by Layton Green
The hags shuffled forward. Just before they turned and saw her, Mala returned to normal size, the slop splattering her legs as it sailed between the gray bars.
The next morning, the hags varied their routine. After doling out the morning meal, they took the unicorn out of the cage, wrapped it in grey coils as the poor creature whinnied in terror, then carried it outside.
Mala was curious. She took another dose from the dwindling vial, grabbed her weapons once she returned to normal size, and followed the hags into the woods. They had taken the same path.
When she reached the giant tree and saw what the hags were doing, her stomach tightened, and she felt prickles on the back of her neck. The unicorn was bound with grey tendrils to the base of the tree, and the hags were cavorting grotesquely around the poor creature, waving their arms, jumping up and down, babbling in their strange language as they beseeched the ancient hardwood. At the end of the ritual, the lead hag whisked a talon across the throat of the unicorn, opening a vein.
The hags stepped back and watched the unicorn bleed to death, its shrill whinnying cutting through the silence of the forest like nails on chalkboard. After it expired, the hags made more cuts around the body, draining every last drop of blood onto the forest floor. Then they tore the creature apart with their hands, ripping off hunks of white flesh and stuffing them into their mouths.
Disgusted, Mala forced herself to watch, gaining as much insight into the habits of the creatures as she could. After they had their fill, the hags tossed the carcass aside and started digging for more worms.
Mala watched as long as she dared and then slunk back to the valley, repulsed but thoughtful at the behavior of the strange hags.
-29-
“Our deepest sympathies extend to the friends and colleagues of Warwick Ledden of Laketown,” Dean Varen continued, speaking to the assembled students in the Lyceum. “Despite the circumstances, there is no cause for panic.”
Three murders of Acolytes in two weeks? Val thought. Seems like cause for panic to us.
“Rest assured we have our best investigators searching for the murderer, and he or she will be brought to justice. In the meantime, you should avoid traveling alone at night or in isolated areas. If you find yourself in the Abbey after hours, please utilize your coterie facilities for the night, or one of the visiting dignitary suites.” Dean Varen swept her imperious gaze across the crowd, a show of confidence meant to reassure the students. “That is all.”
As soon as Dean Varen flew out of the Lyceum, the students dispersed, muttering in small groups. Val followed Adaira and Dida outside.
The bibliomancer’s bald pate gleamed in the sunlight. His features were drawn. “Never have we had such things happen in our learning centers.”
Adaira beckoned them closer to the fountain, where they couldn’t be overheard. “I heard my majitsu discussing the details,” she said. “They’re not telling us everything.”
“I gathered,” Val said drily. “As in, why can’t the most powerful force in the Realm figure out who’s killing their students?”
“Not even spirit mages can divine the future.” She lowered her voice even further. “Though at times they can peer into the past. I do know they’ve consulted both a necromancer and a scryer, neither of which was able to complete a reading. They were blocked.”
“Blocked?” Dida echoed. “How can this be?”
“They believe the assassin possesses a magical item that prevents scrying. The wizards are sure of it.”
“Could it be a mage assassin?” Val asked.
Adaira grimaced. “It’s possible, though unlikely. A wizard would not need to use a knife.”
“Unless he wanted to mask his intentions,” Val said.
“True. Though if the assassin were a wizard of any power, they would likely target higher impact victims. Real wizards, not Acolytes. The Congregation believes this to be an act of revolution. To sow discontent and disrupt the Abbey.”
Val crossed his arms. “What else aren’t the professors telling us?”
Adaira glanced around to make sure no one else had approached. She needn’t have bothered; when the other students noticed her, they steered well clear, intimidated by her lineage. “Investigators found claw marks on Warwick’s left arm. As if the assassin had grabbed him with one hand—a clawed hand—and knifed or clawed his throat with the other.”
Dida wiped a bead of sweat off the eraser-smooth slope of his forehead. “Oh my.”
“As Val said,” Adaira continued, “it could be a minor wizard. Or a beast under the control of a wizard. Or a human assassin with a magical glove. And there’s one other . . . troubling . . . piece of information.” Her eyes flicked to Dida and then Val. “The first victim was murdered on the Canal Street Bridge. Because the bridge is such an important access point to the city, both ends are patrolled, day and night.”
“And no one saw anything,” Val guessed. “They don’t know how the assassin got to the victim.”
She nodded, lips pressed tight.
Dida shifted from foot to foot, his brown face sallow. Val wondered if he had ever left the library in his homeland. “I must be off,” Dida said. “Our consulate has scheduled a dinner this evening that requires my attendance.” He clasped Val’s forearm, and then Adaira’s. “Thank you for confiding.”
“Of course,” she murmured, giving him a peck on the forehead. “Discretion, please.”
Dida tipped his head and walked away.
“I’d better be going as well,” Val said.
“Val,” she said, as he turned to leave. “Do you have any engagements tomorrow night?”
The look in her eye was mischievous and bold and shy, all at the same time. Flirtatious. Given that she was the daughter of Lord Alistair, it scared the hell out of him.
But she might know something about the Planewalk. Brushing her off could be even more dangerous to his cause.
“Nothing except studying,” he said.
“Everyone needs a study break.”
“Maybe,” he said, and cocked a grin. “But not everyone takes one.”
Her eyes were alight, not used to being toyed with, enjoying the game. “And do you skip all of your meals as well, in pursuit of the perfect Wizard Shield?”
“I can study during meals. It’s sleep I don’t like.”
“Ah. Then I must ask what it would take to secure a dinner arrangement with someone so driven?”
“An equal or greater force, I suppose.”
Her eyes staying on Val, she took a step towards her waiting majitsu. “Meet me at the Oasis Café at dusk tomorrow evening. And for Queensake, leave your notepads behind.”
The next morning, Val attended a Relics class. Most of the lecture concerned the history of magecrafting, the term for the creation of magical items. As he had guessed, wizards had made the bulk of Urfe’s relics, excepting a rare few taken from ‘other realms.’
According to Professor Bilxao, a gnomish wizard with sleepy, rust-colored eyes, it could take months to craft a minor relic, years for a major one, and decades or longer for some of the legendary artifacts scattered about the Realm.
Though no mention was made of a weapon similar to Will’s sword, Val perused the syllabus and noticed a class two weeks hence dedicated to Major Artifacts.
He started preparing his questions.
Saturday evening. The hour had arrived for Val’s date with Adaira, daughter of Lord Alistair, Chief Thaumaturge of the Congregation.
Val knew he was playing with fire.
He tried to push his worries away as he cruised down St. Charles atop Gus’s carriage, enjoying the endless ivy-covered mansions, the mild late-winter weather, and the intoxicating aroma of decaying vegetation.
He had always loved New Orleans, the way it relaxed his mind and soul. There was nothing better than a beer with his brothers on an oak-shaded patio, strolling the back alleys of the French Quarter, swaying to the sweaty rhythm of a brass band in the Faubourg Marigny,
and then sleeping late and lazing by the levee the next day, watching the river drift by, warm and languorous and green.
He had often wondered why he kept returning to the concrete jungle of Manhattan. But he knew. As much as he appreciated the laissez faire of his home city, it was the buzz of New York, the compressed energy of eight million souls, that injected him like a drug, satisfying his need for excitement, his thirst for ambition and life on the edge.
As the horses pranced past the imposing marble buildings of the Government District, Val had to admit he liked the grandeur and vitality of this world’s version of New Orleans. It was like New York in the subtropics—with magic.
When asked about the Oasis Café, Gus had chomped on his pipe and proclaimed it the finest pleasure garden in the city. When Val probed for details, the grizzled driver said, “Ye’ll have to see for yerself, laddie. It ain’t like I’ve been there.”
As they approached the Canal Bridge, Gus veered to the right on a handsome brick street, away from the French Quarter. A succession of private manors and fancy restaurants lined the riverfront, and they found the Oasis Café tucked inside a high-walled property.
The wall was inset with swirls of colored gemstones. Val dismounted and strolled to an iron gate beneath the entrance sign, then gave his name to an olive-skinned girl in blue livery. She ran her finger down a scroll, raised her eyebrows when she found his name next to Adaira’s, opened the gate, and asked Val to follow her down a pebbled path through the foliage.
The grounds of the restaurant were the most beautiful Val had ever seen. Hedgerows of vivid tropical flowers lined the main path, groves of palms and banana trees sheltered candlelit tables, oak trees dripping Spanish moss caught and diffused the moonlight.
Guided by azure glow orbs, they wound through a maze of pathways and private tables to a central courtyard that backed onto the river. The brick courtyard was empty except for a stone fountain in the center, gurgling a polychromatic stream of liquid.
Candlelit tables and divans dotted the periphery of the courtyard, shielded from the other patrons with discreetly placed foliage. Adaira was waiting for him at a table for two made of emerald quartz. He spotted a pair of silver-belted majitsu fifteen feet away, standing next to a kumquat tree with folded arms and set mouths, eying Val’s approach.
When Adaira rose to greet him, he had to force himself not to gawk. Flaxen hair, unbound for the first time Val had seen, flowed in gentle waves down her back, brushing his arms as he leaned in to exchange a kiss on the forehead. Her pale skin looked milky in the soft light of the glow orbs, her eyes two circlets of sea-green velvet.
She wore an ankle-length dress that matched her eyes, slit up the side and clinging to her figure. Delicate calfskin boots brought her an inch below Val’s six-foot stature. Again, her only jewelry was the black pearl choker.
“It’s a pleasure to see you outside the Abbey,” she said, letting her hand slip away from his arm. She gave his high-collared white shirt, dark wool trousers, and black dinner jacket an approving eye. “I appreciate a man who doesn’t conform to the latest fashions.”
He had noticed the other men wearing knee-high golden boots, loose shirts of fine wool with V-neck collars, and loads of jewelry. Unlike Adaira, the women seemed inclined towards flared shoulders, high waist pants, and an equal amount of jewels. Val had chosen his pants and coat because they were the only ones Salomon had provided.
He crossed his legs and rested a forearm on the table. “You look lovely.”
She blushed.
“Is this a wizard hangout?”
“A wizard what?”
“Café. A wizard café.”
A waiter approached, and Adaira lifted a flute glass for him to fill. “At times you employ the strangest turns of phrase,” she said. “It must be quite the interesting place, your homeland.”
Val took a sip from his glass. He needed to be more careful with his language. “Our customs are quite different.”
“I can see that. And the way you approach magic . . . it’s almost as if you’re from another world.”
The cocktail tasted like rose wine infused with butterscotch, too sweet for his taste. He lowered his eyes to take another sip, taking care not to betray his surprise. Did she suspect the truth? “What do you mean?”
She waved a hand. “Everything you do is different. Original. People are talking, you know. Both students and professors. You’ve made quite an impression.”
Val’s surprise was genuine. “From where I’m sitting, I’m a below average student struggling to keep up.”
Adaira cupped her glass and leaned into the candlelight. “And from where I sit, you’re an untrained mage who makes extraordinary leaps and bounds every class, whose Wizard Shield is already stronger than mine, and who lifted the gold block during the entrance exam. It’s been some time since an Acolyte has lifted the stone, my father says. Nearly a generation.”
A generation? Her father? “Lord Alistair knows who I am?” Val said, again masking his unease.
“He knows we share a coterie, yes.”
A breeze sent the subtle spice of her perfume drifting across the table, cinnamon and sandalwood and a hint of rose. Val felt a jolt of attraction. “Because of my entrance exam or because you talk about me?”
“Both,” she murmured, returning his bold gaze.
What are you doing, Val?
The waiter returned on his left, setting out a plate of artfully arranged shellfish appetizers. Behind him, the spires of the Wizard District backlit the silver arc of the Canal Bridge.
He followed Adaira’s lead, using a toothpick to dip a shrimp croquette into a tangy orange sauce. The ability to blend with the etiquette of other cultures had always come easily to him.
“How do you find your discipline class?” she asked. “My father never speaks of his own spirit mage training.”
“All we’ve done is practice Wizard Shield, which is why I’m so good at it.”
Her laugh was light and genuine, with a touch of throatiness.
“It’s much more competitive than the coterie,” he said. “Well, except for Gowan. He hasn’t liked me from the start. I feel as if he’s jealous, but why? He’s far more advanced than I am.”
“You don’t know?” At Val’s blank look, she said, “His mother is Professor Azara.”
“Oh. I had no idea.”
“His father was a spirit mage as well, before his death.”
Val swirled his amber liquid, which Adaira called granth. It had complex flavors, and the taste was growing on him. “So he views himself as the family failure?”
“You shouldn’t take his jealousy personally.”
“He’s making it personal. But I understand, I’d probably feel the same way. How did his father die?”
“Natural causes. He was much older than his mother.”
“I have to confess,” Val said, wondering how some mages managed to prolong their lives, “his mother terrifies me. I feel like I’m back in primary school. Grade school,” he added quickly. It was a struggle not to use words unfamiliar to her culture.
She laughed again. “We call it primary school as well. I’ve known Professor Azara my entire life. And yes, she has a way of making one feel quite small.”
The waiter brought out strips of pheasant in a plum sauce. As he watched Adaira sample the dish, Val realized the full import of what she had just told him, and he gripped the side of his chair.
Gowan was from a family of spirit mages, and he had grown up at the Abbey.
Which meant he knew something about the Planewalk.
“Something else terrifies me about spiritmancy,” Val said.
Her eyebrows arched.
“The Planewalk.”
“Then we are much alike,” she said, with a wistful smile. “Already thinking ahead, saddled with the weight of ambition.”
“If so, you hide it well.”
“When one’s father is Chief Thaumaturge of the Congregation, one is
born into ambition. And discretion.”
The waiter refilled their glasses. Val was buzzing from the granth.
“But are you ambitious by nature?” he asked. “Irrespective of your family? And if so, for what? Your legacy? Philanthropy? Power for power’s sake?”
She took her time responding, and when she did, he saw a whirlpool of emotion in her eyes, and knew he was dealing with a complex woman. Young and innocent to the ways of the world, but complex. Layered and clever.
“All three,” she said.
“You said your father never speaks of his education, but has he ever spoken of the Planewalk itself?”
She cocked her head, and he knew he was pushing it. “You seem like a brave man—is the thought of the spiritmancy trial that oppressive?”
“I wouldn’t call myself brave. More that I’m someone who likes to know his enemy before he engages.”
She took a long sip, considering her response. “No, he’s never spoken of it. Not that I can remember.”
Disappointed, Val was forced to move on. “I’m sure I’ll discover more in due time,” he murmured.
“Enough talk of the Abbey, no?” she said, smoothing her dress. “We came here to escape. Tell me more about you.”
“Me?”
“I shall rephrase,” she said. “Tell me anything about you.”
Val chuckled to mask his discomfort at the topic. “I come from the far North, have brown hair and blue eyes, and look much better in formal wear than I do in leather vests.”
Her eyes twinkled, but she didn’t bother with a response, just kept looking at him over her glass.
Tough woman. Val ran his thumb along the rim of his flute glass. “I . . . have trouble talking about myself. There, that’s an answer, isn’t it?”
“Why?” she asked. “Is it such a serious topic?”
He looked away, then gave a candid answer that surprised himself. “I suppose because I see the world in layers of gray. Myself as well. My choices in life. It makes it hard for me to express exactly who I am, even in my own mind. So how I can talk about it with other people?”