by M. J. Scott
Both girls looked shocked at that.
“You can’t use that term for the sanctii here,” Lia hissed. “It is very impolite.”
“Not to mention that if a sanctii heard you they might decide to object. Sometimes they object quite strenuously,” Magritte added, glancing around the room as though she expected one of the creatures to appear in front of her any minute and demonstrate. “If any of the vens hear you, you’ll be in trouble.”
Sophie flushed. “Sorry. It’s hard to adjust.”
“We will help you,” Lia said. “You and that handsome husband of yours.” She grinned at Sophie. “I would have been eager to marry young, too, if the men at home looked like him.”
It probably wasn’t the time to explain Anglion marriage customs or the fact that she and Cameron had had little choice in the matter when it came to their wedding. She just nodded instead. “But the reveilé?” she asked again.
Magritte shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone understands it, not even the water mages. The sanctii can do things to your mind. Not all of them good, but this one is. Apparently.”
“Being from Illvya and never having had to study in a language other than your own, the appeal of such a thing has probably never occurred to you,” Lia said, shaking her head at Magritte. “I would do it in a heartbeat. Life would be much easier. Perhaps Maistre Matin would allow it for you and your husband, Sophie.”
The likelihood of Cameron willingly letting a demon mess with his mind seemed remote to Sophie. The thought didn’t exactly appeal to her either, even though the result did. She had to improve her Illvyan somehow. But for the time being she was willing to follow Lia’s example and apply some old-fashioned studying to the matter.
Perhaps then her head would feel less like it had been beaten with a stick all morning.
* * *
“Heads up!”
Cameron ducked as Venable Marignon swung the wooden practice staff at his head with enthusiasm. He twisted away from her, widening the distance between them. His instructor just grinned as she spun to face him, weight distributed evenly over her feet, staff twirling idly between her hands.
She didn’t even look particularly out of breath. Whereas he was beginning to tire. Henri had been correct when he had said that the venable was well qualified to teach blood magic. The woman fought like a tiger. A very skillful tiger. Who could use magic.
Well, he could use magic, too. He reached for the ley line, caught at the power, and used it to slide the woven grass practice mat out from under the venable’s feet. She slipped backward and fell, though she didn’t let go of the staff.
He braced himself for a resumption of the attack, but instead, she burst into laughter.
“No one has tried that move on me for a long time,” she said. “Serves me right.” She climbed to her feet, dusting off the leather breeches she wore with brisk strokes. “So, Anglion, you are not entirely unskilled.”
Cameron kept a wary eye on her. The instructors who’d trained him in the guard had been fond of launching an attack after a bout was supposedly done. Venable Marignon was more than sneaky enough to try just such a thing. He focused on watching her stance and the way she held the staff. It had been a long time since he’d fought with one, though his muscles seemed to remember most of how it was done, even if they protested it. “I was a member of the Red Guard. So I hope not.”
“That would be a pity,” she agreed. “Though I think you would not argue with me if I said that you are a better fighter than you are a mage.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been told that since I manifested, so no.” He’d never been the quickest at magic. But he’d always been good at the other things that went into being a soldier. Though here in Illvya, the differences in techniques were throwing him off just enough to make him feel like the rank green boy he’d been when he’d first joined the guard. It was a disconcerting sensation even though he knew it was really an opportunity to hone his skills.
Venable Marignon narrowed very green eyes at him. She wasn’t a pretty woman—striking, perhaps—tall and strong, with jet-black hair braided close to her head and skin somewhere between Sophie’s and the color of weak black tea. “Ah, but that was in Anglion. Perhaps here at the Academe, we can teach you a few new tricks.”
“As long as they don’t involve your fist in my face,” he said, rubbing his shoulder where the venable’s staff had connected earlier. He would be bruised, the kind of bruising he hadn’t sported since those long-ago days of his training. For blood mages, connecting to their power for the first time wasn’t as simple as reaching for the ley line as an earth witch did. No, most blood mages required emotion to make the breakthrough. The emotion the Red Guard chose to employ was anger. Achieved by punching their recruits in the face.
Venable Marignon shook her head at him. “I can’t say I haven’t used that technique with a particularly slow student from time to time, but no, that is not usually how we achieve our aims here. So perhaps there are things we can teach you, if you care to learn.”
She was offering more power. More chances to survive. To make sure that Sophie survived. He wasn’t in any position to turn that down. “I do,” he said simply. “So, shall we spar again?”
* * *
For Sophie, the rest of the week moved past in a blur. Lessons. More lessons. Meals. Trips to the library with Cameron to study and to further their knowledge of the empire. The library was vast and well stocked. But most of the volumes were in Illvyan—even the maps were marked in Illvyan—which made her feel like she was trying to push all the information they gained into her brain through a layer of sticky treacle. With every day that passed without the emperor summoning them, she could feel this new world becoming more familiar. But it was still exhausting. She fell into bed at night with an aching head and a desire to sleep so strong she barely had time to kiss Cameron good night before she succumbed.
She felt as though she had been penned in under stone and the odd light from the gas lamps for weeks rather than days. Maistre Matin was still refusing to allow her to go outside the Academe’s boundaries, so the only breaths of fresh air she took were when she was walking between the buildings to her classes.
The brief respites were pleasant but came with their own difficulties. The young crow, Tok, had developed an uncanny ability to find her almost anywhere. He often appeared at the window of whatever classroom she was in, squawking loudly until the venable teaching the lesson inevitably shooed him away. He stalked her in the corridors as well and had even appeared in the dining hall three times. Which had caused nothing but consternation. Familiars apparently didn’t usually eat with their human companions in such public places. That was sensible. No one wanted to share their meal with a menagerie. The fact that Tok wasn’t even her familiar only made it even more awkward.
She suspected many of the students—those who would love to have a familiar—thought she was encouraging the damned bird. Nothing could be further than the truth.
When Tok pecked Cameron’s hand, drawing blood, as he had tried to detach the bird from the shoulder of Sophie’s robes on their seventh day at the Academe, Sophie decided enough was enough. Tok wasn’t going to be dissuaded by anything she could do, so she needed to appeal to a higher authority.
Madame Simsa seemed the most likely to be able to assist. The ravens mostly seemed to mind their manners around her. She’d taken Sophie to the rookery several days earlier and the birds had crowded near to the older woman, angling heads and wings to be petted but taking care not to let their claws or beaks come anywhere near any part of Madame Simsa that might get scratched. Sophie had been more fascinated watching the birds paying court to the witch rather than by the rather dry presentation on the care and breeding of the ravens delivered by the Master of Ravens. That possibly hadn’t endeared her to him, but she didn’t intend to have a familiar so she wasn’t overly concerned.
As she made the way through the Academe to Madame Simsa’s rooms, up on the highest floor n
ear the tower that housed the rookery, Sophie hoped fervently that the venable would be able to do something to make sure Tok could be convinced that Sophie was not for him.
He had followed her on her journey, swooping and circling around her as she walked, cawing in what had first sounded like cajoling calls that had grown more strident and indignant as they neared Madame’s rooms.
The bird settled on her shoulder again when she stopped at Madame Simsa’s door. He clicked his beak as she knocked but settled into silence as the door opened and Madame Simsa blinked at her.
“Sophie. This is unexpected.” She looked at Tok, then back to Sophie. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. My apologies for disturbing you, Madame, but I was wondering if I could speak with you.”
Madame Simsa stepped back to let Sophie in, nodding. “I see you still have your friend.”
“That is what I wanted to talk you about.”
White eyebrows rose. “Then by all means, talk.”
Sophie looked around curiously. She knew some of the venables lived at the Academe, whereas others merely had offices with families and homes elsewhere. Madame Simsa, it seemed, was one of the former. The room was a small sitting room, crammed with two small settees, a number of side tables, single chairs, and a desk that hovered on airy carved legs tucked in against the far wall under a window. There was another door in the wall to her right, though it was closed.
Books, inkpots, small glass containers, and framed miniatures littered the surfaces. It was both cozy and a little overwhelming. Judging by the book lying open on one of the settees next to a lap-sized quilt made from patches of silks, it seemed as though she had disturbed the other woman reading. She moved to the other settee, bending to move what she took for a small fur-covered cushion closer to the corner.
The cushion uncoiled with a chattering sound of annoyance and Sophie jumped about a foot.
Behind her, Madame Simsa laughed, the sound cracked but joyful.
Sophie was too busy staring at the creature on the settee to turn around. It stared back at her, its small face screwed up in disapproval before chittering again. It appeared to be some kind of monkey, though an unfamiliar one.
“Riki!” Madame Simsa said. “Manners.”
The monkey didn’t look apologetic, but it leaped off the settee to one of the chairs and then to the other settee, perching on the rolled arm, one of its hands grasping the cover of a lamp standing on an end table beside it as it fixed Sophie with a disapproving gaze.
Sophie, who’d turned to follow its flight, her pulse still pounding from surprise, wound up face-to-face with Madame Simsa again.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Madame Simsa said. “Riki never did like being woken up abruptly.”
Just a monkey, Sophie thought. It had meant no harm. And she was there to ask the venable for advice. Best not to be rude about her pet. “Well, who does?” she said, managing a smile. She tilted her head at the animal. “My apologies, Riki.”
The monkey had a shock of white fur around its face, framing eyes and a muzzle a brown close enough to be black. The white continued down its neck and back but shaded to the same dark brown along its arms and legs down to the tiny, clever hands and feet. The tail, which was currently making a sinuous S in the air, was brown, too, except for a final tuft of white and black at the very tip. It bared its teeth at her, a flash of pointed white in bright pink gums that was startling against the darker skin as it chattered again.
“Hush, Riki,” Madame Simsa said. “Be nice to our guest.”
The monkey quieted at that, eyes suddenly intent on Sophie, the expression a little too knowing for her comfort. There was definitely intelligence in the face. Understanding dawned. Not just a pet, perhaps.
“Is he—she—your fam?” Sophie asked.
“She is trouble,” Madame Simsa said as she settled down onto the settee and the monkey grinned at her. “But yes, she is a petty fam.” She stroked Riki’s head. “She keeps me company. Her and Belarus.”
“Belarus is your sanctii?” Sophie hadn’t realized. Belarus was the first sanctii she’d met the night she and Cameron had arrived at the Academe. She hadn’t come face-to-face with the creature since—at least she didn’t think she had. She hadn’t spoken to any of the sanctii she’d crossed paths with that week.
“Yes,” Madame said. “He is mine.”
“I didn’t know . . . .”
“That I was a water mage?”
“Yes.” Sophie nodded. “I was reading about the Academe in the library. There is a book that talks about the venables who teach here. Your entry didn’t say you were a water mage.”
“Because I don’t teach it these days. Earth magic is less fraught. At least when it comes to teaching students how to utilize it.” Madame Simsa’s expression was frank. “And Anglions are not, in my experience, comfortable with sanctii. Maistre Matin and I thought it would be easier for you to get used to me if you didn’t know.”
That was true. “Belarus isn’t here now though?” She couldn’t feel a chill in the air.
“No.” Madame Simsa leaned forward. “How did you know that?”
“I thought he would show himself here in your rooms,” Sophie said. She wasn’t ready to share with the Illvyans that she could sense the demons and their magic. Who knows what that would do to their plans for her? She was there for earth magic, nothing more. Besides, it was never a good idea to give up an advantage if you didn’t have to.
Madame Simsa’s eyes narrowed.
Sophie tried to look innocent. “Is it usual to have both a sanctii and a fam?” There. A slight change of subject. And a valid question. She hadn’t seen any of the other wizards who practiced water magic with a familiar other than their sanctii.
The blue eyes were studying her carefully. “It is less usual now. Some consider it a little old-fashioned.” She sniffed. “Though there is nothing wrong with learning to hone one’s skills the old-fashioned way. A petty fam is unlikely to tear your throat out, after all. Or consign the world to oblivion.” She grinned as she said the last and flapped a hand at Sophie. “Don’t worry, my lady. None of the sanctii have managed to do that yet. I won’t deny that the odd wizard or two have disappeared in unusual circumstances over the years, and their sanctii along with them, but as you can see, the world remains.”
“I see,” Sophie said. None of that sounded amusing to her.
“Then again, sanctii don’t steal everything shiny they come across.” Madame Simsa frowned across at the raven on Sophie’s shoulder. “I would advise you to lock away any jewels you might own when that one is around. Never met a raven who could resist a diamond. Makes attending balls interesting at times.”
“I don’t own any diamonds.” She rubbed her fingers over the sapphire in her betrothal ring. “And I don’t think it’s likely that I’ll be attending any balls any time soon.” For which she was most thankful. In her experience, balls consisted of too little dancing, too much tedious small talk, and avoiding the grabbier-handed members of the court. Maybe Illvyan men had better manners, but somehow she doubted it.
“I would not be so sure,” Madame Simsa said. “The emperor will take an interest in you and your husband sooner or later.”
A chill that had nothing at all to do with sanctii ran down Sophie’s spine. She didn’t want to think about the emperor.
Madame Simsa shook her head, then leaned forward and patted Sophie’s knee reassuringly. “But that is a bridge to be traversed when needed. Let us return to the subject at hand.” She pointed to Tok, who sat, preening his feathers on the back of the settee behind Sophie. “That one.”
“Is there anything we can do? To get him to leave me alone?” Sophie asked, twisting to study the bird. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Tok, but she didn’t want a familiar. And she didn’t need him following her around, drawing attention to her every movement.
Madame Simsa shook her head. “If you do not want him, then the only real chance is to send
him away. Otherwise, he will continue to pester you and will not try to form a bond with anyone else.”
“Away?”
“To one of the other schools.”
“There are others?” Of course there were. Illvya was only one country in the empire. One Academe probably couldn’t cover even Illvya’s mages, let alone an entire empire.
“Yes. We are the largest. The oldest. Most would say the best, which is why we get our pick of students and teachers, but there are others. And where there are students, there are mages in need of fams.”
“Will that work though, to send him elsewhere?”
A shrug. “Perhaps. If he has truly decided that you are the one for him, then it may not.”
“What happens then?”
“He can be used for breeding. Or take his place in the flocks that form around the academes. The birds are fed, monitored as far as they can be, but such a life is not risk free.”
Sophie looked at the raven. He tilted his head, returning her gaze. It seemed unfair to send the bird away from the place he had been born. Was that odd? To be concerned about the feelings of a bird? But from the little she’d learned about familiars, it was hard to think of them simply as animals.
“Do I need to decide now?”
“That is entirely up to you and how long you can tolerate him annoying you. Or remain determined not to accept the help he is offering.” Madame’s tone suggested she thought this was foolishness even if she wasn’t saying so outright. The monkey, curled in her lap, was also looking at Sophie with what could only be considered disapproval. The expression was far too human, which only underscored that familiars were not normal creatures.
“It is a pity that ravens are not good candidates to become familiaris majus,” Madame Simsa said. “He is bright, that one. He could be useful.”