Story Magic

by Beth Ball

  She didn’t have a definitive answer for him, only her intuition. “Cassandra sent us on this mission, not someone else. There has to be a reason for that. Something we could see or sense that others might not.”

  Their plan unfolded two days later.

  Circe took a final glance over her shoulder at Emryc as she followed Daugath deeper into the caves. According to the general, her understanding of the king’s proclivities was correct—King Lefre would find her to be an incredibly tempting offering, one Daugath would make to ease the sovereign’s suspicions and win back his place at court.

  “It’s just the magic,” she added to Emryc before he could object again. With his bevy of raids over the years, Lefre had developed an extensive, loyal army and had little need of warriors like the winged fae, even one with his extensive skills. But magic, the essence of the divine weave that held together the fabric of their worlds, was always advantageous. And, as Circe had learned long ago, the more magic one had access to, the more powerful and promising its wielder’s fate might be.

  “It is a relief to hear only your thoughts and not his,” Daugath said as their first hour alone in the caves came to a close.

  “Hear his thoughts?” She was unsure what he meant.

  The fomorian chuckled. “Are you not supposed to be a wizened storyteller, Chosen of Cassandra?”

  Circe crossed her arms in mock irritation. “Supposed to be? I am. A storyteller, that is.”

  “Then you know the stories of my people and our abilities,” Daugath intoned, no longer posing the idea as a question.

  She had heard stories about the fomorians’ special traits before their separation from the gods. Their magic was unique among the worlds’ earliest peoples. It centered around abilities of the mind, such as the perception of another’s thought. Many storytellers had speculated that it was due to these powers that they had decided to part ways with the divine order. As legend held, the fomorians had sensed something in the gods’ plans, or their very natures, that made separation, darkness, and condemnation more promising alternatives than obeisance in any form.

  Circe carefully considered her response before she answered. “I have heard many stories of your people, enough to understand that half-truths and exaggerations dwell among the rest.”

  The fomorian paused, glancing back at her.

  “Shades of stories indicate truth, not falsehood,” she clarified, a smirk playing at the corner of her lip. “It is when a single story stands upon the field, alone, that we must be most on our guard.”

  Daugath turned back and resumed walking, his scowl showing the way before them.

  If she could find a different way of explaining her meaning to him, the intriguing, storied nature of his people, perhaps he might trust her more, view her as a desired ally instead of only a necessary one.

  “Statements fall like feathers from a bird,” her mother had taught, the muster’s children gathered in a knot before her. “But stories are the birds themselves.” Boss Miren had lowered her voice, inviting the children closer into the glow of her wisdom. “A single feather can tell from whose back it fell,” she had said, “but only the bird herself can sing.”

  Circe’s heart squeezed tight inside her chest. She could feel once more the heat from the pyre where her mother’s body had been burned after her death, setting free her soul upon the wind. One of the seers had stood by her side, shedding silent tears as the flames licked across her mother’s shroud. When only ashes remained, she clutched Circe’s elbow and whispered, “When you enact the teachings of those who have passed, they live on in you.” The seer had bowed her head and drifted away from the flames, leaving Circe alone with her mother’s lingering spirit.

  Circe brushed aside a tear. The seer had envisioned this moment, among a handful of others, and had wanted the boss’s daughter to be prepared. Perhaps a story of her own might help Daugath to see. “Before this journey,” Circe said, “after a great loss, I experienced a period of doubt. Not in Cassandra’s plans or abilities,” she clarified, “but in my own.” Circe rubbed her chilled hands over her arms. She hadn’t shared her misgivings with anyone. How was it that Daugath, this near-fabled creature she had only met a few days before, could be so much easier to talk to than Emryc at times? Perhaps she was being unfair. She could discuss many things with her fae companion, but her misgivings about her own potentiality . . . he was not willing to hear. And when she most needed his advice, he was always quick to assure her of the security of their shared fate.

  Me being the “Chosen of Cassandra” means nothing to Daugath. My goddess is just as lost to them as a life lived without the sun’s rays. To Emryc, the significance of her title seemed clear. But I am still myself, she wanted to say. Only Cassandra’s overt recognition of me has changed. Was Daugath listening to this jumble of thoughts, the tangled trajectory of her own misgivings? She stole a glance up at the fomorian. His face, this time, remained blank.

  “Cassandra sensed my apprehension,” Circe explained, “and she answered me simply. ‘Life does transpire as the stories tell,’ she said. ‘Remember this, and you will always find the right path ahead.’”

  “And you find this muddled pseudowisdom to be helpful?” Daugath scowled down at her, the pale blue ice of his eyes bright against the pressing dark of the caves.

  Circe grinned. The goddess of fate would have found it amusing too. Doubt wasn’t frightening to Cassandra. She simply waited for it to disperse and allowed the wheel of fate to turn itself. “When the time is right, it will be.”

  Daugath shook his head, offended at the lack of logic involved in Circe’s path-making. “I respect your people’s valuation of stories, but how are you to know which story you are in if that is your gauge of measuring the correctness of your path?”

  The saudad laid her hand on her heart. “We sense it.” Circe patted her chest. “Here.”

  The fomorian groaned and turned away, striding past her to take the lead through the tunnels. “That cannot be the case. You would already be dead.” His disbelief and amusement brightened their surroundings and buoyed Circe along. Being alone in her beliefs was easier, lighter, than others—even those she loved—affixing their faith to her. If she and Emryc failed, Daugath would move on to the next logical step in his plan. Her own actions, however brilliant or misguided, couldn’t shatter anything he held dear.

  Circe stilled her sense of relief as Daugath brought Emryc to the foot of King Lefre’s throne. Each step had transpired according to plan thus far. The king had accepted the gift of her and her magic with glee, and Daugath had excused himself to fetch a second gift. She couldn’t risk betraying the fear she had felt at their separation or the fact that she knew the man being brought before the fomorian king.

  Her hips swayed as she swept forward with the line of servants. Whatever their position in his house, Lefre clad all in his service in sheer, flowing fabrics—the sensual display meant to enthrall visitors with the influence and pleasure Lefre hoarded.

  Daugath’s eyes flickered over her before he returned his attention to the king.

  As usual, Emryc’s expression was rigid. He harnessed his energy and focus whenever they were on a mission, laying bare his years spent fending for himself in the wilds of Eldura.

  But as she met his gaze, Emryc’s sharp stare clouded. His lips parted as he watched her, singling her out among the many males and females lined up on either side of the king. A soft ripple ran its way down his wings. Had anyone noticed the movement besides her? He’s trying to ensure that I’m alright, Circe said to herself. Nothing more.

  The warrior’s stiffened shoulders remained squared toward her as he angled his face to the fomorian king. Floating lanterns, coated in colored glass, drifted along the length of the receiving rooms.

  “A fine addition to my court,” King Lefre’s voice boomed in the common tongue. He stretched his broad hands to the side, encompassing the width and breadth of the hall and their surroundings. Where Daugath’s skin w
as purple shadows and slithering mist, the king’s figure rippled in muscle and flame. “It is not so fine or useful a gift as the one you first brought, but I accept this addition to forces I trust you will soon be ready to lead.”

  Daugath bowed low before the king. His displeasure at such a display radiated out from him. So wrapped in his own concerns, could the king not sense it? “You honor me, Your Majesty,” the general answered. “My deepest wishes are for the strength and renown of your name.”

  Emryc inclined his head but kept his eyes pinned on their host.

  The king nodded, his red face splitting into a grimace. He waved his hands in Emryc and Daugath’s direction. “Make our new addition comfortable,” he ordered. A trio of captive courtesans swept forward, looping their bared arms around Emryc’s and leading him to the chambers beyond the throne room. The warrior’s jaw twinged as they led him away—he had been certain the entire enterprise was an elaborate trap, rigged by Daugath and set up for the fomorians’ entertainment.

  “I swore an oath to Cassandra,” he had said to Circe before they parted. Conviction burned behind his evergreen eyes. “I swore to stay by your side and to protect you, just as I have sworn to serve her.” His words wrapped piercing thorns around her heart, and she hadn’t yet been able to shake the feeling they’d given her. He had sounded . . . hurt, somehow, by her belief in their plan, offended that she might find the risk worth the reward.

  Emryc had caught her by the elbow as she and Daugath began to depart. “I know you want to protect your people, but I care not for the fomorian’s hopes to free his own from their tyrant or the prospect of peace it might bring.” His grip loosened, but he did not let go. “If our fortunes turn, I will abandon all pretenses and get you out of there.” Emryc released her and stepped back.

  The warrior’s stare lingered on her as Daugath led her away into the caves. It perched on the back of her neck as they disappeared from his sight. When a sudden shifting in the dark startled her, she would imagine Emryc swooping toward her, his eagle’s wings unfurled, his expression a snarl of rage.

  Chapter 10

  “Cassian?” Yvayne stepped around one of the saudad wagons, searching for the muster boss.

  “Varra.” The saudad nearest her bowed their heads as she passed. “Varra Yvayne.”

  A booming laugh rang out from one of the larger wagons, and Cassian emerged at the end of the line, shaking his head. “We will see about your story, Mama,” he called back over his shoulder. Yvayne had met his mother on a few occasions over the long years of their acquaintance. There were hardly any as sharp-eyed or with such a gift of Cassandra’s sight. “Varra Yvayne!” Cassian cried when he spotted her. “Come, come!” He waved her into an embrace.

  Yvayne kept her arms rigid by her side, but she had learned long ago that resisting Cassian’s exuberant greetings was futile. Ever since she had aided Persephonie’s mother with interpreting her visions, he had insisted that she was part of the family and would be treated as such. He could not be reasoned with in such matters.

  The saudad leader frowned down at her. “You are cross, Yvayne? Why?”

  “Is Persephonie here?” Her agitation had grown in each moment that passed without the young, boisterous saudad running up to greet her. Perhaps she was off exploring the wonders of the winter court and would soon return.

  Cassian’s face fell. “No, Varra, she insisted on paying a visit to her mother. My cher’a had troubling visions, and I cannot deny the warnings of Cassandra when they visit us.”

  Yvayne nodded. She had feared as much. And without Persephonie here, she would struggle to determine whether the visions truly originated from the goddess of fate or if the guardian Apollo had undertaken a manipulation to pull the girl from her family. “Perhaps we might speak?”

  The saudad bowed his head and led her over to his wagon. His two sons and another young male lounged behind Cassian’s place in the camp. The three rose. “Varra Yvayne.” They looked from her to Cassian. She would wait for him to decide to include them in the conversation or not.

  “Yvayne, my sons, Felix and Stefan,” he said, indicating the tallest of the three with black, tousled hair, and the lankiest, whose straight locks fell to the tops of his shoulders and who held a book in one hand. “And Velkan, who is like a son to me.” He was more muscular than the first two, and his hair a dark brown rather than pure night.

  “I have come to speak to you about Persephonie.”

  “What has happened?” Velkan stepped forward, scowling.

  Yvayne whirled around at his tone. As though she would allow danger to befall Persephonie without intervening. Velkan bowed his head in apology, and she returned her gaze to Cassian. “Your daughter has caught the eye of one of the guardians,” Yvayne said. “Apollo.”

  A ripple of unease crested over the saudad. “He has aided Cassandra in the past . . .” Cassian frowned. “But why my Sephie, and why now?”

  “I could not glean a direct answer from him, though I did force a promise that he would not interfere in her path save in an instance of immediate danger.”

  “Boss Cassian, you cannot allow this,” Velkan interrupted. “What if Apollo tries to take her below? How are we to stop him?” He exhaled heavily as Felix’s and Stefan’s eyes turned to their father. “Persephonie does not belong in the Shadowlands.” Velkan looked from Cassian to her and back. “Please, we have to do something.”

  “Hmm.” The saudad crossed his arms. Cassian knew as well as she the tales of guardians’ infatuations through the ages. Apollo would never intend Persephonie harm, but danger followed close behind the protectors of the mortal realms. “I have just returned from traveling with her to Andel-ce Hevra,” he said. “She was certain that a looming danger threatened her mother and wanted to warn her.” A brief smile flickered across his expression. “Esmeralda and Sephie, they dwell near the pulse of life.”

  “They do.” Yvayne grinned, thinking back to when she had first met Persephonie’s mother Esmeralda in the ancient grove outside her home. It had been Esmeralda’s sight that had confirmed her suspicions that the wheels of fate were turning once more, Esmeralda who had first seen Iellieth clearly. Yvayne had long suspected that the destinies of Persephonie and Iellieth would be intertwined.

  Perhaps Persephonie was currently seeking that same fate. “I will keep a close eye,” she promised. Unlike Apollo’s word, hers she knew she would keep.

  Should she warn Cassian about Lucien’s involvement with the senators and priests of Andel-ce Hevra? She had not yet discovered the object of the mage’s manipulations in the ancient city.

  “Tell me,” her old friend said.

  Yvayne sighed. As ever, Cassian was quick to discern the thoughts she preferred to leave unspoken. “Lucien holds the puppet strings of the Council of Andel-ce Hevra. He has set his sights on capturing Iellieth, yes, but that does not mean Persephonie is free from his designs.”

  “Then we must go after her,” Felix interjected. “Datha, we have just begun to see what he is capable of. We cannot leave Persephonie alone to his whims.”

  Cassian furrowed his brow. Fatherly concern and deep wisdom of the workings of the world fought across his features. They waited in silence for him to decide. “I will speak with the seers and ensure they are watching over her too.” He met his son’s eyes. “In this way, she is not alone.” Cassian placed one hand on Felix’s shoulder and one on Yvayne’s. “And we must not forget, Sephie walks beneath the eye of Cassandra. Do we trust the goddess to guide her way?”

  Persephonie’s younger brother, Stefan, was the first to speak. “I trust Persephonie to follow where her heart leads.”

  The uneasy silence stretched its wings again. Stefan spoke truth. The question, then, was where Persephonie’s heart wanted to go.

  Chapter 11

  “Cerdris, have you met our newest taverness, Persephonie?” Otmund smiled in a way that could only indicate self-satisfaction. “I have a feeling you’ll get along.” Otmund gestur
ed across the tavern to a young female in colorful garb, her every movement marked by the clinking of her many bangles.

  “Is that so, Otmund?” Cerdris raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

  Tess glided by, eavesdropping on their conversation as usual. “Because she’s a storyteller.” They sighed, casting their eyes up to the dark wood-beam ceiling. “Can’t you tell by looking?”

  Cerdris hid his grin with his wineglass. “You’d think so at this point, Tess,” he said. He drained the goblet and plunked it down onto the tabletop. “You’d think so.”

  Tess made their round of the tavern’s tables. They nodded to two of the other patrons, a man and woman Cerdris recognized but whose names he never remembered. Persephonie stood behind the bartop, polishing the emerald-colored goblets. She stopped as Tess drew close and nodded over their shoulder in his direction.

  Persephonie brightened and spun toward him. She gave a soft gasp before abandoning her post in a jangle of glass and jewelry. The tassels from the sash around her waist echoed the flow of her hair as she swished over. “Tess tells me you are a storyteller?” She gripped the edge of the table, her gaze dancing from his face to the parchment and quill laid out beside him.

  The new employee of his favorite tavern was even more striking up close, her bright hazel eyes gleaming in the low light, accentuated by the deep auburn tones of her hair.

  “Well, I’m fond of writing things down.” Cerdris pressed his shoulder blades back into the wood of the booth. He should probably count himself lucky that the figure before him was decidedly feminine or he’d never get any writing done. Collecting the slabs of gossip he found on the city streets and fileting them into pithy morsels for the competing guilds of corner street-criers was difficult enough without added distractions. The ambiance of Otmund’s tavern provided him with the space to think, to create, and to dream. Each day as he gazed out of the colorful tavern windows, he renewed his promise to his young, idealistic self—eventually, he would find adventure and romance. He would craft stories truly worth telling.