“I …” I forced myself to think. “Can you find me a needle? And some pieces of paper?”
“Yes, My Lady,” Catha said.
I blinked as she turned away, then glanced down at the blood on my hand. There should be just enough to perform a location spell. It would be harder to hide him too, given that I had a sample of his blood. I hastily dispelled the remainder of the magic I’d used to trick the wards as she returned, carrying a shining silver needle in one hand and several sheets of paper in the other. I took the needle and carefully cast the spell, frowning as the needle wobbled wildly before pointing back the way I’d come. Callam was either in the hall - the needle’s wobbling could indicate that he was behind the wards - or somewhere along the way to the hall. It didn’t look good.
Callam wouldn’t try to walk so far in the rain, I thought. Someone took him.
I stared down at the needle, then cancelled the spell with a snap of my fingers. Uncle Ira had taken Callam and that meant … what? The other kidnap victims had all been magicians, some of the strongest Kirkhaven and the surrounding area had produced, but Callam was no magician. Ice ran down my spine. Uncle Ira knew what I suspected about Callam and … and he intended to test it. And then … I had no idea what Uncle Ira could do with a Zero, but I doubted that either Callam or I really wanted to know.
He’s already brewing booster potions, I thought, remembering the vial in my pocket. What could he do if he also gains the ability to produce Objects of Power?
Catha held out the paper. “Do you need a pen?”
“Please,” I said. She wasn’t asking any questions. What did that mean? “And a couple of envelopes.”
She nodded and pointed towards the kitchen table. I sat down and put the first sheet of paper in front of me, trying to think what to say. The charms I’d place on the letter would ensure it would be read, at least, but beyond that … I hoped the Arbiters would have the sense to actually read it and act. The family’s very existence was at stake. I had no idea what Uncle Ira intended to do with his potion, but I could think of a couple of very nasty possibilities. And then … I took the charmed pen she offered me and wrote out a second note to the Kingsmen. They were responsible for dealing with warlocks, after all. They’d probably take the report seriously, even if it came from me. The charms I’d use to prove that I’d written it would definitely catch their attention.
This will not end well, I thought, as I finished writing the second letter. And no one will thank me for reporting it.
I pushed the thought aside and stuffed the letters into the envelopes, then layered charms over them to ensure they survived the wind and rain. A handful of other protective charms came to mind, but they’d simply draw attention from Uncle Ira or one of his agents - if he had agents - if they saw them. No one else in the vicinity could cast them, after all. I stuffed the envelopes in my pocket, silently grateful Callam had shown me where to find the post station. It shouldn’t be hard to get someone to take the letters.
Catha caught my arm as I stood. “Where is he?”
“At the hall,” I said, tiredly. I thought about lying, but she’d watched me perform the locator spell. “And he may well be a prisoner.”
I watched her face crumple and kicked myself. I should have lied. Maybe she would have seen through it and slapped me, maybe she would have believed me … it would have comforted her, just for a moment. Catha was an outcast too, as far as the villagers were concerned. There would be no search parties for a young man who simply didn’t fit in with his peers. And if Callam was a prisoner …
Catha tightened her grip on my arm. “What are you going to do?”
I swallowed, hard. “I’m going to get him back.”
Her eyes went wide. She let go of me. I turned and hurried out of the house as quickly as I could, unsure what else to say. Going back to the hall was a risk, but … Callam had saved my life. He was a friend. He’d been there for me when everyone else had turned their backs. He hadn’t even deserted me after Morag had turned him into a rat and Uncle Ira menaced him with the compeller. My friends back at Jude’s had turned their backs on me for far less.
I’m going to get him back, I told myself, firmly. I surprised myself with my determination. And then we’ll both run for …Shallot.
The rain slowly petered out as I made my way down to the post station. It was really a mid-sized inn with a handful of stables at the back … I wondered, as I saw the old road leading north to Caithness, just how many people passed through the region. Morag had told me that people went to Caithness, and beyond the city to the border, but they rarely went anywhere else. Kirkhaven and the other small towns were hardly tourist destinations. Indeed, the locals did everything in their power to discourage visitors.
A man was sitting outside the inn as I approached, wearing a faded blue cap, a jacket that had clearly been passed down from someone rather larger and smoking a pipe of something that hurt my throat. A horse stood next to him, drinking water from a metal bowl. The beast didn’t look as if it had been cared for by someone who loved it enough to brush its mane every day, but it was clearly in good condition. The man looked up at me, saw my expression and lifted his eyebrows. I might have worn a shirt and trousers rather than a dress, but it was clear I didn’t belong in Kirkhaven.
“Lassie,” he said. His accent was oddly familiar. It took me a moment to remember a family retainer who’d practically been adopted into the house. “You’re a bit young to be out here, aren’t you?”
I felt my cheeks heat, but ignored it. “I need you to take two letters to Caithness and deliver them,” I said, bluntly. “And you have to go now.”
His eyebrows quirked upwards, again. “And you think I’ll take the letters now?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling a hot flash of exasperation. I’d expected him to take them immediately, not ask stupid questions. Didn’t he know who I was? The realisation came instantly. Of course he didn’t know who I was. “You have to take them.”
“It isn’t time for me to go yet,” he said, leaning back on his chair. “I’ll take the letters now and go when I feel like going.”
I stared at him for a long moment, feeling magic rising up within me. I could force him to go, couldn’t I? But if the compulsion wore off halfway to Caithness I was going to be in some trouble. He’d just dump the letters into a bog or file an official complaint with the local magistrate … I had a nasty feeling that that worthy might be Uncle Ira or one of his men. Uncle Ira was certainly the biggest man around …
“I need you to go now,” I told him, pulling my bag off my shoulder and rummaging through it. “If you take the letters to their destinations, now, I’ll give you this.”
I held out the necklace. His eyes went very wide. He knew it wasn’t a fake, I guessed; even a fake would be worth quite a bit of money, if he managed to sell it. And I knew it was real.
“Impossible,” he breathed. He coughed. “Girl, are you mad?”
“No,” I said. “The necklace is yours as long as you deliver the letters to the right addresses within the day.”
He reached out and touched the necklace, muttering an assaying spell under his breath. The necklace glowed, revealing the presence of real gold. I heard him say a word I knew better than to repeat, at least in public, as he ran his fingers along the metal and brushed them against the rubies. The necklace was probably worth enough to set him up for life.
And there would be no trouble catching him if he didn’t keep his side of the bargain, I thought. The necklace was worth more intact than melted down for scrap. Gold was near-universal, but I figured he wouldn’t be able to sell the rubies without drawing attention to himself. No, he needs a clear claim to the necklace.
He sucked in his breath, eying me with new respect. “Give me the letters, My Lady.”
I took them out of my pocket and passed them over. The man stuck them in his bag, then held out his hand for the necklace. I hesitated, all too aware that I was in a weaker position than I car
ed to admit. Uncle Ira was hardly going to raise the country to track down the necklace for me. And yet, he didn’t know that. His only hope of keeping the necklace was to swear, with a clear conscience, that I’d given it to him as payment for services rendered.
“Make sure you put the letters directly into someone’s hands,” I said, as I placed the necklace in his hands. It was worth a lot of money. I had no doubt that he could sell the rubies alone for enough money to spend the rest of his life doing nothing. “They have to read them as fast as possible.”
The man bowed, clambered into his horse and cantered off. I watched him go, then turned and walked slowly back to the town. Kirkhaven was starting to come to life; children running to school while their parents headed out to the fields or shops. I felt a stab of envy, mingled with bitter contempt. Their lives were so simple, but so small. None of them realised just how big the world could be.
They’ll live their entire lives in this region, I thought, as I started the long walk up to Kirkhaven Hall. And they’ll never leave it.
I gritted my teeth as the iron gates slowly came into view. They were lying open, waiting for me. I eyed them suspiciously, suddenly reluctant to step into the grounds. Uncle Ira had left them open, which meant … my thoughts ran backwards and forwards. Was it a trap? Or had the carriage driver simply forgotten to shut the gates behind him? I doubted it. Uncle Ira valued his privacy. If he hadn’t been driving the carriage, the driver would have known to make sure the gates were closed.
“Isabella,” a voice said. I looked up, just in time to see Morag step out of the gatekeeper’s cottage. She held a spellcaster in her hand, pointed at me. “You are in big trouble, young lady.”
I held up my hands so she could see them, trying to look harmless while I hastily planned my next move. There was something curiously blank about Morag’s face, as if she wasn’t quite in control of herself. I remembered the compeller and shuddered. Uncle Ira wouldn’t have any compunctions about using the compeller on his unwanted servant, once it became clear that she couldn’t be trusted to help him. Or … I felt a gust of icy wind blowing against me as she took my arm and marched me up to the hall. It was impossible to tell if she was Uncle Ira’s co-conspirator or a dupe.
Or Ira might have assumed that she helped me get onto the sixth floor, I thought, numbly. He might not have worked out how I got up yet.
I gritted my teeth as Kirkhaven Hall came into view. Someone had tightened up the wards, giving the hall a distinctly ominous feeling. Morag ignored the sensation, if she felt it at all, as she pushed me into the main entrance. I looked around, silently checking my memory of the hall with reality. If I was wrong about this … the rug I recalled seeing on the wooden floor was still there. I stepped onto it, expecting her to follow me. She did.
“Up the stairs,” Morag growled.
I glanced at her. Her eyes were cold and blue and screaming. I pulled my arm forward and hurried forward, trying to make sure that I was a few steps ahead of her. The moment I was off the rug, I cast a spell and yanked it forward. Morag let out a yelp as she tumbled backwards, a freeze spell shooting from her fingertips and smashing harmlessly into the ceiling. I didn’t give her any time to recover. I shoved her head down into the wooden floor as hard as I could. Morag cracked her head against the wood and lay still. For a moment, I didn’t even dare to breathe. She might be dead …
No, I told myself, as I checked Morag’s pulse. She’s just stunned.
I heard someone behind me, but I couldn’t turn around before the spell struck me. My entire body locked solid. A moment later, an invisible force picked me up and turned me around. Uncle Ira was walking down the stairs, his face set firmly in an expressionless mask.
“Very well done,” he said, as I floated helplessly in the air. He checked Morag himself, then pointed a finger at her and muttered a spell. “There aren’t many people your age who could best an adult magician. But quite futile, in the end.”
He gave me a cold smile. “Come along,” he added, turning back to the stairs. “You won’t want to miss this.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I couldn’t move a muscle, not even to speak, as Uncle Ira floated me up the stairs. I’d been such a fool to think I could get in and out without being caught. I should have ridden to Caithness with the postman or … or done something, anything, that would have given me a chance to survive. I wanted to glare at his back as I bobbled up the stairs after him, like a balloon on a string. If I was lucky, if I was really lucky, he wouldn’t think to ask what I’d done in the town. The letters might be my only hope.
“You’re quite an impressive little girl,” Uncle Ira said. I had the oddest sense he meant it, even though I knew he was angry. “Very few girls your age would manage to get through my wards.”
I watched, helplessly, as he started to open his wards and float me onto the sixth floor. I’d been right. The wards were nasty. If I’d tried to punch my way through them, instead of finding a way around them, I’d be dead. Or wishing I was dead, perhaps. Uncle Ira had tied a great many curses into his wards. An unlucky intruder might wind up joining the statues I’d seen in the woods.
“And your friend is really quite impressive too,” Uncle Ira added. I drifted after him into a large examination room, the walls lined with jars, bottles and vials of potions. Callam was standing in the exact centre of the chamber, stripped to the waist; his arms and legs were bound with iron chains. “You know, of course, that Callam has no magic at all.”
Callam’s eyes went wide with horror when he saw me. I wanted to say something reassuring, but the spell wouldn’t let me move a muscle. Besides, I couldn’t say anything reassuring. Uncle Ira wasn’t relying on magic to hold Callam in place. Callam was strong, perhaps stronger than Akin, but he couldn’t break iron chains. And, without magic, he couldn’t undo the locks.
Uncle Ira lowered me to the floor, then waved the spellcaster at me. I felt the spell loosen, just a little. My lower body refused to move, but I could breathe and speak … I managed to move my arms, just slightly. It felt as though I was swimming, as though I had to push against an invisible resistance to move. I supposed I should be more than a little impressed by how easily he held me prisoner, but I was beyond it. I just wanted to get Callam out and run.
I found my voice. “What … what are you doing?”
Uncle Ira smiled. “You saw my notes,” he said. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“You’re conducting research into magic,” I said. “And how we use it.”
“Precisely,” Uncle Ira said. “Many years ago, I got interested in the question of precisely why we have magic. Where does the power actually come from? And how does it work? It wasn’t a question that found favour with the Family Council. They sent me into exile rather than let me continue my experiments.”
“Because you were using the Dark Arts,” I guessed. Magister Niven had asked similar questions, but he certainly hadn’t been exiled.
“Hardly,” Uncle Ira said, with asperity. “They were concerned, you see, that I would discover how to boost everyone’s magic. The only thing that makes us special - that makes all of the Great Houses special - is our magic. What would happen, I ask you, if commoners had the same kind of power as us?”
“But some commoners do have the same kind of power,” I pointed out. Rose had been ignorant, but she hadn’t been weak. “And others can gain it …”
“Precisely,” Uncle Ira said. “And I wondered why that might be so. I plunged deep into researching the nature of magic itself, studying magicians as they cast their spells … looking for differences between strong magicians and weak magicians. If we know how a person’s lungs work, I asked, why can’t we figure out how they use magic? It was a question too far.”
He tapped the back of his neck, significantly. “You already know what I discovered, don’t you?”
I nodded, reluctantly. “There’s an organ that produces and controls magic,” I said. “That’s what you found.”
“Precisely,” Uncle Ira said, again. He clapped his hands together. “Except it isn’t one organ, not for everyone. Weak magicians have one or two; powerful magicians, people like you and me, have five. And people like your friend” - he nodded to Callam, who was listening silently - “have none. I suspect that the absence of such an organ means a complete lack of magic.”
You’ll have to test Cat to see if she has a channeler, I thought. I wasn’t fool enough to say that out loud, even though part of me wondered if it would be a bad thing. Cat would be heavily protected after the last kidnapping. Uncle Ira might be grabbed by her armsmen and arrested. And then they’d get the truth out of you.
“It’s really quite an interesting organ,” Uncle Ira said, meditatively. “I can tell you how your lungs work, or how your heart pumps blood around the body, but I cannot tell you how the channeler produces and channels magic. I think it must be sensitive to magic, even raw unfocused magic; your friend cannot sense magic, although he can see its effects, but even people with a single channeler can. I’ve dissected a hundred people with channelers and I have yet to figure out how they actually work.”
I felt sick. “How many people have you killed?”
Uncle Ira ignored the question. “And then there is the connection between magic and the ghosts,” he added. “There are quite a number of ghosts around here, as you have noticed… what are they? I think they must be … impressions, left behind by dead magicians, that somehow refuse to fade. They may well draw on magic from their victims.”
My eyes narrowed. “Their victims?”
“They drained magic from you, did they not?” Uncle Ira strode around the room, holding the spellcaster in one hand. “And they were unable to harm your friend directly.”
The Family Shame Page 34