The Tethered Mage

by Melissa Caruso

  “Yes, well, welcome to my home,” I said.

  It hadn’t occurred to me what my palace would look like to a girl who’d spent her life in the Tallows. The gilding that felt bright, warm, and homelike to me must convey unfathomable excess. The fine paintings and lush fabrics, the luminaries and protective wards—everything she saw must seem the extreme pinnacle of decadence.

  She probably thought I’d invited her here to flaunt my wealth. A flush burned my neck and crept up my cheeks.

  Zaira shook her head. “I could steal enough trinkets to feed half the Tallows for a year, and you’d never notice they were gone.”

  My maid, Rica, saved me from the alarming prospect of finding an answer to that by arriving with Zaira’s crimson gown. She laid out all the layers of petticoats, corsetry, skirts, underskirts, and hose, eyeing Zaira all the while as if calculating how to make everything fit on her smaller frame. Zaira regarded the formidable array with trepidation.

  “When will she leave so I can get dressed?” she whispered, jerking her chin at Rica.

  I coughed. “She won’t. She’s here to help us.”

  “I don’t need anyone’s help getting dressed.”

  “Forgive me,” I said, “but with this gown, you do. It’s impossible to get into on your own.”

  She stared at me in disbelief. “You’re serious, aren’t you. Good Graces. What is this idiocy? The Empire is literally run by a bunch of imbeciles who can’t even get dressed by themselves?”

  “There’s a reason I prefer breeches.” I looked with some foreboding at the second gown Rica now laid out for me, an extravagant affair in shades of champagne and bronze.

  “Solid-gold breeches, no doubt. Grace of Mercy. No wonder you’re so useless.” The contempt in Zaira’s voice seared the air between us. “You don’t know what the world is like. You’ve never even seen it.”

  “Fair enough,” I said wearily. “Do you want to wear the gown, or not?”

  She stared at the rich piles of silk and velvet, and a bitter longing touched her dark eyes. “I might as well wear it. Even prisoners need a bit of fun now and then.”

  Rica helped me with my gown first, all business, then turned to fuss over Zaira with obvious relish; she clearly planned to enjoy this transformation. Zaira suffered through being dressed, though she kept trying to do things herself, getting in Rica’s way. I settled in a great cloud of champagne skirts on the edge of my bed to watch.

  “Do I get a dagger?” Zaira asked. “She has a dagger.” She pointed at the jeweled sheath at my hip.

  Rica glanced at me. “My lady?”

  I blinked. “I don’t know. Do you usually carry a dagger?”

  Zaira snorted. “Every Tallows brat carries a knife if they want to live to see Sunday. Your lieutenant wouldn’t give me one, though.”

  “Why not? Are there regulations against Falcons going armed?” That didn’t seem right; they were soldiers. I knew I’d seen Falcons carrying weapons at the Mews.

  Zaira shrugged. “Something about a fist to the eye being bad enough without a dagger in it.”

  I bit my lip. If Marcello hadn’t armed her, it seemed impolitic and perhaps unwise to contradict his decision. But Zaira stared a challenge at me. This was a test.

  “Well, so long as you don’t plan to stab any party guests in the eye—or anywhere else, for that matter—I see no harm in it,” I said lightly. There would be a full complement of imperial guards at the reception, after all, in plain sight and watching for assassins.

  “Huh.” Zaira tilted her head back in apparent surprise; Rica gently corrected her position to begin styling her hair. “You trust me with a weapon?”

  “I trust you not to make stupid mistakes.”

  Zaira laughed, full and raucous. “Fair enough.”

  Rica found a small ornamental dagger for her; Zaira eyed it with disdain, but took it anyway. The slim golden sheath provided a dashing accent against the vibrant silk of her gown. The blade itself would likely snap off if she actually stabbed anyone with it; still, Zaira seemed more content to sit through the application of subtle color on her lips and cheeks now that she had it. Her hand dropped to touch the dagger once or twice, as if for reassurance.

  “There,” Rica said proudly when she was done. “Come look in the mirror. You’re a vision of the Grace of Beauty.”

  She was hardly exaggerating. With jeweled pins in her hair and acres of red silk setting off her shining dark hair and olive-bronze skin, Zaira was nothing short of gorgeous.

  Rica wheeled out a tall mirror from its corner, and Zaira stared at her reflection with an expression of shock. She touched an artful tendril of hair cascading down from the great elegant pile on her head, then her own face, as if wondering whether they might belong to someone else. Then she spun, watching her skirts swirl out like a little girl, and laughed.

  “You’re going to turn heads at the ball.” I gave Rica an approving smile. She grinned back, pleased at her handiwork.

  “Damned right I will,” Zaira crowed. Then her face sobered. “What poor bastards am I threatening?”

  “What?”

  “By attending this party.” She turned from the mirror to face me. The lamplight caught her eyes, bringing out the sharp black ring of the mage mark against their murky brown.

  I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t care.”

  “I don’t care if the doge’s grand plan is to take over the world or to bugger a goat. But if he’s using my fire to make some sorry wretch wet himself, I want to know who.”

  Rica withdrew discreetly from the room, with a bow and a sympathetic grimace. I sighed. “Ardence.”

  “What, the entire city?” Her brows lifted toward her elegantly coiffed hair.

  “Of course. If he wanted to send a warning to an individual, he’d have an assassin attend the party, not a fire warlock.” I rose from my bed, a restless unease chafing at me. “I know it’s an unpleasant reason to be invited. But we don’t either of us have a choice about going. We may as well try to enjoy ourselves.”

  “Oh, I’ll enjoy myself.” Zaira smoothed the front of her dress, glancing back at the mirror. “Me, attending a ball at the Imperial Palace? This is too good a joke not to laugh. We’ll see by the end of the night who’s the butt of it.”

  She smiled a narrow smile that didn’t reassure me at all.

  We were an hour into the ball, and Zaira hadn’t stabbed anyone yet.

  Raverrans and Ardentines mingled, drinks in hand, tension in their shoulders. I stood behind a statue and watched the ballroom, trying to get a feel for the situation before plunging myself into it.

  Zaira appeared to be having a grand time. She looked spectacular in the crimson gown and knew it, with jewels sparkling at her throat and the corset flattering her figure. Young courtiers clustered around her. Her teasing laughter rang through the crowd, more delicate than usual, and every motion of her wrists as she talked or sipped her wine carried an extra twirl. I suspected she knew very well the men and women surrounding her found her fascinating largely as a curiosity; but I doubted they knew she was mocking them with her courtly flourishes. Ignazio lingered nearby, thank the Graces, keeping an eye on her.

  The doge himself presided at the head of the room, with attendants and advisers dancing a screen around him to manage everyone seeking a moment of his time. My mother glided through the crowd with the ease of a shark, equal parts fascinating and dangerous. The Ardentines gathered in knots and dispersed again, like a murder of crows. I scanned the faces of the diplomats for anyone I might know from my days in Ardence, when I attended functions with Ignazio while he was Serene Envoy.

  I spotted Domenic, impossible to miss even across the ballroom with his bold laugh and slashed sleeves. He was looking fine tonight. His doublet tapered smartly to show his strong shoulders and narrow waist to full advantage, and he moved with the grace and confidence that had caught more eyes than mine in the Ardentine court. I hurried across the ballroom, snatching a glass
of wine from a servant’s tray in passing.

  “Domenic!” I called as I approached. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  He turned, and a smile sparked his warm brown eyes. “Amalia. There may be some hope for this party, after all.”

  “I’m surprised to see you at a stodgy old diplomatic reception.” I grinned. “Don’t tell me you came just for the food.”

  “I only wish. Though they do have those tiny pauldronfish in lemon butter no one in Ardence can get quite right.” He sighed, and a shadow passed over his lively face, stilling it to more somber lines. “I’m here because of last night’s crisis with the Falconers.”

  I fingered my falcon’s-head brooch. “Crisis?”

  “You haven’t heard? I don’t know the full details; the news came in over the courier lamps just before the ball.” He glanced over to where the ambassador spoke animatedly with the doge. “Best not to mention it here, perhaps. But we should talk later. In the meantime, give me something to be cheerful about! We never got to talk about your projects. Are you working on anything new? I’d love to hear—” he broke off, straightening, as he stared past my shoulder.

  “Who’s your friend?” Zaira demanded, bumping me to the side with her copious skirts. I suspected the glass of wine in her hand wasn’t her first.

  Uh-oh. I set my teeth in a smile. “Zaira, this is Viscount Domenic Bergandon, cousin to Duke Astor Bergandon. Domenic, this is—”

  “Ah! You must be the Lady Zaira.” He swept into an extravagant flourish of a bow.

  “You’ve heard of her?” I couldn’t imagine that was a good thing.

  Zaira lifted her glass to him, in lieu of a curtsy. “Of course he has. I’m famous throughout Eruvia. But I won’t tell you for what.”

  Domenic laughed. “I must confess the ambassador only told me of you this morning, my lady. But in addition to leaving me ignorant of your no doubt richly deserved fame—and I would be delighted to guess the cause for it later—he also neglected to mention your wit and beauty.”

  A rosy glow touched Zaira’s cheeks. “Well, don’t you have a pretty mouth? I like a man with a nimble tongue. But if your ambassador forgot all the best parts of me, what did he tell you?”

  I took a deep sip of wine to hide my flush. I’d never actually had a nightmare about Zaira crashing into a conversation with Domenic and making salacious comments, but only because my sleeping mind lacked a sufficiently cruel imagination.

  “Well …” Domenic’s expression slid from gleeful appreciation to something graver. He glanced at me, offering an awkward shrug. “To be honest, my lady, I’ve heard you were taken against your will to become a Falcon. But I also heard my friend Amalia here is your Falconer, which seems impossible. I confess I’m having trouble making the pieces fit. Might you enlighten me as to the truth?”

  Zaira waved her glass in my direction, the wine sloshing to the rim. The jess gleamed on her wrist. “Ask her.”

  Domenic turned to me, gesturing an invitation. “Amalia? You’ve been holding back quite the story, it seems. What happened?”

  “I, ah, yes.” Heat climbed up my neck. Graces only knew what rumors he’d heard. “I’m afraid I met Zaira when she was in some duress, and had unleashed her powers. In the interest of protecting Raverra from balefire, given that she couldn’t stop it on her own”—never mind that she hadn’t seemed to have any intent of stopping regardless—“I was, ah, enlisted to put a jess on her.”

  Domenic’s eyes widened. “So it’s true? You captured her for the Falcons?”

  “I didn’t have any choice,” I said. “Believe me, I didn’t want to become a Falconer any more than she wanted to be a Falcon. I had to do it to save Raverra from burning.” Although no one seemed to appreciate that part.

  Domenic turned to Zaira, one brow lifting. “Would you have burned down the city?”

  Zaira shrugged airily. “I believe that was my intent at the time. But I don’t remember very well.”

  Domenic put a hand to his temple, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose we all want to burn down Raverra sometimes.” He cast me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry you got drawn into this, Amalia. Apparently they’re conscripting Falconers now, too.”

  “I think our case was highly unusual,” I said.

  “But given what’s happened in Ardence …” A light came into his eyes I’d seen before. It was the same fierce gleam that had sparked there when a passing merchant had kicked a beggar woman in the Plaza of Six Fountains. He’d called the man out and left him with two black eyes. “I can’t ignore this, Amalia. Maybe my brother, Gabril, and his friends have it right after all. There has to be a better way.”

  My skin prickled at the implication of rebellion.

  Zaira snorted. “Better for me? Absolutely. I think it’s worked out pretty well for Raverra, though. Having all the powerful magic tame to the doge’s call.”

  “And that’s the problem.” Domenic nodded. “You have the courage to state it plainly, Zaira. I admire that.” He glanced again across the room, toward the doge. “But this conversation is perhaps best continued in another place and time. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “We’d be delighted,” I said reflexively. Only after the words left my mouth did it occur to me they might be treason.

  A soberly dressed Ardentine woman with tiny gold spectacles on a chain around her neck appeared at Domenic’s elbow. “A moment of your time, Viscount,” she murmured.

  “Of course, Lady Savony.” He bowed to us. “Excuse me.”

  Zaira watched him go. “Now, that’s a fine view. He must be a swordsman, to have such a firm—”

  “Zaira,” I interrupted, almost spilling my drink, “I hardly think it’s appropriate for you to be ogling a viscount.”

  “I was going to say ‘stride.’” She smirked. “Besides, why not? You were.”

  “I was not!”

  “Truly.” She sighed dramatically. “What would the poor lieutenant say?”

  My entire face burned as if I’d leaned too close to a blazing hearth. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Hmmmmm?” Zaira lifted both eyebrows.

  “That is, Lieutenant Verdi hasn’t—I don’t know if he—” I swallowed the words stumbling out of my mouth and drew myself up with great dignity. “At any rate, Domenic and I are old friends, and I don’t feel that way about him anymore, and … and … it can’t hurt to look.”

  “Ha!” Zaira’s grin declared victory. “Well, there’s plenty to look at here. Have you seen the girl in the yellow dress?” She gestured eloquently at her own chest. “Prettier peaches than in the city market, and as much on display. I should go to fancy parties more often.”

  “Graces preserve us, Zaira, that’s the doge’s niece,” I groaned.

  “Someone in the family had to be pretty, I suppose,” Zaira cackled.

  Ignazio appeared then, like the Grace of Mercy, offering Zaira a little dish of cheese and olives. “I see you were talking to the young viscount,” he observed. “Have you met any of the other Ardentines?”

  “No.” Zaira popped an olive in her mouth with relish. “If they’re all built like that, though, I’m eager for introductions.”

  “I couldn’t speak to that,” he said with unruffled calm. “But I’ll bet you a ducat you’ll never guess which one has half a dozen mistresses.”

  “I don’t have a ducat, but I accept your challenge!” Zaira slid her arm through his.

  He whisked her away to her next group of admirers, acknowledging my grateful look with a wink. Her laugh at some comment of his floated behind them as they vanished into the crowd. Thank the Graces they got along, at least.

  I scanned the partygoers for more people I knew. My mother stood in a corner with Baron Leodra. By the satisfaction in her smile and the look of hopeless, crushing realization descending across his face, she was breaking the news to him that she knew about his secret bastard and explaining how things would be if he preferred the rest of Raverran society did not share t
his revelation. I also spotted a poet whose company I generally enjoyed, but she already had a crowd around her, laughing at her latest witticism.

  As for crowds … I had stayed still for too long. A swarm of unmarried dandies descended on me, their eyes gleaming with avarice for the Cornaro fortune.

  I smiled and nodded my way through twenty minutes of competitive bragging, trying to seem interested in how fast this one’s horse was or how opulent that one’s personal pleasure boat was. It would have been easier if any of them had given the barest deference to context, or asked me to express an opinion other than agreement.

  “Lady Amalia, your family is famous for its generous patronage of music. Well, I’m a fair hand at the harpsichord myself …”

  “Harpsichords! The lady doesn’t want to hear about harpsichords; she could buy all the harpsichords in Eruvia. But you can’t buy good breeding, you know. Did I mention I have the blood of kings in my veins?”

  I remembered when I asked my mother how she dealt with fortune hunters, as the wealthiest widow in Raverra. Just think about how you could have them all executed, she’d said. They see it in your eyes, and they leave you alone.

  “Lady Amalia.”

  I turned to face the new one, my fixed smile stretching toward bloodthirsty, only to find Marcello there in full dress uniform.

  “Oh! Lieutenant.” My cheeks flushed as I remembered Zaira’s words. Next time, I was bringing a fan.

  He bowed, formal in this public place. “May I have a word, my lady?”

  I made my insincere apologies to the gold hunters and stepped aside with Marcello. “Thank you for rescuing me,” I murmured.

  “It’s actually a matter of security.” His tone was serious. “Do you know why that woman is watching you?”

  His eyes flicked sideways. I tried to follow his gaze without staring. The prim lady who’d called Domenic away spoke to Ignazio now, consulting a leather-bound notebook through her golden glasses. She didn’t seem to be paying me any attention, but I had the skin-prickly feeling her eyes had just left me.

  “Is she?”