The Family Shame

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “I could come with you,” Callam said.

  “Don’t,” I told him. I appreciated the thought, but Uncle Ira would be quite within his rights to do something thoroughly unpleasant to a trespasser. “I’ll … I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I looked at the remains of the treehouse. “And we’ll build a new one,” I promised. “Bigger and better.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Callam said. He sounded concerned. “Be more worried about your life.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I wasn’t sure what to expect as I made my slow way back to the hall, thunder rumbling in the distance as if the skies were just waiting for me to get inside before they opened and unleashed a downpour. Uncle Ira was probably going to be utterly livid at me for escaping … never mind that he’d forced me to drink an experimental potion that had driven my magic haywire. It was all I could do to keep walking, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, until I was standing in the hall. I had no choice, I kept telling myself, but to return to Kirkhaven Hall. And yet, I wanted to run. Perhaps I could hide out in the cottages …

  Not forever, I told myself, as the first drops of rain splattered down to the ground. I cursed and forced my aching body to run the rest of the way. I can’t hide forever.

  My thoughts ran in circles. Uncle Ira could track me down as long as I had that wretched tracking charm woven into my magic. Even if I managed to get rid of it, we might be close enough on the family tree for him to track me anyway. And he might have a blood sample he’d taken without my knowledge. That wouldn’t last forever, unless he’d worked it into a Device of Power, but it was still a problem. And then I had to find a place to go …

  Perhaps I need to find a way to fight back, I thought. But how do I fight a fully-trained magician?

  I reached the door and stepped inside, sagging against the stone walls. Morag wouldn’t help, of course. I had no doubt she was effectively Uncle Ira’s servant, no matter what she said. It was vaguely possible, I supposed, that he’d layered compulsion spells on her, but … I didn’t think that was likely. Morag was a grown adult. A single slip would be enough for her to break free and escape. No, I couldn’t trust her. And there was no way I could be sure a letter would get back home.

  A thought struck me. What if I wrote to Cat? Better yet, what if Callam wrote to Cat? He didn’t have a family seal. There would be nothing to suggest that the letter had been dictated by an exile, would there? Uncle Ira or the Arbiters would have to actually open the letter to discover the contents and there would be no reason for them to think the letter had anything to do with me. Cat could tell Akin and Akin could tell Father and … I didn’t know what Father would do, but I was sure he’d come to my aid.

  Unless Uncle Ira has someone watching the mail for anything going to Shallot, I thought, glumly. Uncle Ira was the local lord, wasn’t he? Keeping track of the postal service was one of his duties. I’d never seen any hint he actually did anything, but … I could easily imagine him putting one of his clients in the local post station. He might want to inspect anything going out of the area.

  I shivered as ice ran down my spine. How many people in the area would want to write to Shallot, anyway? It was tempting to believe that Rose’s parents lived nearby - Rose was a striking redhead - but there couldn’t be many others. Any letter going to Shallot might be opened for inspection, whoever it was addressed to. And any charm I might use to make the letter unreadable by anyone other than the intended recipient would be noticeable. Uncle Ira might simply arrange for the letter to vanish somewhere down the line if he couldn’t break the spell and read it for himself.

  The cold sensation grew worse. I was trapped.

  I gritted my teeth, then forced myself to walk through the inner door. Morag was standing by the stairs, waiting for me. Her eyes were cold and hard. I studied her for a long moment as she glowered at me, trying to determine if she was under a spell. But it was impossible to discern anything. Her magic was wrapped around her like a protective shell. I suspected that even Uncle Ira would have trouble putting any kind of spell on her.

  “He’s waiting for you in the study,” Morag said, coldly. “I suggest you hurry.”

  I nodded, an act of unpardonable rudeness, and walked past her. Morag said nothing, somewhat to my surprise. I’d known Grande Dames who would be utterly horrified if I didn’t curtsey to them. But then, I was fairly sure that Uncle Ira had made it clear that I was to be sent to him at once. Morag didn’t have time to take me down a peg or two.

  Uncle Ira was seated in the study, reading an old leather tome. I didn’t have to look at it to know the book was on the proscribed list. Pure evil pervaded the air like a physical force. I forced myself to sit down, clasping my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. It was still hard to grasp that I hadn’t been really burning. My hands were intact, utterly unharmed, yet I was convinced they should have been burnt to a crisp. I told myself, firmly, that I should be grateful. I’d heard too many horror stories to take them lightly.

  “Well,” Uncle Ira said. His voice held a hint of fake cheer, the sort of cheer I’d learnt to hate as a young girl. “That was an interesting experiment, wasn’t it?”

  “… Yes,” I said. “It was very educational.”

  “Good,” Uncle Ira said. “So … what happened?”

  I hesitated, carefully getting my story straight. I had to tell him as much as possible without giving him the impression that I was keeping things to myself. If he broke out the compeller and forced me to talk, I knew I’d tell him everything. And then … I didn’t want to think about what would happen then. Callam would be barred from the grounds, I’d probably be told to stay in the hall and my escape plan would fall apart before it was even properly composed, let alone put into action. I had to be very careful.

  “I was burning,” I said. “My magic was on fire.”

  “Good, good,” Uncle Ira said. “And then what happened?”

  I glowered at him. That was good? I’d nearly died!

  “My magic burst out of me,” I said. “It knocked down a hundred trees” - thankfully, there wasn’t enough left of the treehouse to prove it had been relatively new - “and left me nearly dead. It took me hours to force myself to get up and come home.”

  “It was a result,” Uncle Ira said. “You were burning, you say?”

  “I thought I was on fire,” I said. “And the ground around me was scorched.”

  “But your clothes were unharmed,” Uncle Ira said. He looked me up and down. “Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

  I scowled as darkly as I dared. Interesting was not the word Mother would have used to describe my appearance. I was muddy and damp and smelly and my hair was down … Mother would have thrown a fit. I was surprised Morag hadn’t thrown a fit. She’d probably wind up having to wash the dress. She might even have to help me with my hair. It had been far too long since I’d had a proper shower, or seen a hairdresser.

  Uncle Ira was still speaking. “And how do you feel now?”

  “Better,” I said, sullenly. I didn’t want to speak to him at all. “My head still hurts, but … everything else feels better. And I can still do magic.”

  “One would hope so,” Uncle Ira said. He was scribbling notes in a notebook, barely looking at me. “What sort of spells have you cast in the last hour or two?”

  “None,” I said. It was more or less true. “I couldn’t muster the magic to do anything.”

  “Cast a light-spell,” Uncle Ira ordered. His voice suggested, very firmly, that I didn’t have a choice. “Now.”

  I gritted my teeth, then started to recite the words. My fingers felt stiff and unwieldy and it took me two tries to actually cast the spell, but a wobbly ball of light shimmered into existence above my fingertips. It oscillated wildly, the glow brightening and dimming seemingly at random. Uncle Ira watched it with an odd kind of fascination, as if he’d never seen anything like it before. I was more annoyed that the spell hadn’t worked
properly. I’d been using it since I was six and it had never behaved so badly. It looked almost as if I’d overpowered it.

  “Interesting,” Uncle Ira said, as the light finally snapped out of existence. I could feel the spellform evaporating into nothingness. “Hold still.”

  He cast a stream of spells at me before I could say a word. It wasn’t the first time someone had used magic to find out what was wrong, but these spells felt odd. My skin crawled as the magic sparkled over me, withdrawing slowly back to the caster. Uncle Ira looked surprisingly satisfied as the last of the spells faded away. I hoped that meant he wouldn’t want to carry out a more formal medical exam. I didn’t think I could stand it. I’d had my magic poked and prodded enough for one day.

  “Very good,” Uncle Ira said. He opened a drawer and removed two vials, holding them out to me. “You might want to drink these.”

  I eyed them, nervously. They were both clearly marked as energy and recuperation potions, but … but I had no idea if that was true. Uncle Ira, like most Potions Masters, was a fanatic about proper labelling, yet … would he try to trick me into drinking something that wasn’t what it said on the tin? I found it hard to believe. A man who had been happy to compel me to drink one potion wouldn’t need to trick me into drinking two more.

  “You’ll feel better after you drink them,” Uncle Ira said. I checked the labels again, just to be sure. They dated back several months, long enough for me to be fairly sure they were untouched. The seals hadn’t been opened. “And then you can go get something to eat.”

  I opened the first vial, took a careful sniff and then drank it carefully. It tasted right, if nothing else. The second vial followed the first. I gritted my teeth at the taste - I wished for a glass of water - then sat back in my chair as the potions went to work. The sudden rush of energy was almost euphoric. I reminded myself, sharply, that such potions could be highly addictive. Uncle Ira wouldn’t let me drink any more for days, if not weeks.

  Uncle Ira watched me for a long moment. “Tomorrow, I want you to write a detailed account of everything that happened since you drank the potion,” he said. “And I don’t want you to leave anything out.”

  Hah, I thought. I wasn’t going to mention Callam. And if you’re giving me homework …

  I leaned forward. “Uncle … what was that potion?”

  “An experiment,” Uncle Ira told me. “A very interesting experiment indeed.”

  “I see,” I lied. An experiment. He’d put my life at risk for an experiment. “And what was the potion meant to do?”

  “Better you don’t know,” Uncle Ira said. “Go eat. And then go straight to bed.”

  I met his eyes. “Uncle, if you’re forcing me to drink the potions …”

  “It’s better that you don’t know,” Uncle Ira repeated. His voice was suddenly so hard that I was half-convinced he was pointing the compeller at me, even though I could see both of his hands. “Now, go eat.”

  He pointed his finger at the door, then turned back to his book. I sighed and forced myself to stand. The potions had given me a boost, but I knew I’d feel worse when they wore off. I’d have to be in bed by then or I’d probably collapse on the floor. I hoped I’d have time to wash before I went to bed. Morag would not be amused if I stained the sheets with mud. I’d already done enough washing to suit me for the entire year.

  It wouldn’t be that hard to get sheets that could be washed by magic, I thought, as I made my way down the stairs. There were plenty of ways that life could be made easier for the hall’s unfortunate residents. They could be purchased in Shallot or Caithness and sent here.

  Morag looked up from her stove as I entered the kitchen. “Your dinner is on the table,” she said, nodding to a small table set against the window. She looked tired, but slightly calmer than she’d been in the hall. “Eat up, then go to bed.”

  “Yes, Senior,” I said. I didn’t want to be polite, but I was in no state for a fight. There were questions, hundreds of questions, that I wanted to ask her, yet … I wasn’t sure I could trust the answers. What was Morag doing with Ira? “What did you cook?”

  “Soup and stew, for you,” Morag said. I wondered, rather sourly, what she’d cooked for Uncle Ira. “You can help me cook something different tomorrow.”

  Great, I thought, sarcastically. Did she think that everything could go back to normal? As if I didn’t have enough to do.

  I sat down at the table and stared out of the window. Rain was falling in torrents, lashing against the glass. I hoped Callam had made it home before the rain really started. I’d seen the clouds rolling down the valley enough to be sure they’d chased him home. But … I glanced at Morag’s back, not bothering to hide a moment of triumphant glee. She’d hoped to hurt my friend, but Callam had survived without a scratch. I wanted to rub her nose in it, yet it would be far too revealing. I would have to content myself with some secret gloating about her failure.

  Unless he really is a Zero, I thought. None of the spells I’d cast on Cat had lasted as long as they should, although I didn’t think there was a flat limit. And how am I going to test it?

  I ate the food slowly as I considered the problem. There were spells to gauge a person’s magical power - and aptitude - but it was clear they hadn’t worked very well on Cat. Her family wouldn’t have sent her to Jude’s if they hadn’t believed she did have a spark of magic that could be fanned into a flame. Logically, if she’d had no magic, she would have been exiled to a country estate, somewhere she couldn’t embarrass her family and call their bloodline into question. They certainly wouldn’t have risked sending her to a school where she might have been accidentally killed at any moment. I was uneasily aware that low-magic children did tend to mysteriously disappear off family trees, but never so publicly. Cat’s parents had taken a huge risk.

  But if we can’t tell the difference between a low-power magician and a no-power magician, I thought, how can we hope to find other Zeros?

  One answer seemed simple enough. Cast a spell on Callam, one carefully timed to last for a few hours, then sit back see how long it actually lasted. I wondered, wryly, if Callam would let me turn him into a frog. Or merely fix his feet to the ground so we could keep chatting while we waited to see when the spell actually wore off. Or … there were a handful of charms I’d learnt to give people spots and other blemishes, but I had a feeling those would last longer. I wasn’t sure why.

  Maybe I could just see if he could forge an Object of Power, I thought. Callam was good with his hands. He’d built a whole treehouse by himself. My help had probably been more of a hindrance. I couldn’t imagine him having any problems with forging. But how do I teach him to forge?

  I shuddered. I didn’t think I could get him into the hall. There was a blacksmith in Kirkhaven, but he probably wouldn’t take Callam as a pupil. He might let us borrow his tools, if we asked nicely or found some way to pay him, but … it wouldn’t be enough. Akin might be able to teach Callam to forge … I wasn’t sure I could. It simply wasn’t one of my talents.

  Discuss it with him, I thought, practically. My heart sank. And what if it gets his hopes up, for nothing?

  I winced as I finished the stew. I understood, all too well, just how hard it could be when one’s hopes crashed into bitter dust. I’d let my hopes - and then my anger - rule me at the worst possible moment. Callam … couldn’t do anything like as much damage, I thought, but it could still be very bad. Perhaps he’d give up altogether.

  Morag cleared her throat. “Don’t worry about washing up,” she said. “Go to your room and sleep.”

  “Yes, Senior,” I said, too tired to be properly grateful. The potions were starting to wear off, evidently. My body was insisting that it needed sleep. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I staggered up the stairs to my room, resolutely ignoring the faint hints of magic brushing through the air. My room felt almost welcoming as I stumbled inside, barely managing to remove my dress before I collapsed on the bed. I knew I should wash my
face, and clean my teeth, but I couldn’t muster the energy. I was asleep almost before I landed on the mattress …

  … And my dreams, when they came, were far from pleasant.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  There was no sign of either Uncle Ira or Morag the following morning, somewhat to my surprise. I’d expected the former to ask questions about what the mystery potion had actually done, now I’d had a proper rest, while the latter would probably be angry about the state of my dress. Instead, I had a long soak in the bath and a peaceful breakfast in the kitchen before I made my way down to the library. I already knew I wouldn’t find answers in the newer textbooks. Too many schoolchildren tried to avoid tracking charms for the tutors to simply give away the answers.

  I checked the room was empty, then sat down cross-legged on the floor and concentrated on feeling out my magic. It felt weirdly skittish, as if whatever the potion had done wasn’t over yet, but it was reassuringly present. I smiled, despite the situation, and carefully searched for the tracking charm. It took me long enough to find it that I was starting to think it hadn’t survived the magic surge by the time I stumbled over a trace of its presence. My blood ran cold as I realised just how thoroughly it had worked its way into my magic. A day or two longer and I wouldn’t have been able to find it at all.

  It looks too simple to keep a close eye on me, I told myself, as I carefully fixed its location in my mind. And getting rid of it is going to be a nightmare.

  I groaned as I turned back to the books on advanced charms and started to flick through the pages. Thankfully, whoever had written these books had included an index with a handful of short notes on each spell. Most of the suggestions were useless, but I didn’t waste time figuring it out for myself. A handful needed someone else to cast them on me and I didn’t have anyone who could. I didn’t think that Granny McVeigh could or would cast the spells. She’d certainly want a clearer explanation of why I wanted to evade a tracking charm before helping me to remove it. At the end, I was left with two ideas … and both of them were going to be tricky.