by Kesia Lupo
Lena frowned. Was he suggesting she had hurt someone? ‘But I haven’t …’
He started to shake his head and she trailed off. ‘Not necessarily dangerous to other people, not yet, although that will come in time. But certainly dangerous to the mages themselves. Chaotic forces have been known to overwhelm the physical form – in short, to kill, to steal consciousness, to become another entity entirely. A force of Chaos loose in the physical world – that’s a terrifying prospect. That’s what we call a Radical.’
‘Is that … is that what’s going to happen to me?’ Lena swallowed. It sounded terrifying.
‘No,’ Emris said firmly. ‘Not now, anyway. You are a Rogue – you hold the potential to become overwhelmed by your magic, and that is dangerous. That’s why I want to help you. If you were a Radical already, I would have had to kill you on sight.’
Lena felt suddenly colder. She looked down at her hands clutching the woollen blanket around her legs. She remembered the Ancestors, eyes swivelling, limbs jerking under her touch. What was she capable of, truly?
‘But that’s why children who demonstrate magical abilities must, by law, be educated in one of the temples. There’s a ceremony called the Binding in which the mage’s power is tied to a god. After this ceremony, it is impossible for Chaos within the mage to overwhelm him or her. Combine this with strict regulations, patterns of thought, rituals and rules … and yes, magic is made as safe as it can ever be.’ He smiled. ‘So you see, the fear of mages in Duke’s Forest is not without rationality – without temples, mages are dangerous indeed, and magic can turn you and everything you love to dust. And that is why I need to get you to the City of Kings.’
Lena didn’t feel different. She didn’t feel like Chaos was living inside her, waiting to overwhelm her. Not right now. But after the past year, and after what had happened with the snake, and how she had suddenly felt at the crossroads, how could she deny it? She stroked the butterfly in her pocket as Emris sank into silence, perhaps realising how much new information she had to turn over in her mind. If what Emris had said was true, she’d be required to pledge herself to the gods. Could she do that? She was already an outcast, divorced from the Ancestors and the ceremonies binding her to their guidance. Part of her had prepared for the possibility long ago, before the storm cloud, when she’d fantasised about the world beyond the forest. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d always assumed she would return – because of Vigo. And now she had to grieve for Vigo.
But if she worshipped the gods, she’d be a confirmed heretic. Vigo had been a pious man – he’d never have approved of the person she would become.
If she did as Emris said, there would be no turning back. Her throat felt sore and tight, and she gazed out at the view, trying to distract herself.
Below, the King’s Road was growing broader and busier, villages and towns crowding either side of it, bustling with people and wagons and horses. All of a sudden, Emris dropped their altitude, and Lena nearly jumped out of her seat when another charmed carriage crossed overhead, the underside of the vehicle passing a few feet above. She watched the carriage retreat – a gleaming black chassis with a golden crest on the side.
‘Those who ride the sky road are usually either on temple business or disgustingly rich,’ Emris explained, smiling ruefully.
Here and there below, Lena thought she could spy a child pointing at them in delight, or perhaps fear – and dogs barked up as they passed. The sun beat down brightly, and Lena turned her face, her mark, towards the brilliant warmth, thinking – just for a moment – about nothing else.
They spoke intermittently during the afternoon, landing in a grassy field for a brief meal of bread and cheese and small tart apples that Lena retrieved from the supplies in the carriage, where the coachman was snoring noisily.
‘What of your life in Duke’s Forest?’ Emris asked while they ate. ‘What did you leave behind, and why?’
‘I worked in the crypts,’ she said. ‘I was an assistant mortician, preparing and caring for the Ancestors. But …’ And she felt her voice disappear in her throat. She coughed. ‘But then I was convicted of magecraft, and the Justice set his hounds on me, and I ran. My … my master tried to protect me. He told me how to find a way out.’ She didn’t feel able to tell him the full story – how he had died, how it had all been her fault. Not yet.
‘Why were you convicted?’ Emris asked. ‘What form did your magic take?’
Lena hesitated. ‘I … was attending to the Duchess’s body. It was a great honour – I was selected to assist in the Descent, the ceremony in which we place the body of the Ancestor into the final resting place. Everyone was watching. Everyone was there.’ She remembered the Duchess’s son, Winton. Tears had run down his cheeks as he’d watched Lena perform the last rites. ‘The first part went well. But then, at the end of the ceremony, I had to touch the Duchess and … and when I did, she moved.’
‘She moved?’ He sounded genuinely interested, but hardly shocked.
‘I mean … her arm … I don’t know what happened,’ she added lamely. ‘I guess … it was magic?’ It sounded wrong to her, but she forced herself to consider the possibility. ‘Is that … normal?’
‘Oh yes. Before the Binding, build-up of uncontrolled magic can result in objects moving, breaking, catching fire or even exploding.’
‘Exploding?’
Emris laughed. ‘Count yourself lucky. I’ve come across some truly gruesome scenes in my time.’
Lena nodded, unable to join him in smiling. She hadn’t quite told Emris the full story, had she? Because it hadn’t been a random movement. No, the Duchess’s bony hand had shot up and grasped Lena’s wrist, tight and cold. She’d shrieked and pulled back from the tomb. But everyone had seen it. Even Vigo, who had looked at her blankly with uncomprehending eyes as murmurs of outrage had risen among the mourners. The Justice had wasted no time in chaining her hands and sending her straight to the dungeons to await her trial. And the Duchess’s son had looked at her as she left, tears lingering on his face, mingled grief and horror in his eyes.
She had never felt so small, worthless and alien to herself.
But she didn’t tell Emris any of that. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. How could she be sure about him anyway? She’d known him for a matter of hours. She was relying on him to tell her everything about this world. But she wasn’t ready to tell him everything about herself.
Lena watched the land spool out below her in silence and wonder, wrapped up tight, the sky gleaming a jewel-like, freezing blue. She felt grateful. Grateful for her life, yes. Grateful to escape the tiny, clouded world of her home. But guilt, fear and anger had lodged in her heart like splinters too.
As evening approached, Lena spotted something on the horizon: a jaggedness on the curve of the land, outlined against the sinking sun. Against the brightness, she couldn’t pick out the details, but hills started to rise and cast long shadows, reaching towards them.
‘Nearly there,’ Emris said softly.
As the sun sank, the city revealed itself against the pinkening sky, and Lena felt her eyes widen. It was vast.
Emris flew higher as they neared. ‘Might as well take in the view,’ he murmured, watching Lena’s rapt eyes with a quirk of his lips.
The City of Kings nestled in a shallow basin between seven hills and was crossed by a wide, shining river. Lena counted four bridges spanning its silvery length. The tallest buildings in the city gleamed with glass and she spied domes of gold and stone turrets whipping with flags. The streets were straight, strictly gridded – except on the outskirts of the city, which tumbled ragtag up the hills like old lace – and courtyards were picked out here and there, some shining with pools and fountains like gems. Towards the north of the city, a huge expanse of green surrounded a large, square building with seven pointed towers. Lena found herself breathless.
‘The centre is divided into three districts,’ Emris said. ‘There is the royal district,’ h
e pointed to the expanse of green to the north, a few riders galloping across the park. ‘That huge, seven-towered building is the palace. To the south-west, the commercial district.’ He wheeled the carriage around gently, pointed towards an area with packed, gridded streets – people bustling about their business, despite the sinking sun. ‘Those big buildings are the municipal trading halls and the merchant guilds, but there are more homes here than in the other districts.’ He turned the carriage slowly to the left. ‘And there in the south-east is the temple district. That’s where we’re going.’ Lena trained her eyes on the broad central street of the district, lined with enormous buildings, flashes of gold and silver – statues? – catching the dying sunlight. ‘That street is the Sacristi, where most of the temples are,’ he explained.
‘Most of them?’
‘Well, technically, no one knows where Mythris’s temple is,’ he said.
Lena would have asked who Mythris was, and why that temple was so elusive, but as she looked back towards the palace, she noticed a fleck of black rising from the roof. As it grew closer, the fleck transformed into a rider on a dark horse, a long silvery cloak billowing. Emris had noticed him too. The rider was galloping straight towards their carriage and Emris’s mouth set itself in a firm, thin line. He pulled on the reins and the two horses drawing the carriage stopped, bizarrely, in the air. Floating. Somehow it was weirder than flying. Now that they were still, Lena could hear the keening of the wind through the wheels.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘Lord Chatham, come to ask me whether I found what he wanted me to find.’ He shook his head at her questioning look. ‘This shouldn’t take long. Not to worry, Lena.’ But the tightness in his face said otherwise.
The man drew up beside the carriage. ‘Good evening, huntsman,’ he said, his voice friendly and businesslike on the surface, but somehow hard underneath. He had a pale, pointed, handsome face and oiled hair so ash-blond that it was nearly silver. He was oddly ageless, like a marble carving, but Lena guessed from the slight frown marks between his brows that he might be closer to forty than thirty. ‘Did you find Constance? Is she in the carriage?’ Lena watched as his eyes lowered to her face, noticing how they flashed silver-blue in the light. ‘Who is this?’ His eyes fixed on her mark. ‘Is she diseased?’
She quickly averted her eyes, wishing her cowl was raised, feeling a flash of hot anger deep inside her belly.
Emris’s voice was cold and impatient. ‘I did not find Constance. She rode to Duke’s Forest and disappeared into the storm cloud. I was unable to follow.’
Constance was the masked lady then, Lena realised. The name was distantly familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
Lord Chatham’s lip curled.
Emris turned to Lena. ‘And this … this is a Rogue. I found her on the way back. I’m sure you understand that it’s imperative to take her to the temple as soon as possible.’
‘Imperative, eh?’ The man snorted, but his tone was curious. He looked at Lena so directly, she was shocked into meeting his eyes. Now that he knew she was a Rogue, his attitude had changed abruptly from disgust to interest. ‘Maybe for the likes of you, Emris. But there are those of us who don’t need your ridiculous superstitions in order to control ourselves.’ Lena looked at Emris questioningly, but he shook his head slightly, as if to say, ‘Not now.’
Lena turned back to Lord Chatham. There was something about the way his horse stood there in the air, something different from their horses, whose hot breath plumed into the air, hoofs pawing the sky impatiently. Something … oddly still.
‘I assure you if I have any news about the theft, I will report to the palace immediately,’ Emris continued.
‘It’s not a simple theft, huntsman,’ Chatham snapped. ‘That was my most precious invention. I need it back.’
‘Can’t you just make another?’ Emris said softly, goadingly. Chatham appeared to grow even angrier at that.
‘It’s not a toy. I can’t whip one up in a morning’s work. It took me years to perfect!’
But the exchange occupied only half of Lena’s attention – the rest was fixed on Chatham’s horse. The animal’s torso was covered by a black fine-spun cloth, embroidered in the same silver as the man’s cloak, and the face was hooded … She narrowed her eyes, peering into the shadow beneath. The beast was not flesh and blood, she realised with a shudder – at least not all of it. Was that glass? And beneath, was that metal? A slight yellowish glow burned in the depths of the creature’s head.
‘I see you’ve noticed my particular speciality,’ Lord Chatham said, breaking off his argument with Emris to address Lena and sounding abruptly pleased with himself. With an expression as if he were doing her a great and noble favour, he reached into his cloak and drew out a small silver card, handing it to her as the wind whistled around the carriage. The shining card was half the span of Lena’s palm, and covered in curly black writing. It read:
Lord Theodorus Chatham
Independent Certified Magician
The King’s Mechanic by Royal Charter
Creator of Quality Magical Inventions & Curiosities
for All Persons of Substance and Nobility
INVITES YOU
to Experience his Emporium of Magical and Mechanical Delights
‘I’m on the hunt for a new assistant, you know,’ Chatham added, ‘and I could use a rogue … someone a bit more … malleable.’ He smiled.
‘Stop it, Chatham,’ Emris said sharply. ‘Lena isn’t a pawn in one of your games.’
‘Let’s allow her to decide, shall we?’
Lena turned the card over. On the back was a slogan – Magic for Everybody – and an address in the royal district. She held the card carefully, letting the light catch the silver paper. She thought of the butterfly, remembered that night, the night she’d seen it fluttering out of the gloom. She had to stop herself from reaching for it as she looked again at the horse, the glow inside its head, the metal mechanisms clicking and whirring behind the glass. The butterfly had been similar, despite the difference in size – she could still conjure the tick-tick-tick noise she’d heard as it approached her. Could Lord Chatham have been its creator?
‘Are there any other magicians like you?’ Lena blurted, as Chatham started to turn his horse.
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘There is no one quite like me,’ he said, winking. Lena blushed furiously. That wasn’t at all what she had meant. ‘Good evening, huntsman. Rogue,’ he said, inclining his head to each of them in turn.
And with that, Lord Chatham rode off through the indigo dusk, grey cloak flapping in his wake. Emris wheeled the carriage into a slow, circling descent. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched. The encounter had affected him more than Lena could understand.
‘What did he mean about the theft?’ she asked tentatively.
‘When Constance left the city, she stole something of his,’ he said, apparently reluctant to talk about it.
‘And what about when he said that some people don’t need superstitions to control their magic?’ Lena asked, as the temple district grew closer and closer. She held out the card. ‘Is that what this means by “Independent Certified Magician”?’
Emris sighed. ‘Yes. Lord Chatham and a few others like him claim that they don’t need the gods or the learning of the temples to control their magic. Instead, they pass a series of tests and are independently certified by the King, bound to his service.’ He shook his head. ‘They would argue that that’s the way it was two thousand years ago, before the gods revealed themselves to mankind – that, therefore, there is something to it. But I don’t like the idea of gambling with Chaos.’
Lena watched the temple district draw closer. When she was sure Emris wasn’t looking, she rested a hand over the butterfly in her pocket, stroking its delicate wings. She had left the only home she’d ever known – the person who’d made it a home lost to her forever. What’s more, she was heading for a place where she’d be forced
to pledge herself to a religion she’d always been warned against, and a practice – magic – she’d long been taught to fear. But if haughty Lord Chatham was right and you could control magic without the gods, perhaps there was a middle way, after all …
She hadn’t liked the man, and squirmed at the memory of how his eyes had first rested on her birthmark. But she slipped his card in the pocket, alongside the butterfly. It might just be another piece in the puzzle of figuring out where she really belonged.
SIX
The Garden
It was just past midnight. Constance stalked through the narrow passage beneath the castle walls and around the west tower, heading for the gardens, her face buried in the upturned fur collar of her dress. She had stayed late at the feast, until there was no one left (or at least no one conscious enough) to observe her departure. Lord Irvine had slipped out earlier. Constance had borrowed a lantern from outside the doorway of the great hall; one cracked pane allowed a breath of air to flicker and tease the flame within.
She stopped several times to listen for pursuing footsteps. None. In the distance, somebody retched against a wall, the wet slap of their vomit echoing through the night. She followed a vaguely familiar route – a route she remembered, though much changed by time and darkness and the cloying fog. The world rocked subtly under her feet, her breathing slightly rough. Though she had watered her wine surreptitiously, she could not have abstained altogether; somebody would have noticed, wondered at her soberness. Everyone else was drunk almost horizontal, staggering to their beds with eyes half-closed.
One thing soon became clear: it was years since anyone had visited the pleasure gardens for pleasure. Constance drew to a halt at the gardens’ edge, scanning the weird and twisted shapes looming from the flickering cloud for a form resembling Lord Irvine’s. The storm cloud had had a curious effect on the gardens. The formal flower beds at her feet were a mass of rotten vegetation, crawling with monstrous centipedes and fat maggots, glistening in the lamplight. The raised herb garden beyond, next to the kitchens, had crumbled, the mist choking into strange, viscous cobwebs catching moonlight between twigs of dead rosemary and thyme. Here and there, flashes of green-blue lightning cast flickering shadows across the lawn beyond. Fungi flourished, bulbous growths latching to the slender trunks of the naked, withered orchard beside the castle’s wall. Bare branches cut the hazy moonlit sky into ragged segments.