cheer me up."

  "I'm not trying to cheer you up, I'm trying to make you see reason." Winslow heard annoyance in Bart's voice now. "Just let me heal you."

  "Bartholomew," Winslow grabbed his friend's shoulder, shook off another wave of dizziness, and met his eyes again. "Swear to me that you won't try. No matter what happens, don't do it."

  "What the hell, Winslow? This is insane. What do you mean 'try'? You know perfectly well that I can do this." Bart stopped suddenly, a new flicker of understanding in his eyes. "By Fates! What has happened to you?"

  "I can't explain right now, Bart. I just . . ." Glancing at the door, he lowered his voice. "It could be dangerous for you."

  Bartholomew's mouth tightened into a grim line. "Fine," he said. "But when I'm castigated from one end of Magnellum to the other for not doing my compassionate duty, I want you to remember this moment."

  ***

  "We've been dragging the water up here in buckets," Forvant grumbled and pointed at the southern slope beside the ark. "It's a pain, but at least the greenhouses inside are healthy. There'll be herbs and food, just like you wanted.

  "Master Walter is interviewing an engineer for the water pumps tomorrow," Elsie said with a frown. "Hopefully we can solve the issue of water soon."

  "Another engineer?" Forvant grunted, his weathered face contorting into a scowl. One bushy, white eyebrow shot upward in question. "How many more you plan on bringing in?"

  Any other day, with any other person, Elsie might have ignored the question. But today was her anniversary and she had pleasanter plans occupying her mind, which put her in a far better mood than normal. And this was Forvant, one of her last surviving friends and confidants. The man had known her as a child, helped her fight for Delgora when she came of age, and she could not disregard him as she would any other servant.

  "The water pumps are the final issue with the structure. Everything else works," she said, turning away from the ark.

  Where was Dorian?

  "The more people you bring in, the more rumors are going to spread about this thing."

  "The rumors don't concern me, Forvant. This ark needs to be functional, and quickly."

  The sun was nearing the horizon; dusky purples and vivid pinks sprawled across the sky. Shadows stretched and beckoned, inviting her into the obscurity of night. Standing in riding pants, blouse and vest, Elsie suddenly missed the comfort of her assassin's garb. She hadn't worn it in years. Not since the night of Bryva's death, actually.

  Her heart pinched at the thought of her dead sister. The years had not managed to dull the loss for her. Most days she was so preoccupied with what she had to do that it was barely noticeable. But then the
re were moments, like this one, when Bryva haunted her as clearly as Magic did.

  Elsie wondered if it was like that for Winslow. The poor man had been in love with Bryva before the assassination. True, it had been a brief love affair, but there was an intensity between them that couldn't be denied. It was, if Elsie wasn't mistaken, the source of Winslow's discontent, and the reason she had sent him on his mission.

  "Elsie."

  Something in Forvant's voice made her turn to him. His expression seemed conflicted, though she couldn't determine what it was about. He'd never hidden his opinions from her in the past, why should he start now?

  "Elsie, I know you've worked with rumors before. But these ones are dangerous. You're not just trying to confuse one woman like you did with Lady Reonne for the House Seat. Now you're upsetting a lot of nobility."

  "If you're expecting a Bedim Assassin to come and kill me . . ." She stopped when he shook his head.

  "No, I know most of them were killed." Forvant's long mouth twisted in displeasure. "Look. You're scaring important, powerful people. That Ambassador Taven . . ."

  "Monty?"

  "Yes, him," Forvant said with another grunt. "I took the liberty of going through his things. He had a whole dossier hidden in his luggage."

  "What?"

  "It was all about you, Elsie. You and that arm of yours. He knows it's special."

  That was to be expected. It wasn't like she could hide the whole appendage. Someone was bound to comment on the gloves she wore. What worried her wasn't so much that Taven had been studying her intently enough to create a dossier, but rather, to whom he was going to deliver that dossier . Lady Orzebet harbored nothing but ill will against her and Dorian.

  Her Talent suddenly coiled in anguish.

  Looking up sharply, Elsie searched the ark for Dorian again. She knew this pain. It wasn't coming from her, but from her husband. It wasn't physical, but deep and powerful.

  "What's wrong?" Forvant asked.

  "Where has Lord Delgora gone?"

  "Eh? He said he was headed to the town proper, to the telegram . . ."

  Elsie summoned her Talent before he'd finished speaking and whispered the command for transportation. To any normal House Witch, this was a dangerous and difficult spell, but to Elsie it had become as natural as breathing.

  "Yetakupo," she commanded, and in an instant the world was gone. For a fraction of a second there was nothing, just the elemental sense of self wrapped up in her Talent, and then she was standing in the center of Delgora market. Several people gasped at her sudden appearance, distancing themselves from her immediately. The churn of people made it hard, but Elsie managed to find him.

  Dorian stood outside a small, squat building. The sign above it read "Bosman's Telegram." Elsie hurried to his side, sensing his distress even more acutely now that she could see him.

  "Dorian?"

  He looked at her bleakly, his face an ashen gray that alarmed her further.

  "Winslow has lost his Talent," he said. His words were so quiet that she almost missed them.

  Stunned, Elsie gripped his forearm. "No!"

  "Bartholomew caught up with him in Three Points," Dorian continued, misery painting his words. "There was some sort of accident and Winslow is injured. Bart fears he won't survive."

  "But why doesn't he heal him?"

  "Winslow doesn't wish it." Dorian turned to her and gripped her shoulders, suddenly clear and awake. "He's asking for me. Elsie, I have to go."

  "Yes, of course." The words were out of her mouth before she could register them.

  Yes, of course he had to go.

  But this was their anniversary. But she needed him nearby, for support and counsel. She warred with herself, gazing into his steely gray eyes, already missing him before he'd even parted. She thought for a moment that she could go with him, but knew that she couldn't. A House Witch could only leave their lands twice a year, at the height of Winter and Summer. For reasons no one had cared to explain to her, these were the two points when her magic was at its best. The Warding Pillars were stronger, the people safer.

  They were still six weeks away from Winter Tournament. If Dorian travelled by boat, he'd reach Lorant in three. If he travelled by dirigible, he'd get there in one. It was expensive, but considering the wounded man waiting for him, well worth the money. Truth be told, Elsie wasn't concerned about costs. There was far more cash at her disposal than Dorian knew about, money that had been taken from the league of assassins known as the Bedim. She kept it hidden because she knew Dorian wouldn't like it. He'd spent half his life hunting the assassins down, he certainly wouldn't want to be funded by them.

  Blood money.

  Yes, she knew that. Every cent earned by the Bedim came at the cost of someone's life. She had, after all, been a Bedim before Dorian had entered her life. There were moments she thought he struggled with the knowledge that she'd been an assassin, but he seemed to justify her actions as necessary. After all, if she hadn't been a Bedim, she would have died before she could claim the Delgora House Seat.

  "I think the Crescent Moon is due back early in the morning," Elsie said quietly. "We will get you on it."

  Something flickered in his eyes. He reached out to cup her face, gingerly rubbing his thumb across her cheek. "I will bring him back here if I can."

  "There isn't much time. You need to go pack."

  His hand slipped behind her neck and he drew her closer. Elsie leaned into his solid warmth and closed her eyes. It did not escape her that she was about to be alone for the first time in eight years. His kiss drowned the thought from her mind. She didn't care that they were standing in the middle of the marketplace, didn't care that there were giggles and gossip around them, she only cared about the promise his mouth was making.

  I will be back, it said.

  As he pulled back and turned to escort her to the manor, Elsie felt a block of icy fear settle in her stomach.

  Yes, but will you be back in time?

  She wasn't certain if the voice came from herself or from Magic.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Valeda walked down Grandeur Street, a thin layer of snow muffling her footsteps. The pale dawn was brightened by a fresh blanket of snow; the first fall of the seasons, if she wasn't mistaken. It was cold enough that she'd donned a scarf and mittens to accompany her navy-blue suit jacket, but it wasn't bitter.

  She could almost hear the bellowing laughter of her father and three older brothers echoing through the empty street. They played hard and often in the winter, trouncing through the frothy white stuff while the neighbors looked on in horror. To them, snow was a prison guard, keeping them safe inside their homes with blazing hearths and hot drinks. But to Jeremiah Quinlan and his family, winter was the apex of freedom.

  Stopping in front of the elegant double doors of the Pinnacle and Pyre, Valeda pushed her fond memories aside. Her father was a newspaper man. Before earning himself a cozy editor's position at the Daily Prime-her own paper's direct opposition-he had been a reporter like her. In fact, everything she knew about the business came from him. She could hear his voice even now, coaching her to remove her own bias, to make herself like a sheet of blank paper, unprejudiced against whatever story she was about to find.

  But there was a problem this time.

  This time, the story she was meant to get dealt with the very man Lady Delgora had sent her to find. It was too bizarre to be coincidence. Lord Agoston hadn't been seen in months. His erratic behavior had estranged him from his own family and pushed him from the public eye. How he had ended up in Three Points, Broska, hundreds of miles away from Agoston House lands, left quite a bit up to speculation. The cursed man wasn't doing anything to stem that speculation, either.

  She glared at the shiny brass doors and tried to fathom a man who allowed the rumor mill to slander him. Most of the Witch-Born would relate some sort of public statement, if only to calm the nerves of the Untalented. But from Lord Agoston there was nothing, not even when t
he gossip suggested that Winslow himself had caused the train accident.

  Taking a deep breath, Valeda pushed open the doors and stepped into the warmth of the Pinnacle and Pyre front lounge. Everything was cream and brown inside, promoting a sense of cleanliness, warmth and class that might have intimidated her before. Now, however, she was too focused on her goal to care if her jacket wasn't flush with fashion.

  Lifting her chin, she made her way to the polished front counter. No one greeted her in the lounge, which was expected this early in the morning, but the silence still unsettled her. Perhaps it was unseemly for a girl to call upon a wounded man like this, but she needed to bring something back to her boss, Korman, or she'd be out of a job. The other two survivors of the train accident disappeared hours after their arrival in Three Points, making Lord Winslow Agoston her only chance at keeping gainful employment.

  Ringing the little bell on the counter, she prepared herself for a fight. An immaculate man walked stiffly out of the back offices. The curls of his dark hair looked somehow stern, waving to the left in a precisely curved arc. He had a flat face, as though perpetually pressed against a bit of glass, with a long, pointed nose and flaring nostrils. Valeda smiled as winsomely as she could when his black eyes settled on her.

  "I am here to meet with Lord Agoston," she said, trying to adopt a casual manner.

  "His Lordship has given strict instructions that he is not to be disturbed."

  Valeda had anticipated this. More than one of her colleagues had moped about having been turned away from the place. They, however, did not have a patron.

  "His Lordship will accept me, sir. House Witch Lady Elsie Delgora put me on this errand. Please express this to him."

  The man eyed her narrowly, but set off for the back rooms. Presumably, he was going to relay her message to the Lord in question, so she waited.

  Sunrise glowed fiery orange through the windows, setting the lounge into vivid shades of gold and honey. The ivory floor rug tinged an opaque pink in the reflecting light, and the deep cherry wood on the furnishings warmed until they looked black. Simple, classy and clean, she thought. It was no wonder why every nobleman and ambassador lodged here.