Shadows of Asphodel

by Karen Kincy

  “Can I step over it?” she said.

  “Of course.” Konstantin nodded. “Nothing is active right now.”

  Ardis stretched her leg over the quicksilver and stepped into the triangle. She squinted at the nearest crystal and resisted the urge to nudge it with the toe of her boot. This all seemed awfully mystical for repairing the Hex.

  Maybe this was why Wendel was so scornful of the archmages.

  “Do you need help?” Ardis said. “I don’t know any magic, of course.”

  “Oh, that isn’t a problem,” he said.

  Konstantin waved her closer. She noticed he wore leather-and-steel bracers that left his fingers bare—armor common archmages, though she admittedly knew little about their function. In the center of the triangle, he had set up an inconspicuous apparatus about the size of a bread box, constructed of steel and polished maple wood. Brass knobs circled a glass window that flickered violet-white with caged magic.

  “The quicksilver and crystals are for show,” Konstantin said. “This is the true magic.”

  “That?” Ardis said.

  “This allows me to direct the magic along specific frequencies and harmonize with the existing structure of the Hex.”

  Ardis suspected he wouldn’t explain things any clearer than that, so she nodded.

  “As for you,” he said, “make sure nobody wanders too near. Very soon there will be some powerful levels of energy in this area, and I don’t want to singe a wayward duchess or anything like that. Can you do that?”

  Ardis nodded. “I can keep any stray duchesses out of here.”

  Konstantin clapped his hands, and his bracers clinked. “Good! Then let me get started.”

  She kept her face businesslike, and walked back over the quicksilver on her way to the crowd. The gray-bearded gentleman who had been rude to her didn’t seem pleased by her return, so she looked directly into his eyes.

  “The archmage asks that onlookers keep their distance,” Ardis said.

  The grey-bearded gentleman raised one eyebrow, but he was interrupted.

  “Why?” said the flighty lady in the fox fur. “Is it terribly dangerous?”

  “Very,” Ardis said.

  She didn’t know how true this was, having never seen magic of this scale before, but she was satisfied by the gasp of the lady.

  Behind her, there was a pop like a small firecracker.

  “That’s not quite right,” Konstantin said. “Let me adjust things a bit…”

  Ardis glanced back and saw the archmage fiddling with the apparatus. Bluish smoke wafted above his head. He climbed to his feet, dusted off his knees, then stood with his hands on his hips. He furrowed his brow.

  “Konstantin?” Ardis called. “When—”

  The archmage darted forward and cupped his hands heavenward. Between his palms, an arc of violet-white lightning lashed out like a viper and crackled into the clouds. Konstantin tilted his hands, shaping the magic, and it strengthened into a column of blinding light that clawed against the sky. A bone-deep hum resonated through the forest. Ardis felt it in her ribcage as the needles on the pines quivered.

  “Stay back!” she warned the watchers, but she couldn’t hear her own words.

  In their wide eyes, she saw only the reflection of the violet-white magic. She looked back to Konstantin and saw the lightning split in two between his hands. He raised his arms and directed the magic through the sky, letting it linger more in certain places, less in others, as if smoothing over invisible cracks in the Hex.

  Konstantin clenched his hands, and the magic sizzled out with a flash.

  In the deafening silence, there was the patter of polite applause as ladies and gentleman clapped their gloved hands.

  “Thank you,” Konstantin said, “but we aren’t quite finished yet. Ardis?”

  She walked closer to him, and he handed her a pistol.

  “If you would do the honors,” he said.

  “Of?” she said.

  Konstantin smiled. “Testing the Hex, of course!” He faced his audience with a theatrical bow. “And now my lovely assistant, Ardis, will prove that the magic I have just constructed nullifies the power of gunpowder.”

  Lovely assistant? Her cheeks warmed.

  “Why so much smoke and mirrors?” she muttered to the archmage.

  “Play along,” he muttered back. In a louder voice, he said, “Fire into the sky.”

  Ardis nodded and raised the pistol’s muzzle skyward. She rested her finger against the cool metal of the trigger, then pulled. There was a click as the gun misfired, and the spidery tickling of the Hex crawled over her fingers.

  More applause from the audience.

  Konstantin smiled. “Excellent!”

  Ardis inspected the pistol. In ordinary circumstances, she would worry that the misfire could in fact be a hang-fire—a delayed discharge—but these were obviously extraordinary circumstances. She set the safety and ejected the round from the chamber. The brass of the bullet was tinged blue, a tell-tale sign of the Hex.

  “It worked,” she told the archmage.

  “Of course it did,” he said with a grin. “A marvel of modern magic.”

  Ardis arched one eyebrow. They could have used that marvel a few hours earlier. She found this little magician demonstration irritating, and disrespectful to those who had lost their lives before. She figured she was done here, so she handed the pistol back to him and walked away from the quicksilver and the selenite.

  “Thank you!” Konstantin called.

  She wasn’t sure whether he meant to thank her, or if he was merely bowing to the crowd.

  ~

  With the Hex patched and the dead buried, the train huffed into motion. It rattled from the mountains down into fields of frosted stubble. Clouds streaked the crisp blue sky, and flocks of crows winged alongside the windows.

  Ardis settled in the dining car and devoured toast, poached eggs, bratwurst, and strudel. Her hunger satisfied for the time being, she drank her coffee and studied a newspaper only a few days old. She still struggled to read German, but she stared intently at the ornate Gothic letters until she recognized a few words.

  “Amerika,” she whispered.

  The newspaper had a photograph of the president, Woodrow Wilson, who had been elected after she had left home. She hadn’t seen San Francisco for three years, and she didn’t know when she might see it again.

  It had been a death that brought her to Europe, and a hope that kept her here.

  Ardis stared out the window, the pit of her stomach hollow. She felt for the thin chain at her neck and fished out a locket, then opened the brass oval. She traced her fingertip over the pair of tintype photographs inside.

  On the left, her mother looked out with shadowed eyes and a mysterious smile.

  On the right, a pale-haired man stared gravely at the camera. Her father.

  “Leo,” Ardis whispered.

  But she knew Leo was very likely a pseudonym. He had revealed little of his identity to her mother during the fleeting time they had been together. Ardis knew only that he came from Austria, he spoke English with the slightest of accents, and he was muscled like a man who made his living from strength and speed.

  And he had a double-headed eagle tattooed on the back of his neck.

  When she was younger, Ardis thought this eagle would lead her straight to her father. But it could belong to any number of empires or kingdoms. Everyone from the Byzantines to the Russians seemed fond of the symbol.

  She allowed herself to sigh, a brief indulgence of sadness, and hid the locket once more.

  “May I join you?”

  Wendel’s quiet voice startled her. She felt warmth creeping up her cheeks, and wondered if he had seen her looking homesick.

  He stood with one hand on the chair opposite her. He had an expression of mild interest on his face. Morning sunlight slanted through the windows and glinted in his eyes. She lost a moment marveling at their greenness.

  She shook the newsp
aper straight with a snap. “Of course.”

  Wendel took a seat and unfolded his napkin. “I would say good morning, but I think we both got too little sleep for that to be true.”

  Ardis smiled. “I did entertain the thought of going back to bed.”

  He gave her a sly little smile. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

  “Sir?” A waiter bustled over to their table. “May I have a word with you?”

  Wendel arched one eyebrow. “Yes?”

  The waiter cleared his throat. “I’m afraid your presence in the dining car is making the other passengers uncomfortable. We would like to recommend that you dine alone in your cabin. Complimentary room service.”

  At several nearby tables, diners stole glances at the necromancer and whispered among themselves. Ardis suspected that a particularly red-faced family of five had been the ones to make the complaint to the waiter.

  “Ah,” Wendel said. “I see.”

  He had a hard look around his eyes, but he tossed down his napkin and stood.

  “Excuse me?” Ardis said. “We aren’t leaving.”

  The waiter’s thin mustache twitched. “This dining car is welcoming to guests of all ages. Surely you understand why people with more delicate constitutions—children, the elderly—might be offended by his profession.”

  “I don’t understand the welcoming part,” she said. “Offended, yes.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “We’re paying guests. We have every right to eat here.”

  The waiter narrowed his eyes. “I’m afraid you may be mistaken, ma’am. There are less of your American liberties here.”

  “Ardis,” Wendel said in a low voice.

  She ignored him, staring down the waiter. “You saw his offensive profession last night. If it weren’t for the two of us, you would all have your throats slit by rebels. You should be thanking us. How about some hospitality?”

  The waiter flushed. Huffily, he brought them another menu.

  “That’s better,” Ardis said. “And tell those people over there to stop staring.”

  The waiter flared his nostrils, but he did leave them in peace. The family of five continued nervously eyeing the necromancer.

  Wendel sank back into his chair and leaned across the table.

  “Don’t push your luck,” he murmured.

  Ardis took a long swig of her coffee. “You’re welcome.”

  He smiled, the dark shadows under his eyes forgotten for a moment, then lowered his gaze to his menu. She caught herself staring at the light on his cheekbones, and she hastily looked back to her newspaper.

  “You read German?” he said.

  “Badly,” she admitted.

  Wendel walked his fingers across the table and tugged the newspaper closer without asking. He turned it in his direction.

  “It’s all boring anyway,” he said. “Just the bickering of cousins who are kings.”

  “Oh?” She looked sideways at him. “And you don’t care, being a nobleman?”

  “A nobleman who never was, and never will be.” He said it lightly and thumbed through the newspaper. Then his jaw tightened. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. Well, Ardis, it looks like politics isn’t so boring after all.”

  “What happened?” she said.

  Wendel raised the newspaper and jabbed the headline. “Didn’t you read this?”

  She stared blankly at the words, then shook her head.

  He cleared his throat. “‘Heir to Austrian Throne Attacked,’” he read. “‘Archduke Franz Ferdinand Survives Stabbing.’”

  Ardis straightened in her chair. “Who did it?”

  “My money is on the Serbs.” Wendel bent closer to the newspaper. “It looks like the Archduke was hunting in Bosnia with local dignitaries, killing deer in the name of diplomacy. Franz can thank the Hex he’s alive. A Serbian lunatic knifed him in broad daylight, but only wounded his Imperial and Royal Highness’s arm.”

  Ardis was fairly sure she knew which secret society had sent the assassin.

  “Was it the Black Hand?” she said.

  Wendel glanced into her eyes. “How did you know?”

  She downed the rest of her coffee. “The archmages sent me to Transylvania to take care of one of their spies. The Black Hand has been secretly helping the Romanian rebellion, even if the King of Serbia won’t dirty his hands.”

  “He isn’t stupid,” Wendel said. “Serbia hasn’t got the army to fight Austria-Hungary.”

  “Neither do the Romanians, but that hasn’t stopped them.”

  “The Hex has.”

  Ardis stared at the dregs in her cup. “For now.”

  Wendel made a neutral noise and gazed out the window.

  “Why were you in Transylvania, anyway?” she said.

  He met her eyes. “Playing at war.”

  She grimaced. “Forget I asked.”

  “Gladly.” Wendel waved over the waiter. “The omelet. And coffee.”

  Without a word, the waiter nodded and poured him a cup.

  “You do look as tired as I feel,” Wendel said to Ardis.

  “We were up nearly the whole night,” she said.

  “For all the wrong reasons.”

  He deadpanned it perfectly, but there was a wicked glint in his eye. She leaned back in her chair to inspect his face. Why was he so flirtatious? Did he find it amusing to charm her one moment, then sneer at her the next?

  Ardis decided for a direct attack.

  “About our last conversation,” she said. “I think we misunderstood each other.”

  “Oh?” He looked at her over his coffee. “How so?”

  “I lied.”

  Wendel laughed, with only a slight wince from his injury. “So not a misunderstanding. More of a misdirection of the truth.”

  “When I said I was disgusted,” she said, “I wasn’t.”

  His laughter died. He regarded her with a piercing stare, but said nothing. Her mouth dried, and her words dried up with it.

  Why didn’t he say something? Why did he keep staring at her like that?

  “I would appreciate it,” he said in a low measured voice, “if you didn’t think of me like that. I have no use for your pity.”

  “Maybe I was sanctimonious,” she said, “but that wasn’t pity.”

  Curiosity flickered in Wendel’s eyes. He slid his thumb along the rim of his coffee cup, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

  “You made it very clear that you find me disgusting,” he said icily.

  “I did.” Her face warmed with shame. “But now I’m not sure what to think of you.”

  “Less disgusting, apparently?”

  Ardis glared at him. “It’s not that simple. You’re not that simple, necromancer.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You say it like an insult.”

  “Wendel.”

  “You say that like an insult, too.” He managed a smile. “Maybe I was mistaken. But what should I think of you?”

  Behind his smile, she could sense his fear. She reached across the table, not caring that her hand was sweaty, and clasped her fingers around his. Her pulse raced, and adrenaline spiraled through her blood.

  She forced herself to look into his eyes. “Why don’t you find out?”

  Wendel’s surprise knocked the cool smile off his face. He stared at her with a look of raw interest that sent electricity down her spine. But she still saw the fear in his eyes, still felt it in the tenseness of his hand beneath hers.

  “Are you joking?” he said.

  “Are you?”

  Wendel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Ardis knew her hand would start shaking if she let go of him, so she didn’t.

  “What,” she said, “speechless?”

  “Give me a minute,” he said.

  The waiter returned and set a plate on the table with a thud. Wendel slid his hand from Ardis’s and picked up his knife and fork. He wouldn’t look at her, and there was some color in his pale face. Deliberately, he sliced a section of
his omelet, then divided that into smaller sections. He stabbed the egg with his fork.

  “I don’t understand,” he said in an unreadable voice.

  “What?”

  “Many things.”

  Wendel ate his omelet at a maddeningly polite pace. She wondered if this was his way of tormenting her, of punishing her for being a fool. He had already told her not to touch him. Ardis stared into the dregs of her coffee, because suddenly she couldn’t find the courage to look into his eyes. Why had she been so bold?

  “Ardis.” Wendel pushed his chair from the table and stood. “I… I’m going. Out.”

  “Out?”

  He turned his back on her, and strode from the dining car to the platform between the cars. She hurried after him, though she didn’t know why she was so eager to meet her disappointment. She had made a mess of things.

  The cold wind was bracing. It prickled her eyes and whipped her hair.

  Wendel’s black hair streamed behind him, and he narrowed his eyes against the sun. He gripped the iron railing, his knuckles standing out in his hands, and leaned into the wind. When he spoke, his words were blown away.

  “I can’t hear you,” Ardis said. “What did you say?”

  He turned to her, and his face was at once open and closed, with a guarded fragile hope softening his eyes and his mouth.

  “Was I wrong?” he said.

  God, why was it so much more terrifying to face Wendel here than on the battlefield? There was something so incredibly disarming about him. He found a way through her defenses with a few well-placed words.

  Ardis didn’t know how to reply at first. But then she did.

  She closed the space between them with a swiftness that didn’t give her time to think, time to doubt herself. She traced his cheekbone with her fingertips, then curled her hand behind his neck and dragged him down to her.

  She kissed him.

  Wendel froze, his pulse hammering beneath the heel of her palm, his body tense.

  A second later, it was as if a wall between them broke.

  He kissed her back, fiercely, one of his hands knotting in her hair and the other pressing into the small of her back. He swept her against the railing, and the heat of his body against hers overrode the feeling of cold steel.