I swallowed, hard. I needed to keep him talking, somehow. If I stalled long enough, the Kingsmen might arrive … or I’d think of a way to get out. My hands were moving, but very slowly. If I could get to the potion … I found my voice, hoping he’d think I was just being curious. He knew I’d read his books. Perhaps, if I sounded interested, he’d tell me more instead of proceeding with his experiments.
“What are you doing?” It was hard to speak. “What’s the point of all this?”
Uncle Ira turned to face me. “It started as an attempt to understand magic,” he said. “And it became a plan to use what I had discovered, over the years, to extract revenge.”
I met his eyes. “You plan to overthrow the family.”
“Yes,” Uncle Ira said, flatly.
“… Oh,” I said.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Uncle Ira was the last person I wanted as Patriarch.
“The family clings to old traditions that are pointless in the modern age,” Uncle Ira told me, coolly. “The reluctance to experiment with the Dark Arts, for example, would have made perfect sense five hundred years ago, but now - with everything we have discovered over the last few centuries - we can study the more dangerous magics in reasonable safety. We ban them because we are scared, yet there is no reason to be scared. And then the insistence that the Patriarch has to be a Patriarch is holding us back. Don’t you know it?”
I looked down, unable to meet his eyes. The hell of it was that I didn’t disagree with him, not really. The family clung to outdated traditions that were meaningless now. Indeed, they held us back. Akin would have been happier not being the Heir Primus, while I would have been happier if I’d felt I had a fair shot at becoming Matriarch myself. Uncle Ira wasn’t exactly wrong about the Dark Arts, either. Sometimes, the line between permitted and forbidden magics was based on little more than whim. I wanted to believe him.
But I’d learnt hard lessons over the last year …
A shiver ran down my spine. Uncle Ira had a potion that boosted the drinker’s magic, if only for a short period. He could use it to empower other exiles - the people who’d come to dinner, perhaps - and then attack the Great Houses. And then … they could rule Shallot, perhaps even the entire kingdom. Or simply extract revenge by destroying each and every Great House before it could muster resistance. I shuddered at the thought. There were plenty of people who hated the Great Houses. Uncle Ira would have no trouble finding recruits for his army.
And a year ago I would have joined him, I thought, feeling cold. Uncle Ira was family, after all. He could have made the same promises that Stregheria Aguirre had made and I would have believed him. Even now …
I looked at Callam and shook my head. Uncle Ira was a warlock. He was willing to torture my friend - and kidnap and kill innocent people - just to boost his powers. His potion would require him to sacrifice dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people if he wanted to keep supplying his troops. And without the potion, the whole scheme would fall apart. No, Uncle Ira would have to keep killing people. His kingdom would be built on a foundation of bones.
“You were unfairly denied the chance to reach for the golden ring,” Uncle Ira said. “Why not join me?”
“You tried to corrupt me,” I said sullenly, as I tried to think. I couldn’t pledge my support and betray him later. He’d insist on oaths, backed up by the compeller. “Those spells you wanted me to learn …”
Uncle Ira shrugged. “I wanted an assistant,” he said. “Morag, bless her heart, has no talent for potions. Nor does she have any real talent for anything else, save cooking.”
“She’s a strong magician,” I said.
“Not strong enough,” Uncle Ira told me. “You, on the other hand, could be very strong indeed.”
“And yet, you wanted to boost my magic,” I said. “Why?”
Uncle Ira looked annoyed. “My experiments on adult magicians were not a great success,” he said. He sounded peevish. “Their channelers overloaded and killed them, you see. I suspect there are limits to how much a channeler can expand once a person reaches adulthood. You were young enough to take the potion and old enough to channel the magic responsibly.”
I stared at him. “I … if you’d taken the potion, it would have killed you?”
“Perhaps,” Uncle Ira said. “I am in no hurry to experiment.”
He turned back to Callam. “And I suspect the potion would have no effect on you at all,” he said. “Isn’t that remarkable?”
Callam glared at him. “No.”
“Ah, he speaks,” Uncle Ira said. “How much of our conversation did you understand?”
I wanted to warn Callam to be quiet, to say nothing, but I suspected it was pointless. Uncle Ira could force him to talk at any moment. Callam was vulnerable, far more vulnerable than Cat had ever been. And Uncle Ira had him at his mercy. I tried, frantically, to think of a plan. Uncle Ira had to be stopped, but how? An idea slowly occurred to me as my fingers slipped into my pocket, touching the vial within. If I managed to time it properly …
“Up close, there is something wrong with you,” Uncle Ira said. “But it is the sort of wrongness that can be very useful, under the right circumstances. I wish I’d noticed you earlier. Your lack of magic doesn’t make you worthless.”
“You were too busy kidnapping youths who showed hints of powerful magic,” I said, wishing I’d had a chance to tell Callam what I’d found. “And you turned Hart and Hound into potion.”
Callam blanched. “You killed them?”
“Removing a magician’s channeler seems to result in immediate death,” Uncle Ira said, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather. “I suspect that you, my son, are a throwback to an earlier era. Your parents and siblings have magic, do they not?”
“Stay away from my sisters,” Callam snapped. He pulled against the chains, rattling them impressively. “I …”
Uncle Ira looked unimpressed. “It is a pity I don’t know if your talent will breed true,” he mused, more to himself than to us. “But, for the moment, it doesn’t matter. Work for me, learn to use the gift you have, and I’ll leave your family alone.”
Callam stared at him. I could see the fear in his eyes. He loved his parents and sisters … and they were in no position to defend themselves, if Uncle Ira went after them. Callam’s relatives might wind up being dissected, their channelers removed and ground up to provide materials for Uncle Ira’s potions. The thought was sickening. Callam’s sisters were too young to go to school. They didn’t deserve to become a warlock’s next victims.
“And Isabella,” Callam managed. “You leave her alone too.”
I met his eyes, unsure what I wanted him to do. Callam couldn’t be put under a compulsion spell … I thought. It made sense. Cat would have been put under a compulsion spell, one that would have kept her from planning an escape, if the kidnappers had thought the spell wouldn’t prevent her from forging. And yet, there were plenty of other ways to keep him under control. I had the sudden mental vision of an aged Callam, bent over a forge, a heavy iron chain keeping him firmly in place. Uncle Ira wouldn’t find it too hard. He could simply take Callam’s family hostage if Callam refused to play.
“Maybe,” Uncle Ira said. He turned to face me. “Will you join me? Or will I have to do something more … permanent … to ensure your silence?”
He doesn’t know about the letters, I told myself. He doesn’t know the Kingsmen are being alerted. He doesn’t know …
My blood ran cold. What if the postman had taken the necklace, dumped the letters in the bog and run? He could have crossed the border by now. It wouldn’t take him long to turn the necklace into money. What if … I told myself, firmly, that I’d done everything in my power to spread the word. The Kingsmen would respond, wouldn’t they? I might be in disgrace, but they’d still have to take the report seriously.
I swallowed, hard. “What did you do to Morag?”
“A few commands, a few post-hypnotic suggestions and prompts … nothin
g too bad, just enough to keep her from running or sending a message back to her family,” Uncle Ira assured me. He reached out and patted my shoulder. “I won’t need to do much to you, will I? You have an excellent reason to want to join me.”
“Maybe,” I said. “What else did you do to her?”
“Nothing,” Uncle Ira said. “Her … charming personality is unchanged. She has every right to be angry at the family, but she doesn’t have the nerve to challenge the council directly. I think she resents you because you did try to up-end the status quo. And you’re barely twelve years old!”
“Thirteen,” I corrected, quietly.
“Thirteen,” Uncle Ira said. “And what are the odds of you ever going home?”
“Poor,” I said. Uncle Ira was right about that, if nothing else. But did I want to go home? I would be the family shame for the rest of my life. I might be officially forgiven, perhaps, but everyone would know what I’d done. And they’d certainly never trust me again. “Uncle …”
I forced myself to look at him. I didn’t have much, but I had my pride. I wasn’t going to serve a warlock, even with the promise of power … I’d made that mistake once, but never again. The price of power - in dead bodies and destroyed lives - was too high. And I’d dragged Callam into this mess … I kicked myself, mentally, for not telling him what I suspected about his talents. I could have taught him enough for him to forge a small Object of Power. The family would have been delighted. They might even have called me home if I’d found them a Zero. Instead …
Uncle Ira will use Callam to forge weapons, I thought, grimly. And that will give his forces an unbeatable edge.
“No,” I said.
Uncle Ira looked surprised. “No?”
“No,” I said. “I won’t join you.”
“Be reasonable,” Uncle Ira told me. He lifted the spellcaster. “Do you think I’ll have any trouble keeping you under control?”
My throat was dry. I forced myself to speak.
“I won’t join you,” I said, even though I knew it was only a matter of time until I broke. He could use the compeller, slowly twisting my mind until I was his most loyal servant. Or he could simply turn me into a statue and leave me there forever. Or … “I won’t join you.”
“And I won’t either,” Callam said. “I …”
Uncle Ira turned. “Then you’re a fool, boy.”
I met Callam’s eyes. Distract him, I mouthed. Keep him busy.
“And you’re a monster,” Callam said. “Will you even live long enough to enjoy the power?”
“The more powerful the ghosts become,” Uncle Ira said, “the stronger they are. It is quite possible that one could live forever as a being of magic, if he had the power and the will.”
Madness, I thought, as I inched my hand out of my pocket and carefully opened the potions vial. It was hard to move fast, but I had no choice. Uncle Ira would sense the potion the moment I opened the vial. He’s gone mad.
Gritting my teeth, I put the vial to my mouth and drank.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Uncle Ira swung around, too late.
“What have you done?” I could hear the sudden alarm in his voice. “Isabella …”
I braced myself as I felt a surge of magic rushing through me. I’d drunk more potion this time, enough - I hoped - to make the effect immediate. Uncle Ira’s spell, the one holding me in place, suddenly felt like cobwebs. I brushed them aside, grunting in pain as feeling returned to my lower body. My muscles ached, but I ignored them. The power was growing stronger and stronger.
Uncle Ira lifted the spellcaster. I cast a summoning charm with one hand and a repelling charm with the other. The spellcaster twitched in his hand, then shattered into a cloud of sawdust. Uncle Ira let out a word Mother would probably have slapped me for using as the wood dug into his hand. I would have felt sorry for him - I hated splinters too - if he hadn’t been planning to turn us into slaves. Instead, I cast the most powerful repulsion charm I could at him. The force of the impact picked him up, threw him down the corridor and crashed him into the far wall.
Callam was staring at me. “Isabella, your eyes!”
I blinked. “What …”
“They’re burning,” Callam said. “You’re on fire!”
I gritted my teeth. It felt as though my blood was coming to the boil. I pushed the feeling to the back of my mind as I started to struggle with the padlocks holding Callam’s chains in place, then realised I was being stupid and disintegrated them. Callam pulled himself free, the chains jangling as they hit the floor. I grinned at him, despite the burning sensation behind my eyes, then led the way to the other door. Uncle Ira’s wards were growing stronger, trying to contain me. I could feel them trying to smother my magic. I hadn’t felt anything like it since the days my parents had taught me how to use magic and cast spells for the first time.
“We have to get out of here,” I snapped. My senses seemed to have expanded along with my power. I was suddenly very aware of everything dangerous within range, from potions ingredients to Uncle Ira himself. I’d hoped he’d been knocked out by the impact, but it seemed he was struggling to his feet. His wards were converging on him too. “We have to …”
I looked at the door and cursed under my breath. The wards had sealed off the stairwell. I might be able to batter them down - a handful of options ran through my head - but it would exhaust my power. Uncle Ira would have no trouble nabbing the pair of us. I wondered, as I turned and led Callam towards the other door, just what he’d tell my parents when they asked what had happened to me. Perhaps he’d say I left the grounds and walked into a bog or … or maybe he wouldn’t need to give any explanation. His troops would attack Shallot before anyone realised I was dead. I wasn’t even sure I was still on the family tree.
He can’t be that advanced, I told myself, as I forced the door open and yanked Callam into the slaughterhouse. He didn’t have a usable potion until this week.
Callam swore out loud. “What was he doing?”
I looked up and shuddered. Hart’s body was still on the table. It looked as though Uncle Ira had sliced his way into Hart’s back and removed his entire spine. I wondered, vaguely, if he thought an entire spine transplant would work. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk losing Callam’s talents by grafting a replacement spine into his body, but there would be plenty of people he could experiment on. Some of them might even be volunteers. Cat had been so desperate for magical power that she might have volunteered, if someone had made the offer.
But he’d have to remove the original spine and channeler, I told myself. That would kill the volunteer, wouldn’t it?
I forced myself to think as we reached the next door. It was locked, the charm on the latch refusing to break until I smashed it with overwhelming force. Once, it had been impossible to do a heart transplant; now, a combination of magic and advanced medical knowledge ensured that the patient survived long enough for the new heart to go to work. Uncle Ira might assume that there was a way to implant a stolen channeler in a volunteer’s body, if he kept trying long enough to find a way to do it. He was certainly not inclined to care about a trail of dead bodies in his wake.
Callam opened the door and ran forward, into the storage chamber. I followed him, slamming the door closed behind us. It wouldn’t slow Uncle Ira down for long - I could already feel the wards hardening, slowly tightening as they tried to find us - but it might buy us a few seconds. A plan was hovering at the back of my mind, yet it was far too close to suicide. Were we that desperate? I figured we were.
“He wants me for something,” Callam said, as we hurried to the next door. “What?”
“He thinks you can forge Objects of Power,” I said. Callam was a Zero. Uncle Ira had confirmed it. “And he might be right.”
The floor shook, violently. I cursed under my breath and forced Callam to run faster. The wards were snapping at my heels, trying to stop us; they would have had us by now, I figured, if Uncle Ira had designed them to
keep everyone out of his lab. Thankfully, he’d had to bring his victims up here for dissection. I breathed a silent prayer of thanks to those who’d joined the ancients. Their deaths had not been in vain.
And they won’t be forgotten, either, I promised myself. Uncle Ira would not be allowed to get away with it. I’ll see to it personally.
Power bloomed through me, burning like fire. I opened my mouth to scream, then caught myself and shaped the power into a crude ward. It snapped into existence, blocking Uncle Ira’s path to us. I had no doubt he was strong enough to batter it down, or smart enough to find the weaknesses in the spellform and take it apart, but it might win us a few more seconds. I wasn’t sure how long the potion would last, or what the long-term effects of using it might be, yet … I shook my head. There was no point in worrying about it now.
The building shook again. I heard jars and bottles falling off shelves and smashing to the ground, shattering with terrifying force. Uncle Ira howled something, in the distance; I wondered, numbly, why he hadn’t put protective charms on the potion jars. It was the first thing we’d been taught to do when we’d studied potions. Father would have banned me from his storerooms if he’d caught me neglecting my spells. Contaminating one ingredient with another was a good way to cause an explosion.
And some ingredients explode if you look at them funny, I thought, as the idea took shape and form. We just have to keep moving.
I gritted my teeth as the wards pressed down on us. They seemed to be having problems seeing Callam - they were lashing around randomly in his general direction - but they didn’t have any trouble focusing on me. I shaped a counterspell and threw it out with all the power I could muster, then a pair of semi-dark divisionary spells that - technically - I shouldn’t have known. Uncle Ira is going to regret giving me those books, I thought, as I cut my skin to splash blood on the floor. The wards would have trouble catching me if I appeared to be in several places at once.
The Family Shame Page 35