by M. J. Scott
Henri shook his head. “I am not sure. If I were to venture a guess, I would say Martius is perhaps sensing something that results from the bond between you and your husband. In this case, fixing it would most likely mean removing it.” He looked past her at the sanctii, said something in the harsh tongue they used.
Then he returned his attention to Sophie as Martius replied in the same language. “He seems to think so.”
“Is that something he’s done before?”
“Unlikely. Any such bonds formed here are done under controlled conditions by mages who know what they are doing.”
The rebuke was clear in his voice but Sophie ignored it. What she and Cameron had done hadn’t been intentional but she wasn’t going to give it up. Or let anyone else take it away from her. Not until she understood it. Until both she and Cameron understood it and could decide together.
“No!” Sophie said, voice firm. “Do not touch that.” She glared at the maistre, given that she didn’t want to move her head to glare at the sanctii in case it made something go awry and they had to start over. Or, worse, couldn’t complete the spell.
“You heard Lady Scardale,” Henri said. “Just the reveilé, Martius.” His expression grew stern. Another flare of power vibrated beneath Sophie’s feet. What was Henri doing? Compelling Martius to do only what was asked? Was there a risk he wouldn’t limit himself to just the reveilé?
She was about to open her mouth to tell them to stop when a shard of ice seemed to spear through her brain and she couldn’t think any more.
* * *
By the time the agony receded, she became aware of someone pounding on the door. Then Cameron was there, calling her name, the familiar touch of his hands wrapped around hers lessening some of the chill that enveloped her.
She should open her eyes. But the pain in her head—now a dull roar rather than the initial splitting sensation—made it seem as though that would be a poor choice. The feeling that she was encased in ice didn’t encourage her to be brave either.
“Sophie,” Cameron said urgently, then, “What in the name of the goddess did you do to her?”
“Calm yourself, Lord Scardale. It is perfectly normal. She had the reveilé. She will be as good as new in no time at all. Better. Now she will be able to follow our pesky tongue with ease.”
Henri touched her shoulder—or she assumed it was him as she could still feel Cameron’s hands around hers. He said something in Illvyan, speaking at a rapid pace, the way native speakers did, rather than the slowed-down version he’d been using with her previously. Asking how the pain in her head was and whether she needed anything.
She understood it easily.
Her eyes did open at that. Then closed again as the light pierced her eyeballs like red-hot needles. “I understood that,” she said. “Maistre, it worked.”
“Indeed,” Henri said. “Do you realize you just said that in Illvyan?”
From somewhere close at hand, Martius said something in his own language that sounded approving. But apparently the sanctii tongue was in no way related to Illvyan because it was as incomprehensible as ever.
“Yes,” Henri said. “A job well done, my friend. You may leave now, if you wish.”
Another tangle of syllables and then some of the chill on her skin eased. She cracked her eyes open a careful fraction. They still watered at the light, but she could only make out two blurry forms standing near her, not three. The nearest one was Cameron, who still gripped her hands tightly. Behind him, Henri leaned in, studying her.
“Lord Scardale, the best thing for your wife now is for her to rest. She can be excused from her classes for the rest of the day. Take her back to your chambers and put her to bed. Let her sleep it off and she will be as good as new in the morning. Better even.”
Sleep sounded wonderful, so she didn’t argue when Cameron lifted her in his arms and followed Henri’s instructions.
Chapter 13
It didn’t take until the next morning for Sophie to recover from the reveilé. She woke, sometime well past midday, to a clear head and no pain, even if she was still tired. But not tired enough to return to sleep.
She was alone in their room. She’d shooed Cameron out to his classes once he’d brought her back from Henri’s office. There was no point in the two of them losing the afternoon. He could be learning rather than just watching her sleep. They didn’t know how much longer they might have left there, after all. And their experiences at the ball had only driven home that the more they could improve their control of their magic, the better.
It was tempting to take herself off to her remaining afternoon classes, too, but she imagined if either Henri or Cameron saw her near a classroom she’d just be chased back to their room to rest.
There was food on a covered tray waiting for her and tea in a pot, still warm. She ate, starving now that she had recovered, and settled down with her tea and one of the Illvyan texts on earth magic that she had been struggling to read for her classes. To her delight, she understood it clearly now. The words, at least. The ideas about earth magic and how to use it were very different from those she’d been taught.
And the first few descriptions she read all began with some variation on “first, look for the connection to the ley line.” Something which still baffled her. She had seen a ley line, of course, but only once when she was right on top of it in open countryside. Since then she’d been able to sense the lines but hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of one from time to time.
Perhaps there was another text that would explain the concept to her in more basic terms. She pushed the book to one side. She could return to the library, look for one. That held more appeal than simply waiting for Cameron to return. It wasn’t the same as going to a class where she’d actually have to use her magic. Reading hadn’t hurt her head just now, so she couldn’t see that it would in the library.
But she hadn’t gotten very far in her journey to the library, which was on the far side of the Academe from their chambers, when she came across Madame Simsa.
The venable smiled at her. “There you are, child. I was just coming to see you.”
“Madame?” Had she done something wrong?
“That fool Henri should have told me what he was doing this morning. There are ways to ease the pain after. For earth witches, especially.” She gestured at Sophie. “Are you well?”
“I feel a little tired. But my head no longer hurts.”
Madame Simsa nodded in approval. “Good. Then you can escort me back to my chambers and tell me all about this ball last night. There are the most peculiar stories circulating.” She looked amused. “I thought it best to hear an account from a reliable witness.”
There was no polite way to refuse such a request. And, Sophie realized, Madame Simsa was the perfect person to ask about the ley line connection. Much simpler than searching for another book to explain it.
She offered her arm to the older woman. “I am more than happy to walk with you.” She wasn’t sure she would recount everything that had occurred at the ball—she would be keeping Sevan Allowood’s accusations to herself for the time being—but she could find out what the venable had been told and at least correct the worst errors in the rumors.
As they turned to retrace their steps to the nearest staircase, Tok came swooping down the corridor and landed on Sophie’s shoulder. She eyed him with resignation. The look in his eye he cocked at her was remarkably satisfied.
“Still sticking to his choice, then,” Madame said.
“Yes,” Sophie said. But she turned to the topic of the ball, asking Madame Simsa to tell her what she had heard as they walked.
By the time they reached the venable’s apartments, Sophie wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. The basic facts, that there was an Anglion delegation on Illvyan soil and that there had been an altercation, were in place but the details varied wildly. Madame Simsa had told her three different versions of the fight, none of them near the truth. The worst of the tales inv
olved ten sanctii and twenty people dead at the end of it.
She saw Madame Simsa settled on one of the sofas in her tiny sitting room and then took a seat on the chair opposite. Riki had bounded onto the sofa to sit beside Madame Simsa as soon as she had settled in place, standing on her lap to pat her face and then climbing up on the back of the sofa to watch her like a small furred sentry. The smell of the monkey—an animal smell, sharper than the fur of a dog or a cat—mingled with Madame Simsa’s dusty floral perfume and the papery scent of the books piled everywhere was becoming familiar.
It didn’t take her long to sketch out the bare facts of the ball.
Madame Simsa looked concerned by the end of it. “These Anglions, they want you to return?”
“So it would seem.”
“And do you want to return?” The older woman tilted her head at Sophie. “Speaking for the Academe, we would be sorry to lose one with your talents.”
“Anglion is my home,” Sophie said gently.
“A home you ran from,” Madame Simsa retorted, eyes sparking. But then she sat back with a slump. “Though I can understand the wish to return. But are you sure you will be safe?”
“At this stage, that is . . . unclear. But I don’t want to burn bridges before I have to. I have family there. Cameron has family there.”
“Of course. You must consider carefully.” Madame Simsa settled back against the sofa, reaching absently to stroke Riki. “I do not envy you the decision.”
Sophie would prefer that she didn’t have to make it either. And she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It wasn’t what she had come to discuss.
“I met Venable du Laq at the palace,” Sophie said.
Madame Simsa frowned. “It seems it was a very busy evening. I’m beginning to be sorry I missed it.”
Sophie couldn’t tell if she was serious.
“And how was the duq’s wife?” Madame Simsa asked in a tart tone.
The duq’s wife. Not Venable du Laq. Or Major du Laq. Or Her Grace. Or even Imogene. It seemed Madame Simsa was perhaps not inclined to favor the emperor’s mage.
“She appeared well,” Sophie said. “She was helpful, in the end. She said she would like to talk more with me.”
“I’m sure she would,” Madame Simsa said with a click of her teeth that was distinctly disapproving.
“She seemed friendly. She helped Cameron during the attack. I had assumed the imperial mages would all be blood mages. Are there many who are not? “
“A decent number,” Madame Simsa said. “It is a popular choice for some. And as for her ladyship helping, well, she may have assisted Cameron but surely a water mage and several sanctii becoming involved didn’t do anything to warm the hearts of your Anglions.”
Sophie made a face. She couldn’t deny that. “They didn’t seem that warm to begin with. And I, for one, am in favor of my husband remaining alive. So I am grateful to Her Grace.”
“And the Anglions?”
“They were alarmed by the sanctii but I’m sure they will be fine. It may reassure them that the sanctii aren’t exactly the danger we are taught.” She hoped so. Otherwise, Madame was correct, the sanctii would not have helped Sophie’s cause.
Madame Simsa pursed her lips. “Well, maybe, I suppose. But hear me on this, child. Imogene du Laq is not to be underestimated. She was always ambitious. She has succeeded in satisfying some of those ambitions as evidenced by the position she now holds. And by the man she married. Who is one of the few people I have ever met who may be more ambitious than his wife. The du Laqs are powerful, Sophie, and they will use what they can to grow even more so. I would advise you to tread cautiously. You are a tempting prize to the likes of them. They will use you to their ends if you let them.” Madame Simsa hesitated. “Granted, Imogene can likely tell you more of what has happened at court since your Anglions arrived and about the work of the imperial mages than we here at the Academe can. But I would be careful about what you request of her. I would not like to owe her a debt.”
“Thank you, Madame. I will be careful.” She remembered then something Imogene has said. “Venable du Laq called me a bright one. I thought she might be commenting on my dress but later she said something about me shining. It was after the trouble with the ambassador, when she and Henri were talking about the third sanctii.” She frowned, trying to remember the words. But between the late night and the reveilé, her memory of the conversation was not so perfect.
“The third sanctii?” Madame Simsa’s white brows shot up. “The one working with the man who attacked the ambassador?”
“No, there was another. One she and Henri did not recognize. They were talking quite fast in Illvyan and I didn’t understand all of it.” She shook her head. Now that she’d had the reveilé, it would be useful to be able to go back in time and listen to some of those conversations over again. “You would have to ask the maistre. But do you know what Venable du Laq might have meant?”
“I expect she meant your connection to the ley line,” Madame Simsa said matter-of-factly. “You are rather dazzling to the gaze.”
Sophie rubbed her temples. Ley line connections. Again. Another thing she had to learn. But she had wanted to ask Madame Simsa about them and here was her opportunity.
“Are you feeling well, child? The first few days after the reveilé can be fatiguing, I gather. And, as I said, there are ways to ease the pain if it has returned.”
“It’s not that, Madame,” Sophie said. She shook her head, then made a frustrated noise. “It’s just . . . just that I feel as though I’m never going to catch up. Ever since my Ais-Seann, it’s been one thing after another and I seem to be running behind, never quite able to regain control.” Right now, it felt as though she never would. And that was not a feeling she enjoyed. “This is hardly how my life should have gone.”
“Life rarely follows a plan in my experience. But I will grant, from what I know of your story, you do seem to have had a difficult few months.”
With no hope of that difficulty ending any time soon.
“And now you are coping with it all in a strange place. It is natural to feel unsettled,” Madame Simsa continued.
“I don’t feel unsettled.” Or not merely that. “I feel . . . I feel as though my hands are tied and I can’t even see the rope to begin working out the knot. I seem to know so little compared to the students here. In Anglion they don’t even teach us to see this connection to the ley line that you all seem to take for granted.” Her voice had risen and she took a deep breath, trying to reach for calm as Tok squawked on the sofa beside her. It was not Madame Simsa who was the cause of her frustrations.
“Well, that part I expect I can help you with,” Madame Simsa said, her tone calm. The sort of tone mothers used to soothe fractious children.
Part of her didn’t wish to be soothed. But a larger part wanted to listen. If Madame Simsa could teach her to see the ley line connections, then some of the gap she felt between what she knew and what she needed to know in order to survive would be narrowed.
“I would be grateful if you could, Madame.” She reached out and stroked Tok’s wing. The smoothness of his feathers was oddly comforting. As was the gentle tap of his beak against her hand when he bent his head to push it under her fingers. She transferred her petting to his head and he made a happy little sound.
Beside Madame Simsa, Riki chattered softly. “Hush,” Madame Simsa said. Then she smiled at Sophie. “Very well. So. Ley lines. We shall begin.” She smoothed out her skirt, then frowned and stood.
“What did you see the first time you saw a ley line?” Madame Simsa peered over the back of the sofa as though looking for something. Then straightened, turning back to Sophie. “You have seen a ley line, yes?”
Sophie nodded. “Yes. The morning of my Ais-Seann. We were in a field and it was like a river of light.” A glittering golden river. Like nothing she’d ever seen before. The need to touch it had been irresistible. If only she hadn’t given in to its call, her lif
e would have been very different.
But then again, blaming the ley line or her lack of willpower was futile. She could equally blame those who had attacked the palace, the reason that she and Cameron had been in that field in the first place. Or Eloisa, who’d sent her and Cameron to Portside that morning, or the duty colonel who’d scheduled Cameron to duty or . . . well, any one of hundreds of people, probably. It had happened. Perhaps it was even the will of the goddess. There was no point wishing for change that could never be made. She needed to focus on those changes she could control. Like her magic.
“A field?” Madame Simsa turned to peer over the back of the sofa. She made a satisfied noise and stood again, a lacy woolen shawl in her hand. “One day soon, I think you need to tell me that story, child.”
Do not blush. Sophie focused on the memory of the ley line itself rather than the forbidden, wonderful, frantic, power-drunk sex that had come after it. “A river of light,” she repeated. “Is that important?”
Madame Simsa sat back down, settling the shawl over her lap. Riki stretched her paw toward the shawl and the venable tapped it gently. “This shawl is for me, you silly beast. You have fur to keep you warm.” The monkey retreated, looking indignant. Madame Simsa turned her gaze back to Sophie. “Understanding how you see the ley line helps me to clarify how best to proceed. Everyone sees the flow of power in their own unique way. The sanctii say it’s because every person’s mind is different, which I suppose makes sense.” She paused. “Have you seen the ley line here?”
“I can feel it,” Sophie replied. “Like water flowing beneath my feet. The power feels very deep. But no, I haven’t seen it. I thought perhaps I caught a glimpse in the palace grounds but the carriage was moving too fast to be sure.”
“So nowhere in Lumia? Nowhere since you arrived in Illvya?”
“No.” Sophie hesitated. She and Cameron had spent their first hours on Illvyan soil in a cave. Then they’d gone straight through a portal. She’d felt the magic in the cave but there had been no sign of it. But she didn’t want to explain that to Madame. She owed Captain Jensen her life. She wasn’t going to betray the route he used for his smuggling. “Is that bad?”