by Barbara Howe
“Not at all.” He came closer and looked down at me, alarm in his eyes. “What happened to your face?”
I explained about the cat. He winced, summoned a jar, and spread ointment on my scratches with gentle fingers.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’ve always said to kill an enemy so he doesn’t get another change to attack us.”
He sighed and studied the jar in his hand, capping it before answering. “Our enemies, yes, but these men are not our enemies. They are, they believe, virtuous men protecting other Franks they admire and respect from tyrannical and unjust treatment at the hands of the Water Guild. They do not understand what René and the Fire Guild are doing for them, and are confused and frightened when they see the Fire Guild now hand-in-hand with our, and their, old enemy, the Water Guild.
“Beorn corrected their misunderstanding. He chastised everyone at the inn for not cooperating with the Fire Guild’s efforts to keep decent men out of the Water Guild’s clutches, and informed them they were lucky you were so soft-hearted you didn’t kill the attackers on the spot. The two men will recover with a proper respect for a fire witch, and no desire to ever again draw the Fire Guild’s attention.
“It is fortunate, indeed, you did not kill them. The already-frayed trust the mundanes have for the magic guilds would have deteriorated further. I regret not trusting your instincts regarding the use of force. As you have pointed out, you have shown you can be forceful when necessary.
“To kill when it is not necessary is…” He stopped, groping for words.
I caught his hand and held it against my cheek. “Is a bad idea.”
The corners of his eyes creased into a smile. “Indeed. You have been wiser than I in this aspect of your training. I have been concerned for so long with fighting foreign warriors I did not consider you might need different weapons against domestic opponents.”
“Or what you’ve been harping on for all our training—avoid acting as if we always need more power when we’ve got Storm King to draw on.”
“Guilty as charged, madam. Indeed, if you had responded with greater force, innocents would have burned, perhaps died.”
The knot of tension around my temples unravelled. “You haven’t trusted my sense of prescience either. I know when I’m in danger. Or when somebody I care about is.”
He resumed his study of the ointment, turning the jar over and over in his hands. “I apologise for that also. I seldom trust talents not under one’s conscious control.”
We talked for a while longer before Jean left with a promise to tell René and the Fire Eaters how pleased he was with my actions. I slept, woke refreshed, and went down to supper in a better mood than I’d been in for weeks.
René, still subdued, was making short work of a midnight snack the size of a field hand’s dinner. He mumbled his thanks around a mouthful of sausage, and without looking up, added apologies for making fun of my fighting abilities.
“About time you noticed I’m not helpless,” I said. “Although I’ll never be a warrior like you.”
He looked up and smiled. “That’s all right then.”
“Of course it is. Where’s Jean? Why didn’t anyone wake me?”
“Gone back to Blacksburg. He gave orders to leave you alone. Said you’d earned a rest today.”
“Nice of him. Why was he home at that time of day? He must have walked in just after it happened.”
“I called him,” René said. “Figured he’d want to know.”
I lowered my fork. “You did? How?”
René gave me a blank look. “I just yelled. In my head. Like I do talking to you. And he answered.”
The blue and white pattern in the dining room’s wallpaper took on a distinct red cast. I clenched my knife and snarled.
René scrambled out of his chair. “Sorry. Uh, for whatever.” He grabbed a hunk of bread and scarpered.
My dear, loving husband let a fifteen-year-old boy into his head but threw up walls against his own wife? Bone of his bones, flesh of his flesh, was I? I’d show him. I’d make him regret ever telling me my attacks should be more forceful. I’d…
As if any attack I could throw would hurt Warlock Quicksilver, Frankland’s greatest Fire Warlock. Compared to him I was…
I shoved my untouched plate away and retreated to my bedroom, locking the door before flopping onto the bed and bawling. Compared to the great Flame Mage, Jean Rehsavvy, I was nothing. A mere beginner, hardly fit to be in the same room with him, let alone demand his attention. How tired he must be of my naïve questions, my simpleton’s nattering. Especially with Sorceress Lorraine reminding him daily of the pleasures of matching wits with a mind as well furnished as his own. Far too polite to ever say so, he must bitterly regret letting himself be tied to a neophyte like me.
I thrashed about for hours, unable to sleep, until enlightenment made me jerk upright and stare out the window, unseeing, unmoving.
A bond, like the one I had with René, or the one I wanted with Jean, had its own dangers. Two years earlier, Jean, afraid of losing us both, made me promise never to attempt to draw René back from the brink of death. If Jean had a bond with me, he, hero that he was, would feel obligated to draw me back from death’s grip, even knowing the odds against success. But if there was no bond, he couldn’t try.
Paris
The stars vanished; the sky lightened. The breath-taking blaze of light when the first rays hit the aerie did not move me. My anger had died, leaving me hollow, numb.
What had Jean said three years ago, while fending off the Fire Office’s demand he kill the spy in the Fire Guild stronghold? Something about not being averse to sacrificing himself, but there was no point if it did not improve the overall outcome.
My head called him sensible. Frankland needed him. Why risk losing his life, too, if I was doomed?
My heart called him traitor. Maybe Sven was right. Maybe this man I loved, that I thought I knew, had other secrets that would horrify me. He was as cold-hearted as any Frost Maiden. He had once said so himself. How else had he survived for so long?
For the next few days, I avoided him, hiding in our bedroom whenever he was home. The rest of the household avoided me. I refused to go up on Storm King with him. Without asking for or giving an explanation, Beorn took over and we continued our exercises with him. By the twenty-eighth, I was counting minutes until the meeting in Paris, when I would have a suitable target to blast to bits.
“As long as Maggie Archer is inside the circle, she’s not in danger, right?”
Sweat beaded on Sven’s forehead. René pushed the windows of Sven’s study open further, but no air moved.
“We’ve been over this before,” Sven said, “but if it makes you feel better, let’s go through it again. Most magical conspiracies aren’t dangerous, since they use magic to keep the secret. It’s the mundane ones that use deadly force to prevent exposure.”
“Except for—”
“Yes, except for the magical conspiracies, like this one, hiding criminal behaviour. Those can turn violent when under attack from outside. That’s why Miss Archer has to be in the circle; we can’t take chances with our star witness’s life. Does everyone in the counter-conspiracy know what to do?”
“They ought to,” I said. “We told them where to go, and when the time comes, to hold hands, because we’ll be stronger that way.”
“As long as we’re not overpowered, Miss Archer will be safe. Make sure she knows. Once the attack begins, we won’t have any time or power to spare for her.” He drummed on his desk. “And we need both of you in it. One level-five talent isn’t enough.”
“Sunbeam will help. We warned him to be on the alert, and told him what to do. He doesn’t know what it’s about, but he’ll be thrilled to show off in front a large audience.”
“Good, I guess.” Sven looked sceptical. “What did yo
u warn him to be on the alert for?”
René grinned. “Conspiracy magic trying to silence an innocent and very, very pretty girl.”
Sven snorted. “I should’ve thought of that. I must say I’ll be grateful for his help.”
I said, “I’m grateful Flint won’t be there.” Beorn had deputised him to stay at the Fortress while we were at the royal palace. For the first time in my experience, Flint had looked happy—happy, I supposed, to avoid a boring royal audience, and to have an opportunity to officially blast anyone making trouble.
René said, “I wonder how angry he’ll be when he realises he’s missed the day’s fun.”
Sven groaned. “Did you have to say that?”
“He’s a problem only if we live through it,” I said. “Stop worrying. It’s time to go.”
I ran through the tunnels to the Warren, to meet Hazel and Maggie in an empty classroom. Maggie was chewing her fingernails down to the quick.
“You look good,” I said. “Real good. You’d pass for a guild member.”
She ought to, wearing a red silk gown I’d worn to an endless succession of state dinners on our honeymoon. Hazel had added a flounce at the bottom to hide several inches of leg, but otherwise, with a couple of judicious tucks in the waist and bodice, it fit her well enough.
“I put a glamour spell on her,” Hazel said. “Even the Fire Guild will think she’s one of you.”
“Good. The fewer questions, the better.” I handed Maggie a sash embroidered in gold thread with fire guild symbols, and told her to knot it around her waist. “This will protect you from the fire. When the flames start flying, stay in the circle of witches and wizards. We’ll protect you, or die trying.”
“I trust you. I’m not worried. Not about that anyway.”
I did a double take. That had not been bravado speaking. “What are you worried about?”
She clasped her hands behind her back and piped, “That I won’t be loud enough for anyone to hear me.”
Hazel smiled. “You just talk. I’ll make everybody in the whole frostbitten palace hear you.”
We waited at a side door to the ballroom until the procession started, then slipped like shadows into spaces left vacant on the end of the second row, beside Master Sven. He gave us the barest of nods. Behind us, Matt ogled and Tom mouthed a whistle at Maggie. From the front row, beside Sunbeam, René winked at me.
I glared at him. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you little beast?
Sure am. If I’m going to be Fire Warlock someday then I’m not dying today.
The procession advanced. The four Officeholders, plus Jean, as the only living retired guild head, took their places on the right of the dais, facing the witches and wizards down on the floor. Beorn glanced at us and winked. Jean didn’t look in our direction.
The galleries overflowed with commoners and lower-ranking witches and wizards. Three years ago, in my previous trip to the royal palace, I had been up there. I had covered a lot of ground since then. If the next two years were as eventful as the previous two, would I be on the dais at a royal audience?
I shuddered. Any event impelling me to a place up there with, or as one of, the Officeholders was one I’d rather not consider.
The dukes took their places on the left, facing the rows of nobles. I craned my neck and saw the Earl of Eddensford. Golden hair at shoulder height beside him confirmed Claire was with him.
The royal family processed in. I ignored them, and worked the spell to show me the engine of lies. The dais disappeared, hidden behind a black, knotted mass dense enough to throttle every soul in the ballroom. It blotted out the flashes from the four Tokens of Office. It even blotted out Jean’s lighthouse beacon. Grey filaments covered the walls, ceiling, balconies, and seated audience. I trembled.
Cut it out, Lucinda. What’d you expect, with everybody who’s anybody in Frankland here?
I knew it would be bad, but not—
It’s getting better.
Is it? How can you tell?
Watch the edges.
I was about to tell René he was nuts when I saw strands on the balconies and ceiling stirring, like cobwebs in a breeze.
The royal couple, with their twelve-year-old crown prince, reached the thrones on the dais. Finally, we were allowed to sit.
My mind’s eye roved. Pamphleteers spread across the city, as Sven had promised. On street corners, someone—an urchin here, an old man there, somewhere else a young woman with a baby on one hip and apron pockets weighted down with papers—called out to passers-by to take a pamphlet and learn the nobles’ secret. Knots of people, blocking the footpaths, clustered around anyone with a copy. Young men listened, then ran to spread the news. Innkeepers climbed on chairs and tables to get their customers’ attention. Similar scenes would be playing out in other cities.
The conspiracy, under attack from many directions, began to pull apart. A tangle by a window disintegrated, strands drifting outwards. Coils of dark magic twisted this way and that, seeking a target—someone, anyone, to attack, but there were too many. The conspiracy was balked.
I settled back in my chair and breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks. The conspiracy was dangerous, but it was a mindless thing, and Master Sven had predicted how it would act. We’d taken the necessary precautions. Things would go according to plan.
They might, indeed, have done so, if I had not, once again, underestimated the Earl of Eddensford.
Engine of Lies
Sorceress Lorraine strolled across the dais, gesturing at the large mirror hanging behind the thrones. “My lords and ladies, with their majesties’ leave the Water Guild installed a magic mirror, in which you may witness the events leading up to Lord Edmund’s death. Your Majesties may watch without leaving your thrones in these smaller mirrors.” She handed each a mirror the size of a schoolboy’s slate.
Beorn strode to the other side of the dais. He explained what everyone would see, and then the argument between Lord Edmund’s father and brother played out over our heads, loud enough for everyone in the hall, and possibly the crowds outside listening at the windows, to hear. The scene gave no hint of Edmund’s criminal behaviour—no surprise, that—as the father’s threat against his son’s sweetheart became instead a threat to withhold funds.
The scene in the mirror faded, replaced by Claire’s private wedding to Lord Richard, with only two witnesses. The onlookers’ first glimpse of Claire was at her most radiant. A gasp went up, followed by whispered conversations as we watched them leave the church. Lord Richard bent to pick jonquils beside the footpath, then handed them with a flourish to his glowing bride.
The murmur of voices grew as the next scene, an exemplar of domestic bliss, showed Claire, clearly pregnant, stitching beside a warm fire. She smiled at Lord Richard when he entered and kissed her. He stood in front of the fire, warming his hands, and talking about news of a blizzard in the northern districts.
A glimpse of an infant followed, and finally, my conversation with Claire. The scene did not, as I had dreaded, divulge Claire’s opinion of Lord Richard. It merely showed the end, where we realised Lord Edmund had lost his shields, and a message must be sent to warn him.
“That was the sixth of July,” the Fire Warlock said. “She sent the message that afternoon, but it was too late. It arrived at the White Duke’s manor after Lord Edmund Bradford was already dead.”
He waved at the mirror, the images shifted, and we watched Lord Edmund and his henchmen ride into the Archer’s yard.
I looked away from the mirror, and surveyed the room with my mind’s eye. The black mesh was breaking up, much faster now. Clear sections grew overhead and in the balconies, but the massive knot on the dais appeared untouched. Despair shook me. Even with two years’ experience drawing on the power of Storm King, I couldn’t do it by myself. It would kill me. How had I ever imagined our tiny coun
ter-conspiracy, with only two level-five talents, could overcome conspiracy magic backed by all four Offices?
Because Beorn would come to my rescue when he realised how far the news had spread.
I eyed Sven. He stared straight ahead, knuckles white on the hand gripping his wand. Sven had gone along with my plan, despite his misgivings. He must believe in them, too.
It was too late to reconsider. The printers and pamphleteers had done their best; we couldn’t let them down.
Beside me, Maggie hissed. In the mirror, we looked over Maggie’s shoulder as Lord Edmund groped her. Her brother pulled him away.
Maggie quivered, as tense as a bowstring. “Wait,” I said.
A clamour of protest from the nobles turned into a collective gasp as the smith hit Lord Edmund and he went down. No one spoke. No one moved. The noise from the crowds outside, unable to see what had happened, was loud in the sudden silence. The earl leaned forward with his head in his hands. Claire put her arm around her husband’s shoulders.
“So you see,” Beorn said, “it wasn’t magic. He wasn’t second in line anymore, and the Fire Office didn’t shield him. He got into a fight, and lost. That’s all there is to it.”
“All there is to it?” the king screeched. “That commoner had no right to fight him over some halfpenny whore. He’s a murderer. Why hasn’t he been brought to justice?”
“Now,” I hissed, but Maggie was already on her feet.
“Lies,” she yelled, her voice carrying through the hall and echoing out in the courtyard. “I’m a maid, not a whore. My brother saved me from a man who’d already raped five women. There are lies all around us. The magic folk can see them.”
“And so shall you,” I thundered, my voice as loud as hers. My wand and Sven’s swept arcs across the ballroom, exposing the murky tangle to all eyes. The inert mass came to life, recognising, at long last, its attackers. Gears cranked, pulleys spun, strands lashed out at our group of witches and wizards, only to jerk away, burning, from the copper strands of the counter-conspiracy.