The Family Shame

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  Unless Uncle Ira finds some way to convince the wards to ignore the false shadows, I reminded myself. He’s still in charge of them.

  A dozen ideas ran through my mind. If we could find the wardstone and take control, we could evict both Uncle Ira and Morag from the hall. But I had no idea where the wardstone was hidden. The wards were so complex - and so old - that it could be anywhere. We had no time for a search.

  Callam stumbled to a halt. “Isabella …”

  I looked up … and froze. A ghost was standing right in front of me, nothing but a wavering sheet of light. It was so translucent that I would have thought it nothing more than a trick of the light, if I couldn’t sense the air suddenly turning cold. I glanced at Callam as the ghost seemed to grow clearer, noticing that he didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold. I had the oddest sense I was missing something important as the ghost glided towards me, ghostly fingers reaching out to stroke my forehead. My magic started to bubble out of control. I couldn’t move …

  Callam grabbed my hand and yanked me aside. I felt ice brush against my bare hand as the ghost touched me, fleetingly. My magic surged, but - thanks to the potion - I had magic to spare. I forced myself to run, ignoring - as best as I could - the drain on my powers. Behind me, something crashed through the door. I glanced back and saw Uncle Ira staring at the ghost. His face was very pale. I had the strangest sense that he knew the ghost.

  If a ghost is an impression left behind by a magician, I thought, then who left that impression behind?

  I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The shimmering form was almost hypnotic, capturing and holding my eyes. I thought I saw details, but the more I looked at them the more they faded into nothingness. The ghost was … was larger than I’d realised and yet, at the same time, terrifyingly small. It seemed to plunge into infinity, as if there was something about it I couldn’t grasp. I didn’t want it to look at me. I had the feeling that that would be the end.

  Uncle Ira snapped out of his trance and started to chant a spell. It was old, so old that it was cast in High Imperial rather than a more modern tongue, but it was powerful. I could feel the magic stamping itself on reality, the impression growing stronger and stronger with every word. The ghost seemed to shimmer, then slowly break apart into splinters of light. The drain on my magic, the drain I’d almost forgotten, snapped out of existence. I bit my lip, used the pain to centre myself and ran. Callam opened the door and we plunged into the next room. Behind us, I heard a final despairing scream.

  Uncle Ira said this place was originally established to study the ruined city, I recalled, as we made our way through another storage room. Did they bring some of the ghosts back home?

  “Isabella,” a voice bellowed. The wards were closing in again. My diversionary spells had clearly started to fail. Or maybe Uncle Ira had simply reprogrammed the wards to go after every possible target. “There’s no way out.”

  “Don’t answer,” Callam hissed, as we ran into a storeroom and shut the door. It was dark, the air smelling faintly of decades-old potions. A boarded-up window provided the only hint of light. “Don’t let him know where we are!”

  I shook my head. I could feel Uncle Ira approaching, a tight knot of magic - and anger. He knew where we were. I could feel his rage bleeding into his power. I’d heard stories about warlocks who lost control, but I’d never seen it. Even Father, when he’d been terrifyingly angry about something, had never lost control. I hoped Uncle Ira remembered he needed Callam, when he caught us. Callam might survive, at least. He’d be a slave, chained to the workbench, but at least he’d be alive.

  He’ll probably kill me, I thought morbidly, as I cast a tiny light charm. The faint glimmer revealed bottles of potion ingredients and very little else. And that might be the best thing he could do.

  I sucked in my breath. The power was still flaring within me, as if someone had set fire to something flammable, but I was all too aware that the magic was running out of fuel. I’d probably collapse in a heap when it did, unable to keep myself from falling into the darkness. Uncle Ira would probably cut my throat before I woke up. Or simply layer compulsion spells on me while I was helpless. I might never be in control of myself again.

  “There is no way out, Isabella,” Uncle Ira’s voice said. “I know where you are.”

  His magic brushed against the storeroom door, blasting it open. I hastily raised a protective charm as wood and metal flew in all directions. Chunks of the wall followed as his anger found release, shelves shattering under the force of his rage. A handful of jars fell to the ground and bounced. My lips twitched in hollow amusement as he stepped through the remains of the door. He’d remembered to use protective charms here!

  “Let her go,” Callam pleaded. I wanted to scream at him. “I’ll stay with …”

  Uncle Ira jabbed a finger at him. Callam froze. I mustered what remained of my power, bracing myself for the worst. Uncle Ira was going to kill or enslave me and … and there would be nothing left of me at all. I wished, suddenly, that I’d had a chance to speak to my parents or my brother one last time. I owed Akin - and Cat - an apology. Perhaps they’d remember me fondly, after a few years had passed. Akin might want to name his first child after me. The ancients knew that no one else would want to remember my name.

  Cat probably doesn’t want to remember me either, I thought. And if they do end up getting married …

  “Lower all of your defences,” Uncle Ira ordered. “Now.”

  I saw the compeller in his hand and froze, horribly. I would do anything rather than be subjected to that thing again. The plan ran through my mind, again. I summoned magic, shaped the most powerful curse I could, and threw it at him. Uncle Ira stepped back, his expression darkening rapidly as he struggled to block my blow. He probably had good reason to be irritated that I’d drunk his potion now, I thought. The curse wouldn’t have been that effective against an adult magician if it hadn’t been massively overpowered.

  Here goes nothing, I thought, and aimed a fireball right into the collection of potion ingredients. Flames splashed from jar to jar, burning through the protective charms; they changed colour rapidly as some of the more volatile ingredients started to burn. And if this doesn’t work …

  Uncle Ira spun around as he dispelled the last of my curse. “What have you done?”

  I should have said something witty - or cutting - but I didn’t have time. I grabbed Callam’s hand, casting a collection of spells in quick succession. Magic - the last of my power - spun around us, picking us up and hurling us bodily towards the window. I gritted my teeth, pushing everything I could into the shield charm, as we smashed through the wood and plummeted towards the ground behind. Someone - Uncle Ira, I assumed - screamed, but the sound was lost in the hum of magic. We hit the ground and bounced, the magic flickering and failing as we finally came to a stop. I landed on my back, gasping for breath. My magic was gone. I was defenceless. I stared at the hall, barely able to move …

  An explosion blasted through the uppermost levels of the hall, followed by several more as the remainder of the ingredients caught fire and exploded. Just for a second, I thought I saw Uncle Ira’s face within the flames. Had he tried, in his final moments of life, to impress his existence on the magic? Had he tried to become a ghost? I heard Callam grunt behind me and realised the freeze charm had worn off. Uncle Ira was dead.

  I swallowed, hard. I hadn’t meant to kill him.

  You had no choice, a voice said. It sounded like my father. He would have killed you - or worse - if given the chance.

  I knew the voice was right, but it still hurt. I’d told myself, months ago, that I wasn’t to blame for the deaths when the Crown Prince launched his coup. That had been his fault, his and Stregheria Aguirre’s. But now … Uncle Ira was dead and Morag might be dead too, if the flames spread to the rest of the house. The wards were strong, designed to cope with fires, floods and anything else that might prove dangerous, but between us we’d done them a great deal of damage. Their de
aths were on my conscience.

  But he would have killed you, my father’s voice said. Father had always told me to defend myself if attacked, whatever the cost. I wished … I wished I hadn’t been so foolish. And Uncle Ira would have killed Callam.

  “Isabella,” Callam managed. He stumbled to his feet and wobbled over to me. “I … I thank you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tried to say. I didn’t think it came out very clearly. “I …”

  My head swam. I tried to force myself to stay awake - Morag was still around, I thought - but it was impossible. Callam’s face faded as my vision blurred - I heard him say something, yet I couldn’t make out the words - and then …

  … And then the darkness reached up and swallowed me.

  Chapter Forty

  “So,” Callam said, two days later. “What am I?”

  I sighed. We were sitting on the grass, watching the Kingsmen as they searched the hall for any traces of Uncle Ira’s activities. The sixth floor had been effectively destroyed, they’d told me after they’d taken my brief statement, but the remainder of Kirkhaven Hall was largely undamaged. Uncle Ira’s paranoia had cost him, I thought, with more amusement than the situation demanded. His wards had focused the blasts up and out of the building, destroying much of his work in the process. Thankfully, enough had survived to convince the Kingsmen that I hadn’t cried wolf.

  “You’re a Zero,” I told him, slowly. “You don’t have any magic at all.”

  I explained, as best as I could. Akin would have done a better job. He and Cat were friends, not … not enemies. “Your lack of magic lets you forge Objects of Power,” I said. “And that makes you important, if you want to be important.”

  Callam looked doubtful. “Is it worth it?”

  “I …”

  I hesitated. A year ago, I would have said yes without bothering to think about it. Now … now I wasn’t so sure. Cat was going to be one of the most important people in Shallot, but her gifts came with a price. And I … I’d done something very stupid in a bid to become powerful in my own right. I would be paying for that for years to come. Callam had good reason not to want to use his gifts.

  “It could be,” I said, finally. “But you’d have to spend years learning how to forge.”

  Callam looked doubtful. I looked away, studying what remained of the hall. The Kingsmen hadn’t found any trace of Morag, when they’d searched the building from top to bottom. I suspected that that meant the spells Uncle Ira had used to bind her to him were gone. She might have taken advantage of the opportunity to vanish before someone could try to turn her into a scapegoat for Ira’s crimes. I had no doubt that, when the full truth got out, heads would be rolling. I couldn’t help wondering if I would be turned into a scapegoat too.

  Uncle Ira started well before I was born, I reminded myself, dryly. Morag had merely been sucked into the plot when she’d been exiled to Kirkhaven too. I hoped she managed to find her husband. It would be quite a feat for me to be involved right from the beginning.

  “Dad probably wants me to teach,” Callam said. “And Mum just wants me to be happy.”

  I patted his hand, lightly. “Make up your own mind,” I told him. “And … and do what you want.”

  He smiled at me. “Thanks,” he said, wanly. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Callam had managed to look after me until the Kingsmen arrived, but afterwards … I didn’t know. The Kingsmen had helped me put a bed in the gatekeeper’s cottage, ensuring I had somewhere to sleep, yet they hadn’t done anything else. My reputation had preceded me. I supposed I should be glad they hadn’t thrown me in jail and swallowed the key. “It depends …”

  “Mum said you could stay with us,” Callam said. His cheeks reddened when I looked at him. “I told her you saved my life.”

  “After endangering it in the first place,” I muttered. “Callam … I should have told you what I suspected. I … I had no right to keep it to myself.”

  Callam lifted his eyebrows. “Why did you keep it to yourself?”

  “I didn’t want to raise your hopes,” I admitted, gently. And mine too, if I was forced to be honest. “If you thought you could do something unique - and then discovered you couldn’t - I figured you’d take it badly.”

  “I never thought I could do magic,” Callam said. “It wouldn’t have hurt that much.”

  “And now you know,” I said. “You have a gift that’s worth millions.”

  I heard a carriage clattering up the driveway and looked up, sharply. It was my father’s carriage. I’d know it anywhere. I was on my feet before my conscious mind had quite realised what I was seeing. My father had come to see me! I’d thought … I knew a letter had gone to Shallot, via the family representative in Caithness, but … I’d thought he wouldn’t be allowed to come. I couldn’t help grinning like a loon. My father had come!

  Callam nudged me as he clambered to his feet. “Your dad?”

  “Yeah,” I said, as the carriage came to a halt. “Do you want to say hello?”

  “Maybe later,” Callam said. “You should have this moment with him … you know, without me.”

  I forced myself to wait as my father hopped out of the carriage, spoke briefly to one of the Kingsmen, then walked over to me. And then I threw propriety to the winds, ran forward and hugged him tightly. It was the sort of emotional display I’d never have been permitted in public, not in the city, but here … the family’s enemies were a long way away. And besides, I doubted I’d be allowed to go home anyway.

  “Isabella,” Dad said, as I released him. “I … I’m glad to see you’re alive.”

  “Father,” I said, suddenly unsure of myself. I was an exile, technically. Father would have been within his rights to claim he’d only ever had one child. “I … welcome to Kirkhaven Hall.”

  Father turned to look at the hall for a long moment, then took my hand. Normally, I would have been embarrassed to hold my father’s hand in public - I was old enough not to go running onto the streets the moment my parents let go of me - but now … now I was glad of the contact. It made me feel that my father still cared about me.

  “We got your letter,” Father said, once we were out of earshot. “But what really happened?”

  I sucked in my breath, then ran through the whole story as best as I could. Uncle Ira’s experiments, his attempts to corrupt me - I didn’t think the Kingsmen had found the Dark Arts books - and his long-term plans, such as they were. I told him everything, save for one little detail. Callam could decide if he wanted to tell my father about his gifts or not for himself.

  “I am truly sorry,” Father said, when I fell silent. My father had never been good at expressing his feelings, but I knew what he meant. “I knew you would have a hard time up here, so far from civilisation, yet I never guessed …”

  “I know,” I said. The Family Council would hardly have let Uncle Ira get on with it if they had the faintest idea what he was doing. They might have turned a blind eye to secretive experiments with the Dark Arts, but not to kidnapping innocent townspeople and grinding them up to make illegal potions. “I don’t blame you.”

  “Perhaps you should,” Father said. “There was a lot I could have done for you.”

  “Water under the bridge,” I said, dimly aware that I would have thrown a fit a few short months ago. “I …”

  I shook my head. “How are … how are the others?”

  “Your mother is fine, although suffering from social withdrawal,” Father said. “I’m afraid that some of her former friends have been refusing to speak with her in the streets, let alone invite her to their parties. Thankfully” - I heard the wry amusement in his voice - “she and Sofia Aguirre have become friends, of a sort. They are starting to redefine the very best parties in the city. I dare say the social networks will be very different by the time your Season rolls around.”

  “Oh,” I said. My mother and Cat’s mother, friends? There had been a time when I would
have been horrified by the mere idea, let alone the reality. But now … I supposed they would make good friends. They were equals, more or less. Or at least they had been. “Will I ever have a Season?”

  “Your brother is doing fine,” Father said, ignoring my question. “And your future sister-in-law is founding her own school.”

  I met his eyes. “Father … will I ever have a Season?”

  Father looked back at me for a long moment. “The Family Council discussed your case in urgent session, the moment we received word from Caithness,” he said. “They are … regretful about what happened, but … but they don’t want to rescind your exile. There are too many other political considerations involved.”

  I’d guessed as much, from the moment he ducked my question, but it felt … it didn’t feel as bad as I’d expected. The thought of going home … where was home? Shallot didn’t have anything for me now. Morag had been right about that, if nothing else. I would not be welcome at all the best parties in Shallot, even if I was officially pardoned; I would never have a season, or a husband, or a household of my own. Kirkhaven was my home now.

  “They have agreed to make Kirkhaven Hall over to you, as well as the surrounding lands,” Father added, quietly. “That’s an expression of their gratitude, I suppose.”

  “Or of their complete lack of concern,” I muttered. Kirkhaven Hall might belong to the family - and we never gave up what was ours - but there was nothing in the surrounding area worthy of our attention. Whatever research had been conducted into the ruined city had been abandoned long before Uncle Ira had been born. And besides, the locals would hardly listen to me. “Is there anyone else who wants it?”

  “No,” Father said. He looked away. “They won’t let you go back home, Isabella, unless you do them a great service.”

  I looked back at the hall. I’d killed Uncle Ira - and I’d have to come to terms with that - but I’d also destroyed most of the evidence. The Kingsmen certainly hadn’t found anything they were willing to use against us. Without Morag - and with me being underage - it would be difficult for the family’s enemies to prove anything. The secret of Uncle Ira’s enhancement potions would die with him.