by Kesia Lupo
Another thing to worry about, she thought, as if I didn’t have enough already.
It was dark still, but she could feel the morning creeping behind the storm cloud like a cloaked assassin. She washed in her mother’s basin and donned a plain wool gown from Livia’s chest. How long since she’d had anything of her own? Even those items she’d arrived in belonged to the temple, in truth. And the mask – that had been stolen too. In the first grey light of dawn, she tied her hair in a high bun and looked inside the circular mirror on the chain around her neck. The glass was clear. Dark circles shadowed her eyes as she frowned at her reflection in the resolutely unmisted glass. Did Emris care about her at all? She felt like his was the one other life on which she had managed to leave her mark. And yet … sometimes it seemed that nothing she did had consequences, and that now she had disappeared from that world, it was as if she had never been there at all. As if she were a ghost.
The day was young and, beneath the yaps and yowls of the hounds, the castle was quiet as the grave, everyone nursing sore heads from the festivities, no doubt. Her cane tucked carefully under her arm, Constance crossed the courtyard to the north tower and tried the door: unlocked. Stepping softly up the stairs, she heard heavy snores emanating from the bedchamber on the first landing. She set her eye to the keyhole. Dr Jonas Thorn had collapsed on his neatly made bed. He had removed his coat and shirt, leaving the skin of his back bare. Constance was surprised to notice deep scars criss-crossing the smooth, pale skin. Long ago, she realised, he had been whipped.
She shook her head and climbed the rest of the steps, passing doors to the other empty chambers she remembered from her childhood: the intimate dining room, the music chamber and the comfortable living quarters once used for the Duke’s private entertainment. She paused to catch her breath on the final landing before opening the door to the solar. It was time to find out the truth about her father.
The room perched atop the tallest tower in the castle, a circular, domed chamber with a glass roof constructed by a long-dead Ancestor for observing the stars. The thin, large panes rattled slightly in the breeze and Constance felt a breath of air tickle a loose hair at her neck. And suddenly she noticed she had climbed so high that the top of the tower had erupted from the storm cloud. Tendrils of grey snatched and swirled around the lower edges of the dome, but the rest was filled with blissful clear sky. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed it already. For a moment, she lost herself in the pool of blue, interrupted only by the sun’s gentle yellow on the clouded horizon.
The circular room was starkly empty. The ghosts of removed furniture were imprinted on the walls in paler shades of white: the only remaining items were an enormous chest fastened with a sturdy padlock, a narrow, neatly made bed that ill-fitted its surrounding and a single, throne-like chair in the centre of the room. And there, at last, she noticed her father, already examining her with wary eyes. Gone was the expression of pure, adoring admiration from the previous evening. Instead, he appeared confused, agitated. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to the feast. Has he even slept?
‘Constance,’ said the Duke, peering at her. ‘Daughter.’ And then he repeated it vaguely, as if trying to jog his memory: ‘Constance … Daughter …’
She approached him with careful footsteps. At fifty paces across and laid with polished tiles, mirroring the umbrella-like pattern of the thin glass panes overhead, the room felt cavernous. She stopped before she reached the chair, her gaze catching on her father’s hands. They were clasped, clawlike, over burnished wooden armrests. ‘Good morning, Father,’ she said calmly. For the first time since she’d arrived, she observed him dispassionately. She and the Duke had never been close. He’d had duties, and she’d had preoccupations, but she thought they had loved each other nonetheless – as family do. She tried not to baulk at the ravages that age and insanity had wrought over his features – features so firmly echoed in her own face. The angles of his cheekbones were sharper, his chin receded. The dark eyes looked watery and unfocused, the skin drawn tighter over bulbous knuckles. Her father’s hair was entirely white now and coarse as wool – no trace of the ash-blond, like hers, he had once prized.
There was nowhere for her to sit, so she knelt beside the chair and rested her right hand over his, trying not to flinch at the feel of his papery skin. It was time for the truth. ‘Father, I need to speak with you. I need to understand what’s happening here.’
The Duke stared into the middle distance. He showed no sign of having heard her words.
‘Father, you alone in Duke’s Forest know the truth about me, about my magic.’ But that’s not true, not after last night. She shook the thought away. ‘It was you who told me to run. Do you remember? You wanted to save me. You knew what they would do to me if I stayed.’
The Duke’s eyes appeared to focus on her for a fraction of a second.
‘But I’ve come back, Father. I’ve come to … to save Duke’s Forest. I’m strong now, see. I’ve learned so much. But there’s someone working against me.’
His gaze flickered towards hers again, a glimmer of understanding.
‘There is a mage in Duke’s Forest. Other than me, I mean. A mage who sealed the gates. Someone who’s been here all along, right under the Justice’s nose.’
His mouth opened, as if he was trying to speak, but no words emerged.
‘But, Father, I don’t know who it is. Can you tell me? Who is the other mage?’
‘The storm spell must be broken,’ he murmured at last.
‘That’s right, Father,’ she urged, her voice dry with longing. ‘Just … please … tell me what you know.’
But even as he opened his mouth to speak, he was silent. A strange gargling sound rumbled in his throat, as if his words struggled to escape.
This wasn’t going to work: not without a little help. She lifted her cane, rested the cool pommel against his hand and whispered under her breath. A purple sparkle emanated from the cane, spreading gradually up the Duke’s arm and over his face, flickers of pure light shimmering in the sunbeams like motes of shining dust. Constance closed her eyes, urging the spell to clear the darkness from her father’s mind. But something was stopping her magic.
‘Look at me,’ she whispered. And the Duke obeyed, the muscles of his face relaxing as he succumbed to her will, his eyes meeting hers.
Gently, ever so gently, she rested her hand on his weathered cheek and slipped her magic into the space behind his eyes: the sensation was like tipping forward into warm water, her fingers and face tingling. The familiar heat kindled in the hollow below her breasts as her magic awakened. But again, there was resistance in the Duke’s mind. And as she pushed a little harder, the resistance grew stronger. Almost as if another spell had been wrought against meddling – but that wasn’t possible, was it? Determined, she tried harder, flinging a surge of magic against the wall in her father’s mind.
A red flash. Her cane flew from her hands – and suddenly the Duke lifted his fist and struck her hard around the face. She fell on the floor, felt her skin tear against the jagged edge of a cracked tile. Hot blood trickled down her cheek. Hand shaking, she raised her fingers to the open wound.
She stared up at her father, feeling a stab of anger. He had struck her only once before – that one time, when he’d been filled with rage and grief, dragging her by the arm from her mother’s body … But her anger fell away as she saw his face crumble. He gazed at his own hand, caught between amazement and horror.
‘Get away from me,’ he said in a low, steady voice. It was the sanest thing she’d heard him say since her arrival.
‘Father,’ she insisted, ‘who is doing this to you?’ But she couldn’t help the edge of desperation creeping into her voice. She knew it was hopeless.
Just then, the door opened behind her. Constance stood, slowly smoothing out her skirts and dabbing the wound on her sleeve.
‘Lady Constance,’ said the physician. ‘I did not know you had planned to visit
the Duke.’
‘Do I need to make an appointment to visit my own father?’ she replied sharply.
‘It might have been advisable,’ said Thorn, nodding at Constance’s wounded face. ‘If I had not woken to administer the Duke’s morning dosage, he might’ve done worse. His condition is highly volatile.’
She stepped close, drawing herself up tall. ‘It is none of your business what passes between my father and me,’ she said coldly. ‘And I have reason to believe his ailment is not entirely natural.’
‘Whatever can you mean?’ his voice was flat, unimpressed. But she looked at him closely, spied a flicker of understanding behind his eyes. And that’s when it clicked into place.
‘I think you know, physician,’ Constance hissed. She stepped aside, scooped up her fallen cane and left the room, slowly descending the spiral staircase. In her mind she replayed the red flash. And then she remembered the similar red magic binding the rusted lock and chains of the gates. She knew in her heart both spells had been cast by the same mage.
And that mage was in Duke’s Forest, close to the Duke, spinning spells under the magic-hating Justice’s nose. She tried not to jump to conclusions, but it was difficult to avoid the obvious suspect. Lord Veredith had said he was a low-born apothecary who had worked his way into the highest echelons of the castle; surely in this city of strict hierarchy that was cause for suspicion in itself. Yes, she felt sure: the mage in Duke’s Forest could only be the physician, Jonas Thorn. And by the feel of his magic, he was very powerful indeed.
Anger surged through her. He was driving her father mad. Keeping him in a prison of his own mind. But why? Was he playing his own game? Or was he working for someone else?
At the bottom of the staircase, she opened the door into the courtyard, dabbed her throbbing cheek on her sleeve again, and hesitated on the threshold. She watched the storm cloud flicker and wheel close to the cobblestone ground. The houndmaster crossed the courtyard with a bucket full of dead rats, one hand nursing his head. A few seconds later, Constance heard the dogs fall on the meat, their howls fading to snarls as they fought for a bite.
She shut her eyes for a moment, allowing the world to disappear. When she focused like this, she could hear an echo of the storm spell, a thrum like the dying voice of a struck bell. It was strong. It might be mere days from starting its contractions. And when that happened … well, she might already be too late. She would have to work fast to gain the upper hand. She clenched her fists. Gods. She’d been training for this her whole adult life – but was she ready? Did she really know what she was doing?
I have no choice.
The Witenagemot would begin in a few short hours. She touched her cheek gingerly, gazed down at her blood-spattered dress. A change of clothes, I think.
In her room, Constance checked the round mirror on her pendant again, expecting nothing. Instead, she found the glass misted. Her heart lurched. So this is it. She sat on the edge of the bed, tucked her hair behind her ears, then breathed on the glass herself, knowing she had misted the twinned mirror in the temple.
A shadow appeared behind the mist, and suddenly the glass cleared. Emris’s scarred face greeted her – three parallel white lines across his face. His dark hair was scattered with silver, eyes weary. He looked a decade older than his twenty-three years.
At last, he said, by way of greeting. Although his lips moved, his voice was heard in Constance’s mind – echoic, travelling over impossible distances. What the hell happened to your face?
She touched the cut, which had dried out but was tender under her fingers. She’d forgotten about it somehow. She shrugged. ‘A fist happened.’
Why did you run from me? You must know, deep down, that you have to face the consequences of your actions.
She lowered her gaze. ‘No,’ she said quietly.
Constance, you can’t do this.
She made her voice steady and true. ‘I am doing it, Emris. I tried to tell you—’
But his mind-voice was stern, cutting her off. Things have progressed since you left. They’ve discovered the forbidden texts in your cell. I thought, before, that it had been a spur of the moment thing – a reckless impulse. I wasn’t even sure what I was seeing, at first … But now I know. His eyes burned. You’d been planning to try it for a long time, hadn’t you, Constance? You must feel so clever. You certainly had me fooled. I thought you were different – but you’re just like Chatham, after all. There was real bitterness and hurt in his words. Chatham is on my back about the mask too, as if that were more important than the rest of it.
‘You don’t understand,’ she said, finally finding her voice again. She rubbed the top of her nose. ‘There’s more to this than you realise. You know nothing about me. Nothing.’
You’ve made that abundantly clear, Constance. Even so, it’s simple: either return and face the Council’s judgement, or remain in Duke’s Forest and die from starvation or the Pestilence, or whatever other evils are lurking in that cursed place. Or do you think you can hide from death as well as justice?
She felt something in her snap at his superior tone. ‘It is not simple. It is never simple,’ she spat out. ‘Don’t be so naive, Emris.’
He glanced over his shoulder – as if he’d heard some noise. But as he returned to her, his voice was firm. I shouldn’t even be speaking to you. I wanted to tell you that if you hand yourself in at the nearest temple in the next twenty-four hours, I will plead for mercy on your behalf. For the sake of everything we once had.
‘No,’ she whispered, but the bite had left her voice. It was over; it really was. She had known it would be, but it didn’t hurt any less. She remembered briefly the times they’d spent together, how close they’d come to something like love.
He leaned nearer to the mirror. Think about it. If I ever meant anything to you, think about it. You’re playing with dangerous, chaotic magic. Is that how you found a way through the forest when no one else could?
She shook her head. It wasn’t worth arguing: whatever she said, he’d already made up his mind.
Then this is goodbye.
And the glass cleared, and she was looking at her own pale, pinched face, made ugly by bitterness.
A hot rage flooded her veins and she saw her blue eyes flash purple. She snapped the pendant shut and flung it hard against the wall. She heard the glass cracking inside its case. The pendant skittered under the bed.
She curled up on the mattress, the sobs rising in her chest – but stifled before they reached her throat. She lay there silently, every muscle wound tight, staring at her clenched fists beneath their gloves. Her other life was truly gone. Everything she’d worked for. The one person in that horrible world she’d cared about. Everything that meant anything to her – she’d given it all up.
For this.
And what did that mean?
I cannot fail.
The Wise Men gathered promptly, despite their aching heads and tired eyes. Lord Veredith stood up and tried to pull out Constance’s chair as she entered the room, with limited success. Lord Redding attempted an enthusiastic greeting, which descended into a hacking cough. Lord Farley looked like he’d seen the bottom of a bottle twelve times over, wincing at her cheery ‘Good afternoon.’
She’d dressed in a steely grey gown edged in black and probably designed for a funeral – it suited her mood since her conversation with Emris. She couldn’t help thinking of the last woman who had worn these clothes. How many funerals did Livia attend before her own? Constance brushed aside the thought as a servant poured her a cup of nettle tea. Her hair was pinned tightly to her head, her eyes bright. She’d magicked the wound on her cheek to a mere sliver of pink, barely noticeable against her skin.
She smiled around the table as more of the Wise Men took their seats. Xander arrived next with a large cohort of his sky-blue liveried guards, who joined the city guard around the perimeter of the great hall. Was he expecting trouble? His eyes flicked to her face, a small smile on his lips. She
nodded a formal greeting.
In the last few minutes, Winton arrived too. He’d smartened up: cleanly shaven and dressed in scarlet, his dark curly hair combed and shining. He slid out the remaining seat at Constance’s right-hand side and sat carefully, shooting her a rueful smile; despite their obvious similarity in looks, this was an expression the Duchess could never have mastered. Constance smiled back, guiltily relieved that she didn’t have his mother to contend with, as she’d expected.
Constance glanced at the clock on the wall: two minutes to midday. There was only one member of the Witenagemot missing.
At the last moment, a black-liveried servant slipped through the doors and approached the long table on the dais.
‘My lady, the Lord Justice is indisposed but sends his regards.’
‘A shame,’ she said coolly. ‘What is his ailment? Shall we send for the physician?’
‘Dr Thorn is already with my lord.’
Of course he is. ‘Very well. Send him my best wishes for a swift recovery.’
The servant bowed, left the hall with quick footsteps and shut the door behind him.
For a few moments, silence. Constance surveyed the men at her table. Eleven in total, plus her brother, on whose loyalty she knew she could rely. Several were on the wrong side of middle age – some only tenuously on the right side of the grave. Lord Veredith she had in her pocket already, and Redding would not oppose her. Leobel was a kindly man with a bald pate and a fat gut – she remembered him from before she’d left. She’d win him easily too. Lord Farley was young enough, but so bitter and broken that she knew she’d find no resistance there. Xander was a strong ally: he’d help sway any uncertainties in her favour.
She’d find little opposition from the Wise Men, as long as the Justice left her to her own devices. He’d chosen to sulk and plot: so be it. If he wouldn’t fight the fight, the prize was hers for the taking. If she could weave the right words, all the men here would be caught in her net.