by Kesia Lupo
‘These are sad times,’ Constance cut in, not wanting to hear more.
Lord Veredith patted her hand a second time. ‘Indeed, my dear. Indeed they are.’
Constance’s eyes wandered about the room, catching sight of the physician sitting at a table with the other professionals and senior servants in the castle. The bald houndmaster with his thin, sharp face was muttering something into his ear, while the physician refilled his goblet. ‘My lord,’ she said to Veredith, ‘what do you know of Dr Jonas Thorn? I do not recall him from my childhood.’
Veredith took a few much-needed moments to dab his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘He was hired as the physician’s assistant not long after you disappeared – though before that, I understand, he was an apothecary in the lower town. When the physician fell to the Pestilence, Dr Thorn took his place.’
‘And before he was an apothecary?’
Lord Veredith shrugged. ‘I can tell you no more than that – I take no interest in the affairs of the lower town, I’m afraid.’ He frowned. ‘Why do you ask, my dear?’
‘He is responsible for my father’s health,’ she said, refilling Veredith’s goblet. ‘And yet my father does not seem …’ She looked across at his stringy, greasy hair, the dark circles beneath his eyes. ‘Well, he does not seem particularly cared for.’
‘Yes. Yes indeed,’ said Veredith, his face suddenly grave and defensive. ‘Caring for your father presents a difficult challenge. He does not like to be touched, I hear, and rarely sleeps. But Thorn represents the best medical care we can offer your father, my dear. There is no more senior medical professional in city or castle.’
A difficult challenge? He is a person, not a nuisance! Constance felt herself growing angry, and so changed the subject while she cut up the rather hard pastry on her plate. ‘And what of my brother? Who has educated him since both his parents sickened?’
Veredith smiled. ‘Fitting, my dear, that you should show such concern for your poor brother. He was very close to his mother, right up until the end. After his childhood tutor fell to the Pestilence, perhaps three years past, it was the Duchess herself who elected to help Winton practise his letters and numbers – with the Justice’s guidance of course.’
‘The Justice?’ If anything, her brother would have been a threat to his position.
‘The Duchess and the Justice were close for a time – although I understand Winton was never exactly comfortable in his company. And since she grew ill, the boy has … well, he’s run a little wild. The Justice tried to draw him closer, but to little effect. Winton showed virtually no interest in statecraft, and besides, the Justice had greater concerns than a wayward princeling.’
Constance nodded slowly. It had been clear from his expression in the courtyard that Winton bore little love for the Lord Protector, though his dislike stopped well short of rebellion. ‘Then what?’ she asked.
Lord Veredith frowned. ‘Then he was tutored by the Swordmaster – both in his books and the art of swordplay. But in the last year he has abandoned the twin swords in favour of a longsword, and spends much of his time in the practice hall with the city guard. He doesn’t care for books, I am afraid – and with the Duchess so ill, there was no one left to insist on his lessons.’
No one? Constance stared at Lord Veredith in disbelief. She could barely believe the hypocrisy of the man. Had none of the Wise Men taken any responsibility for her brother?
He continued. ‘The captain of the guard … Captain Trudan, I believe … has rather taken him under his wing.’ He sighed and shook his head. Constance waited, sensing more to follow. ‘Since your father’s illness, we Wise Men have all tried to be fathers to Winton. And Lord Irvine seemed to be making progress, for a time. But it didn’t last, alas. Trudan appears to have succeeded where we have failed.’
‘Captain Trudan?’ She remembered him – a big man of thirty or so when she had left, the son of a baker who’d fought into the guard by virtue of his pure strength. She sought him out. He sat at the table with the physician and the houndmaster, ignoring their conversation and chewing enthusiastically on what looked like a very tough piece of dried venison. He had a straightforward, friendly face. She frowned. ‘But Trudan is low-born. What happened with Lord Irvine? Why does my brother no longer seek out his company?’
‘That, I do not know.’ Lord Veredith sighed, slurped his soup. ‘Who can understand the young? Perhaps Trudan’s low-born status has helped in some way. It is strange … But these are strange times. There are no rules any more.’ He sounded sad. ‘In another age, we would’ve protested. Now …’
Now, you can’t be bothered, she thought. ‘Indeed, my lord. Thank you for your thoughts on this sensitive matter.’ Constance smiled stiffly, and turned to her father to hide the worry she felt sure was naked on her face. The Duke was struggling through a mouthful of bread, and she couldn’t help noticing the sore red marks on his wrists, as if he had been restrained.
She shot another glance at Jonas Thorn, who unexpectedly raised his eyes and met her gaze from the far end of his table. His eyes narrowed at her – so slightly that it was nearly imperceptible, but she noticed nonetheless.
I don’t trust him.
FIVE
Flight
Lena hesitated on the step of the carriage, pulling the grey cloak close around her body. They had stopped in the centre of a crossroads. The four broad roads, golden in the sunlight, stretched into the blue distance. All around, low fields rustled with grass and the world felt calm and endless.
Emris waved at the driver, who tipped his hat, and knelt beside the front wheel of the carriage. He had formed a little braid of a few materials in the carriage – the feathers, leaf and strings – which he appeared to be weaving between the spokes of the wheel. The horses seemed restless, throwing their heads and snorting, pawing the hard-packed earth. Despite the hour of day, the crossroads were still and silent.
Behind the carriage a grey-green smudge on the horizon was the only evidence of Duke’s Forest. She felt a tug in her heart, like a string pulled tight between her and the home she had left behind. An image flew unbidden into her mind: Vigo’s bones, bare and chewed. The image lingered, mixed up with the last time she had seen the old man, the calm determination on his face as he had told her how to escape.
Sweeping the image aside, she jumped the last step, her feet planted in the centre of the crossroads. And all of a sudden she felt a thrill of power, a jolt of static. The sensation shocked her; she stumbled backwards, hand on the carriage for support.
Emris looked up at her, his face unreadable in the bright sunlight. ‘Spells work best in transitional areas – crossroads, coastlines, the mouths of caves. Here, the boundaries between Order and Chaos are frayed, and magic thrives. Can you feel it?’ He observed her closely. ‘You look pale. Are you all right?’
She opened her eyes. ‘No, I can’t feel anything. I’m fine,’ she lied, willing it to be true. Emris returned to his work. But she felt something, all right: she felt as though she might laugh or scream or be violently sick, or as if some creature might burst out of her in the hollow place above her stomach – a feeling of … potential.
She reached for the butterfly in her pocket, breathing deep as she stoked its wings – something she knew, something ordinary and comforting. The sick sensation calmed down and settled in the slight dip between her lungs, below her breasts. Holding her other hand over the area, she pressed down, breathed deep again, and gradually the feeling passed. What was wrong with her? Was this magic?
When Emris was satisfied with the position of his braid, he laid a hand over it and spoke a string of words in a foreign language that sounded like the chiming of bells. He repeated the phrase again and again. What began as a quiet murmur over his work grew to a dancing hum, filling Lena’s ears. Gradually, the sound became a sort of music, which swayed gently like a boat down a little stream. She felt herself falling into the rhythm of the stream, but the melody quickened: no longer an amble but a trot,
a hoop spinning on a country road, a jog across a grassy meadow – then a run, a torrent, an exhilarating canter on horseback, the wind rushing in her face, and finally, impossibly, her stomach was turning like a spinning top, and—
Emris had stopped and was smiling up at her. ‘You can sense it, can’t you? Can you tell what the spell is for?’
Lena shook her head, confused, and lifted her gaze to the direction of the road ahead. ‘You already told me it was the quickening of journeys,’ she said quietly. In the distance, a range of sloping hills rose to tree-lined peaks, swishing in a faraway wind. She focused on the sight. Something about the motion of the trees calmed her. ‘How far to the City of Kings?’ she asked.
‘We’ll arrive by sunset,’ he said, standing up. ‘Come on.’
To her surprise, Emris sat up front, while the suspicious coachman took his blankets and bedroll inside.
‘Can’t stand flying,’ he grumbled as he climbed in. ‘Give me a good hard road any time.’ He was already pulling on what looked like a thick felt nightcap.
Flying?
Lena shot Emris an uncertain look. Maybe it was a turn of phrase. ‘Is the spell going to make us fly?’
He grinned, settling into the driver’s seat and offering her a hand up. ‘That’s the idea, yes.’
‘In … this?’ She stared at the enormous, unwieldy carriage. She couldn’t imagine anything less likely to take flight. But Emris just smiled.
She accepted his help and sat at his side, wrapping a woollen blanket around her knees and resting back against the padded bench. In addition, Emris passed her leather straps, which he fastened carefully around her torso. As he leaned close, she smelt a strong, clean scent in his tightly curled hair.
‘Ready?’ he said, as he took the reins.
She nodded, mingled terror and excitement building in the pit of her stomach.
He cracked the reins and the horses broke into a canter, a gallop. At first, hoofs clattered and the wheels roared against the road, stray stones flicking and banging against the carriage. Lena clutched her blanket close and felt the air steal from her lungs. She’d never gone so fast before! And suddenly – unbelievably – there was silence, and her whole body lurched, as if she were falling. The road was a few feet below, the wheels of the carriage now spinning in thin air, slowing and slowing. She clutched the seat tightly, wanting to scream or shout or laugh, but her lungs were empty. And the road was falling away like a golden ribbon between the grassy fields, more quickly than Lena would have thought possible – she could feel the air around her sparking with a brilliant luminescence as a puff of clouds rushed down to enclose them.
Magic, she thought again as that sick sensation tingled in her chest. She hadn’t known it could feel like this. It felt … wonderful.
‘Hold your breath!’ Emris warned – and Lena did.
They rushed into the cloud’s whiteness, cold light rain enveloping them, and everything except the carriage and the bobbing heads of the bay horses, still galloping, disappeared. And when they emerged from the cloud, they were damp and cold and the sky was a brilliant blue – bluer than before – and the green of the earth was stretched out like a fine silken blanket threaded with roads of gold.
Emris adjusted the reins, levelling out their ascent, and rested back in his seat. ‘So,’ he said, ‘now is the time for you to ask all those questions.’
Lena was speechless. She looked down again, noticing another carriage on the King’s Road far below, as small as a beetle. The sick feeling had passed – but she felt the echo of it still. Was it … magic? Inside her? How had she never noticed it before? Had it always been there?
‘Are all mages born with magic inside them?’
Emris nodded. ‘Yes. Generally, magic runs in families, and children with two mage parents are highly likely to inherit magic themselves. But sometimes, rarely, it can occur as if from nowhere.’ He glanced across at her. ‘I’m guessing your parents weren’t mages?’
She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t know. I never knew my parents.’
Emris smiled sadly. ‘Me too,’ he said, and she glanced at him in surprise – but he didn’t elaborate.
‘So you can’t … catch magic?’ Lena asked tentatively. ‘Or … or sort of develop it? It’s always there inside you, even when you’re born?’
‘Catch magic? Like you catch a cold?’ Emris laughed. ‘No, of course not. You’re thinking that you’ve never felt this way before?’
She nodded.
‘Well, living in Duke’s Forest, I imagine you’ve not been around much magic before – there’s the storm cloud, but that’s …’ He paused. ‘Well, no one’s quite sure what it is – but it’s certainly different. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s stronger because natural magic is all around us now – both at the crossroads and here in the air, keeping us afloat.’
She gazed at the world far below, spinning under the horses’ hoofs. Her mind raced. ‘So … what’s happening to me?’ she said, turning the subject. Her breath plumed into the freezing air as she spoke and she pulled the blanket closer. ‘Why are we in such a hurry?’
‘You are a Rogue, Lena: a mage without the control of a god and a temple.’ Emris looked at her seriously. ‘What do you know of magic? Do they tell you anything about it in Duke’s Forest?’
She shook her head. ‘Nobody speaks of it in Duke’s Forest, really …’ But that wasn’t quite true, was it? ‘I mean … except in children’s tales.’
‘Tell me one,’ he said. ‘I’m curious.’
Lena nodded, remembering one in particular. Vigo had been good at stories. He’d sit at her side when she was little, at bedtime. Usually he’d be off to some duty or other, so he’d simply tell her goodnight, tuck her in tightly and flick off the oil lamp beside her bed. But sometimes his eyes took on a faraway quality, and she would tingle in excitement, knowing he was about to tell her a story. ‘There’s one about a poor orphan boy in Duke’s Forest,’ Lena said softly, conjuring the story from her memory. She shut her eyes and felt the thin, chilly breeze run through her hair. ‘It’s an old tale, from hundreds of years ago, before the King conquered the Dukedom. The orphan boy found that he had magic. For six years he magicked everything he wanted: a great palace for a home, all the food he could eat, friends to play with, and he lived a life of luxury and pleasure.’ A gust of wind rushed past in a muted roar and she opened her eyes. ‘But on the first day of the seventh year, he walked into his palace and it was ash, he picked up his food and it was dust, and when he went to play with his friends he found only a nest of spiders.’
She gazed out across the glittering world below, remembering Vigo’s voice as he’d told her the tale. She remembered how he’d worded the next bit – it had stuck with her ever since.
‘He was so grieved at the loss of all he’d loved that he wished he could not feel. And as he stood, his heart turned to stone, and stone ran into his blood and crept across his skin and rushed down across his body until he was cold and numb all over. And you can see him there today, in a courtyard in the upper town, frozen in his grief – or so they say.’ Lena had never seen the stone boy for herself – but then the upper town was large and full of courtyards, most of which were private. ‘The story tells us that magic cannot replace real things. It tricks you. It is a false power.’ She thought of the strange feeling she’d had at the crossroads and shivered. All this was frightening her more than she cared to admit. And yet – she couldn’t deny she was drawn to it. Once, she had found a forgotten doorway into a deeper passage of the crypts, stairs twisting down into a darkness so thick it was nearly velvet. She had hovered there, heart racing, unable to move for the fear pulling her backwards and the strange longing calling her from below. She felt the same sensation now.
Emris straightened the reins so that they followed the King’s Road far beneath them. ‘Many stories contain a grain of truth, and that one is no exception. But the whole truth is … well, it’s more complicated. In the City of Kings, ever
y schoolchild learns of Order and Chaos. Order is the physical world, governed by the laws of nature. Things in the physical world are predictable: if you drop something, you know it’s going to hit the floor. Chaos is the opposing force. If you attempt to drop something in a space dominated by chaotic forces, it could very well fly back upwards and hit you in the face.’
Lena nodded, watching a farmstead rush by below, surrounded by fields of cows like speckled ants. ‘So Order is the physical world and Chaos is magic?’
Emris smiled. ‘Yes, in some ways, though it’s not quite that simple.’
She waited for him to continue.
‘Chaos could not exist without the physical world, Lena. It’s best thought of as a kind of energy. If energy exists alone, in a vacuum, it is meaningless. It needs something to affect. Chaos needs Order. And, in turn, Order needs Chaos. Rules are meaningless if nothing has the capacity to burst their boundaries. What is a riverbank without a river, or vice versa? So the world is a delicate balance of Order and Chaos.’
‘How does this relate to me?’
‘You told me that you’ve been experiencing strange things for the past year. And whether or not you dare to admit it, these things can only be explained by magic. And that means your magic has awoken in you.’ Emris glanced across at her, his dark eyes shining. ‘Magic is the term we use for the supernatural effect of Chaos upon Order. A person with magical abilities is holding chaotic forces inside their bodies. This has the capacity to be dangerous – very dangerous – if these forces are not controlled.’