by M. J. Scott
Battle magic didn’t require any supplies and the Arts of Air only a few. Of course, in Illvya, they also practiced the fourth art. Water magic. Magic strictly forbidden here in Anglion, involving as it did, demons and darker things declared forbidden by the goddess. She moved closer to the nearest shelf, intrigued. Was Madame de Montesse truly brave enough to sell such things? Or was it just that Sophie was looking at supplies used for other purposes? Medicines and such. Supplies for seed witches and midwives and the healers without magic. Or earth magic that hadn’t been included in her lessons.
“Lieutenant Mackenzie, what a surprise.”
“Madame de Montesse, your health.”
Sophie turned quickly, just in time to see the lieutenant bow, a gesture as precisely polite as his greeting. The woman he bowed to smiled broadly, her bright green gown, cut even lower than Sophie’s, rustling as she bobbed an answering curtsy.
Sophie didn’t follow the lieutenant’s example. No one was entirely sure of the truth of Chloe de Montesse’s background. She claimed to be a widow, though Sophie had heard rumors that that was merely a fabrication, designed to sway some sympathy in Madame de Montesse’s direction when she had first come to Anglion as a refugee. That seemed more like court gossip and spite than anything else to Sophie. But she was sure of one thing. As a member of the court, she outranked the woman. She wasn’t bowing first.
Madame de Montesse laughed. “So formal, Lieutenant? Such a pity.” Her voice was airy and amused, her Anglish underscored ever so faintly with the accent of her former country. “And who have you brought to my humble establishment?” Her dark eyes flicked briefly to Sophie and then returned to the lieutenant.
“May I present Lady Sophia Kendall?” He made another shallow bow. Sophie moved closer to them out of politeness and, she had to admit, a certain degree of curiosity.
“Ah,” Madame de Montesse said, smiling again as she bobbed another curtsy. “The one we hear so much speculation about.” She laughed and loosed a stream of questions in the liquid syllables of her native Illvyan at the lieutenant.
Sophie returned the curtsy with a version of her own that was even shallower, more interested in following the conversation. But the speed of the exchange was too much for her—far quicker than her Illvyan tutor had ever spoken to her, though the lieutenant seemed to have no difficulty. She made out only a few words. “Flower” and “the game.” The lieutenant’s reply was short, causing Madame to break into another peal of laughter as she spoke again. The word for “prize” was about all Sophie could decipher this time.
Sophie bristled. “I am not a prize, Madame.” She didn’t know exactly how old the Illvyan woman was—her skin was smooth, but she was definitely older than Sophie. Older than the princess, too, perhaps. Near thirty. Maybe more. One also heard rumors of Illvyan women being able to stay young beyond their years.
“You speak Illvyan?” Madame de Montesse asked, looking completely unperturbed that Sophie had understood her.
“Some,” Sophie replied, trying for the same air of unconcern. All Anglion nobles learned Illvyan to some degree. The official reason given was the maintenance of the tightly controlled trade agreements. Privately Sophie thought that it was more a case of knowing one’s enemy.
Illvya’s use of the fourth art meant that they now controlled most of their continent. But the demons the Illvyan wizards summoned couldn’t cross salt water. So Anglion, protected by the ocean that surrounded it, was still free. But no one believed the Illvyans wouldn’t try again to add Anglion to their empire.
“Court ladies. So . . . accomplished.” The nose beneath those amused dark eyes wrinkled despite the seeming compliment, and Sophie felt an unwilling admiration for the woman.
Chloe de Montesse was no Anglion. Though, as an Illvyan refugee, she seemed to follow the rules of her adopted country. The pearls dangling from gold wires threaded through her earlobes testified to that.
But she couldn’t hide the fact that she hadn’t always followed Anglion ways. No, she was a free witch. Unhampered by custom. Her hair wasn’t the rich red of the royal witches, deepened by their contact with the earth. It was a color closer to flame, licked here and there with threads that were near black. Sophie wondered exactly what powers she had dallied with before coming to Anglion to achieve that color and whether she thought Sophie herself should aspire to a similar shade rather than submit tamely to the fate decreed for her by tradition.
Though to do that, she would have to leave Anglion. The keepers of the goddess’s temple did not truck with anyone practicing those arts that had been forbidden on Anglese soil. And they expressed their displeasure forcibly. Having hair like Madame de Montesse’s was a sure path to trouble unless, like Madame de Montesse, one could claim to have given up the habits of her homeland. If she was being less than truthful about that, then no one had ever proven it.
“Do Illvyan ladies not learn Anglion?” Sophie countered.
Madame de Montesse nodded, the gesture almost approving. “Some do. Those who have . . . need.”
Need? Those who did magic, perhaps? Those who would end up with hair like Madame’s?
Sophie tried to shake off the thread of speculation. There was no certainty that her hair would ever be any different from how it was now. If her power didn’t manifest at her Ais-Seann, then it would remain nondescript brown. And if she did, there was no way it would end up any shade near Madame de Montesse’s. It would be the same as all the other earth witches. Earth red. Deeper if she was stronger. Just a hint—like her mother had—if she were not. She had tried and failed to imagine herself with hair the color of Eloisa’s—a red so rich it drew the eye like rubies. It suited the princess’s milky complexion, but skin like Eloisa’s was a rarity in the court. It cropped up now and again in the royal family, a reminder that they had both ties to the north and, though it was scarcely admitted to these days, links to the paler-skinned Illvyans as well.
But Sophie’s skin was the usual golden shade of most Anglions. She couldn’t help feeling that red hair might just make her look like an unstruck matchstick.
The lieutenant produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and started reading out a list of herbs and other supplies that were at least familiar to Sophie from her studies. His words drew Madame de Montesse’s attention back to him, her smile and fluttering eyelashes firmly directed at him as she started to fetch things from the shelves.
Sophie turned back to her study of the cabinets and shelves, carefully clasping her hands behind her back so she wouldn’t break anything delicate or touch anything dangerous. Illvyans didn’t limit themselves to the three arts of Anglion magic. And even in Anglion, some of the ingredients used in magical workings were dangerous. Safer to look and not touch.
Just as Sophie had nearly decided that the tiny skeleton in a jar just out of reach on one of the higher shelves must definitely be a conar lizard, the lieutenant called her name, making her jump and bump the shelf. Jars rattled, but luckily nothing came crashing down around her ears. She put a hand out to settle the last of them back into place, willing the blush that had sprung into her cheeks to leave before she turned. “Sir?”
“Come and see this. The princess would want your opinion before I spend her money.”
On the opposite side of the counter to him, Madame de Montesse didn’t look overly pleased at the insinuation she’d sell anything that wasn’t worth the high prices she charged.
Sophie hid a smile—it was nice to know that the lieutenant could annoy others as well as her—and joined him. Laid out on the counter was a supple leather roll, currently unfurled. The length of rich brown hide gleamed dully under the light coming through the window. On it lay a variety of smaller leather pouches, two slender silver knives, and a length of gold chain, held in place with thongs sewn into the roll. She’d never seen anything like it before, though it was clear that it was intended for a witch.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Sophie reached out
and stroked the leather, her finger slipping across the softness easily. Yet it had the sheen of waterproofing. “It’s lovely.”
“High quality?”
She looked up at him, trying to see whether he was joking. “You’re the mage here. You tell me.”
He shrugged. “This is witch magic. Warriors don’t use this stuff. I barely know mandrake from marjoram.”
“I’m sure you understate things. The Red Guard trains its mages well.”
“Yes, the ones who have strong talent. I’m average at best. Basic defense spells. Nothing requiring herbs or silver.”
Madame de Montesse arched a dark brow at this but stayed quiet.
“You’re a royal bodyguard,” Sophie protested.
“Princess Eloisa is stronger than I’ll ever be. I serve her best with my sword, not my magic.” He looked uncomfortable, perhaps because he was discussing such a subject in front of someone not of the court.
“I see.” Sophie untied the thongs wrapped around one of the knives and picked it up, trying to see if it evoked any response. It was more a dagger than a knife, really. The hilt was chased with runes and fit her hand well. It had the heavy sheen of good silver, but otherwise she sensed nothing. Likewise the chain. The pouches were a little easier. She could at least recognize the contents by sight and smell—a wide array of herbs and other ingredients for spells—but she didn’t know how to judge their magical strength. She wouldn’t be able to tell that until her own powers showed up. If they did.
“Milady?” The lieutenant interrupted her thoughts.
She sighed and slipped the knife back into the loop designed for it. “It looks perfectly fine to me.”
“Good. If you please, Madame.” He nodded at the roll, and Madame de Montesse busied herself repacking the roll, adding it to the pile of packages on the counter in front of the lieutenant. Eloisa must have sent him with quite the list.
Cameron reached for his pouch for the coins Eloisa had given him. Thank the goddess that this errand running was nearly over and that he could get Lady Sophia back to the palace. Then his unplanned babysitting stint would be over, and he could get back to his duties instead. The girl was pleasant enough, but her wide-eyed air of curiosity about the port and Madame de Montesse’s dubious store was proof that she didn’t belong in Portholme. But as he lifted the pouch, a growling rumble boomed through the air. A second later, the building shook violently. Jars crashed off the shelves, the sound of shattering glass echoed by an outcry of cries and screams from the street.
“What was that?” Sophia said, twisting.
“Stay here, milady.” He strode to the door and wrenched it open, drawing his sword. The crowd was beginning to move, screams and cries filling the street as stallholders tried to stow away their goods or run away. If he were any judge, they were minutes away from full-blown panic. He grabbed the nearest man. “What’s happening?”
The man only shook his head and pointed.
Cameron followed the direction of his arm and went cold. Smoke billowed from one of the palace’s wide round towers—the east tower, which sat at the intersection of the northern front wall and the east wall. As he watched, another roaring rumble was followed by a flash of fire, and a hole appeared in one of the walls of the west tower. An explosion that large was no fire or accident. They were being attacked. Instinctively, he started toward the palace but checked himself after half a step. Lady Sophia.
He couldn’t leave her unprotected. Who knew what was happening? She was part of the royal family—however distant a part—and if they were under attack, then his duty was also to her.
Another rumble, and stones spewed into the air. Goddess. Elly. What was happening to her? But fear for his lover didn’t change his duty to the girl in the store.
“What is that?” Sophia appeared beside him, looking terrified.
“Get back inside,” he snarled. He didn’t wait for her to protest or argue, just bundled her back into the shop, bolted the door, and drew the shades.
Chloe was standing by the window. “The palace?”
“Under attack,” he said shortly.
“Attack?” Sophia echoed.
He spared her one glance. She had turned a sickly sort of yellow shade, fear dulling the sheen of her skin, but so far wasn’t having hysterics. “As far as I can tell, milady.” He turned back to Madame de Montesse. “Where’s the nearest portal?” The safest thing would be to get Sophia out of the city altogether and hide her somewhere until he could get some idea of the situation.
“I have one here,” Chloe admitted.
Now, that was unexpected. Portals cost money. A lot of money. Both to establish and maintain. But where Chloe de Montesse got that sort of cash was a question for another day. Now all that mattered was she had one. “Show me,” he said, and took Sophia by the arm, leading her after Chloe.
They ducked into a back room, and then Chloe threw back a rug to reveal a trapdoor. It led down into a cellar and to another door. When he approached, he felt the familiar pull of a portal stone. As Chloe unlocked the door, he turned to Sophia. “Have you used a portal before?”
She nodded. “O-once.”
“Did it make you ill?” Portals were uncomfortable for most. If she was going to faint or throw up, better to know now.
“A little,” she said, straightening her shoulders as if to say “don’t worry about me.” “Where are we going?”
“Away from here. Never mind.” He shot a look at Chloe. “My apologies, Madame, but if you do not know, you can’t tell.”
She nodded and pulled the door open. “I understand. Do you need a focus?”
“No. I have one.” Stepping through the door, he lit the candle Chloe had handed him and raised it so he could read the symbols around the portal stone. Portals were linked to other portals. The more destinations, the more expensive and power-consuming to maintain. This one showed ten, and thankfully, he recognized two of them as being in the general direction he required. He took Sophie’s hand. “Stay close.” She obediently stepped nearer.
“You would be wise to run yourself, Madame. The city will not be safe. Not if . . .” He didn’t want to speak the possibilities and scare Sophia. Or give them reality.
Chloe shrugged, a peculiarly Illvyan quality to her gesture. “I will wait and see how things lie. It is only a few moments’ work to leave if needs be. Salt protect you.”
She stepped back and closed the door, leaving them in darkness broken only by the ring of flickering light provided by the candle. “Ready?” he asked Sophia, drawing her against his chest.
She nodded, a movement he felt rather than saw. He pulled the dagger he carried in his boot free and slashed his thumb, using the blood to open the key to magic. He thought fast as his thumb throbbed and the power built; then he focused on the symbol of his chosen destination, blew out the candle, keyed the portal stone, and moved through the portal with three rapid strides, never loosening his grip on Sophia.
CHAPTER THREE
Sophie stumbled as the lieutenant practically dragged her through the portal.
He caught her before she fell. “Careful, we cannot lose time.” He pushed forward past her and led the way out into sunlight. The sudden transition had Sophie blinking. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes and felt her stomach roll in protest as she got her bearings. She’d traveled by portal only once before. The one at the Kendall estate had fallen into disuse. Her mother had such a small power that she couldn’t perform the rites to keep it primed, and her father didn’t have the coin to spare to pay someone to do it for them.
When they traveled to and from Kingswell, they did it the hard way. By sea or over the bumpy network of roads in a carriage.
She sucked in a breath, held it, then released it slowly, praying that her stomach would cooperate and that she wasn’t about to lose her last meal all over the lieutenant’s beautifully polished boots. The scenery held no familiar landmarks, just a vista of trees and hills and fields that could be almost a
ny part of rural Anglion. “Where are we?”
Cameron looked around the small clearing they were in, then crossed to a portal marker on the far side. His hand tracked down the symbols carved in the rock. “If I got this right, then we’re outside a small village called Upper Tilbourne.”
That left Sophie none the wiser. Her head began to ache, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the portal or the thought of what lay behind them in the capital. She drew a steadying breath. Despite the sunshine, the air felt cooler than it had, which helped a little. As did the fact that the city smells were all gone, replaced by the cleaner scents of grass and damp earth and, somewhere in the distance, a faint hint of wood smoke. “Where is that exactly?”
Somehow it seemed important to know something about what was happening, even an insignificant fact like where she was.
“North of Kingswell.”
That wasn’t helpful. Most of Anglion was north of Kingswell. Only the Hellebride Peninsula lay below the capital. “How far north?”
The lieutenant looked around again, face grim. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “Not far enough.”
He came back to Sophie, caught her shoulders, and peered at her. “Are you up to another transfer?”
Her stomach protested the thought. Strongly. She dug her fingernails into her palms, clenching her hands tightly, hoping the small pain would drive away the nausea. “Are you going to tell me what’s happening? Back in the store—”
“Later. Come, milady. There is little time to make sure we get away.”
Get away where? And who would be coming after her, anyway? She fought a rising urge to refuse to go any farther. But that would be foolish. The lieutenant was an experienced soldier, a royal bodyguard. The princess’s bodyguard. She should trust him.
Or should she? After all, she had no idea what had even happened. Or where he was taking her. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s happening.”