We Are Blood and Thunder

by Kesia Lupo

  Constance stepped closer, rested her right hand gently on his head. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. All of us have childish adorations.’

  ‘But not like that … not … twisted.’

  ‘You don’t really think it’s twisted. That’s someone else’s words. Who said that to you?’

  Winton sighed, raised his head. ‘I spoke with my mother once, tried to tell her … We were talking in general terms.’

  ‘Your mother, for all her love for you, wasn’t the most …’ Enlightened? Well-travelled? Educated? ‘… diplomatic of women. In the City of Kings, it’s accepted. They say the King himself prefers the company of men,’ she continued. ‘I think people here are obsessed with having children – because of the Ancestors – in a way that the rest of the world just isn’t.’

  Hope kindled in his eyes before extinguishing. ‘But I’m trapped here, don’t you see? Because of the storm cloud, and the quarantine, I’m trapped here forever. Or until we run out of supplies and just die.’

  She tried not to smile at his melodrama. ‘Winton, listen to me.’ She knelt on the rug in front of his chair, pulled his hands from his face. ‘Now that my secret is out, I can tell you the truth: I am here to deal with the storm cloud. That’s why I came back. And once it’s gone, you can go anywhere you like.’

  He looked dumbfounded. ‘What about the quarantine?’

  ‘The Pestilence comes from the storm cloud, Winton. If I get rid of it, we won’t need the quarantine.’

  She could hear the hope in his voice, even as he continued to argue. ‘But … even without the storm cloud … if I left for good, I’d be betraying the Ancestors. Betraying my mother’s memory. And if I don’t have any children …’

  ‘Who said anything about leaving for good, eh? You can visit other places, can’t you, as long as you return? And … and I will have all the children our dynasty needs.’ It was hard for her to imagine such a thing, but she said it anyway.

  ‘Really?’ Winton sniffed.

  ‘Everything’s going to be all right, Brother,’ she said, and she pulled him into her embrace. She owed him this, at least.

  THIRTEEN

  Chaos

  After two days of training, Lena felt different – stronger. The feeling had been rising, as if the magic in her belly had been stoked with fuel. The place she had once struggled to find and draw from grew closer to her fingertips, even when she was tired. Her vapour grew thicker, darker, as if it too was gaining strength.

  And yet her old frustrations had been replaced by new ones – which was, she supposed, a sign of progress. Now she was able to hit the punchbag somewhat reliably with her magical attacks – but she wasn’t exactly excelling at the simple spells Emris had urged her to practise. The spells were like little poems, matched with rituals, and Lena didn’t understand how or why they worked – or why they had to be so fiddly.

  ‘You’re really improving,’ Emris said on the second evening, holding his hand over the steaming bowl of water Lena had heated by magic. She felt a flush of pride at the cold burn of her magic in the pit of her stomach. A couple of days ago, it had felt odd, uncontrollable, disconcerting – but now it was growing familiar … even mildly comforting. Like a cool shadow against firelight, it flickered and shifted against the heat of her body.

  ‘You really think so?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘It’s not quite boiling, but it’s close. Now let’s try the floating spell before we finish for the day – you haven’t attempted this one before, so it’s a true test of your ability to follow instructions. And if you can master this, you’ve taken the first step towards successfully creating a godspeed charm.’

  He led her to the next table along in the practice hall, where he’d set up a bowl of plucked feathers from the kitchen and instructions written in his own cramped, spiky script.

  She leaned over the table and read through them carefully.

  Place your hand over the feathers. The feathers are the anchor into which you will weave the spell’s heart.

  Speak: By the power of Faul, I command thee to rise. I command thee to rise. I command thee to rise.

  As you speak, weave a light into the feathers in the bowl, and lift.

  ‘Are the incantations really necessary?’ Lena asked. ‘They’re all the same. All of them just repeat an instruction three times.’

  ‘They have been shown to help,’ said Emris. ‘Maybe it’s just psychological – I think it concentrates the mind. But no, they’re not all the same. Complicated spell incantations sound like a song and may be written in two other languages. Theodorus, the language of the gods – that’s the one used in the godspeed spell, for instance – or, in some older spells, Chaortus.’ He looked at her expectantly.

  ‘The language of Chaos?’ At the mention of a song, Lena remembered the night she’d found the butterfly. She remembered thinking someone was singing in a foreign language. Emris was speaking again.

  ‘That’s right. But for simple spells like this, our common tongue works perfectly well. Ready to try it?’

  Lena placed her hand over the bowl of feathers. She focused on her magic, drew it out gently until she felt its cold burn at her fingertips. It was a little like holding a taper to a fire and watching the wick catch light, and then transferring the flame to a series of lanterns, never letting the light flicker out. It was fiddly work. As a cryptling, she had often been tasked with lighting the lanterns in a crypt in preparation for a ceremony. A too-quick movement or an unexpected draught could leave her standing in darkness, the taper smoking into the shadows.

  ‘By the power of Faul, I command thee to rise.’

  Coldness flooded her, tingling through her arm and into her palm. Too much. She tried to pull it back – or the wax of her inner taper would catch fire.

  ‘I command thee to rise.’

  She felt a mist flowing out of her hand, surrounding the bowl and the feathers inside. She held her magic close to the feathers, commanding the vapour to weave in and out of their light, almost weightless forms. They shuffled in their bowl.

  ‘I command thee to rise.’

  A moment’s silence – Lena was convinced she had failed – and then the bowl shattered as the whole flock of feathers shot up into the air, exploding into the roof, surrounded by billows of grey cloud. They drifted down slowly, covering Lena and Emris in a ghostly kind of snowfall as the cloud disappeared.

  Why can’t I control it? she wondered, frowning down at her feather-covered robes as panic rose inside her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Emris said gently, sensing her mood. ‘That started off well. But you put too much into it.’

  ‘I’m going to fail, aren’t I? I can’t do it.’ Lena met his brown eyes, her body flooding with fear. ‘They hate Rogues anyway. If it looks like I can’t control my magic, they’ll never let me pass.’

  ‘You can do it.’ He put both hands on her shoulders. Feathers drifted in the air around them, lifted by a breeze from somewhere. ‘I know I’ve probably scared you by saying how hard it’s been for me, arriving here as a Rogue. But you’re getting better so quickly – quicker than I ever did. Your test should be more straightforward.’

  ‘What happened in yours?’ asked Lena, sensing the story behind his words.

  His mouth twitched uncomfortably. ‘The Grand Master was so suspicious of my power, she decided to examine it herself. And examination from a mage of Regis can be … well, very painful, as well as dangerous.’

  Lena frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Regis is the god of politics and persuasion, and the most powerful of its disciples can see the future and the past, and sometimes even the truth – even against another mage’s will. The Grand Master … she is very powerful indeed. And she just looked inside me, I suppose, searching for …’ The blood had fled from his face and he shook his head, suddenly deciding not to go on. ‘I don’t want you to think about this, Lena. It’s not going to happen to you. She said it was a one-off. She wouldn’t do it a
gain, so you don’t need to understand it – I’m not sure I do, anyway. Now come on, let’s try again.’

  But she couldn’t help worrying. Her magic was so unpredictable. One moment she felt in control – almost happy to have magic burbling inside her. And the next moment it betrayed her, throwing everything into doubt. It was as if it had a mind of its own.

  If the Grand Master could see the truth, she would see that too.

  After a late supper in the map room, she and Emris decided on a lantern-lit walk in the temple district, where he tested her on the temples and their disciplines. Lena felt the butterfly’s wings as they walked, comforted by the weight of it in her pocket, trying to distract herself from thinking about the test and the Grand Master, and the strangeness of her magic.

  The temples had closed up for the night and the streets were quiet, the paving stones shining wet under the moonlight. The air was damp and cold, promising drizzle, and Lena pulled her padded training coat tight around her body.

  ‘So whose temple is this?’ Emris stopped outside an impressive pillared facade with a statue kneeling at the foot of the steps. At first glance, in the half-light of the moon, it could have been a worshipper, a girl of ten or twelve kneeling still in prayer or adulation, hands outstretched.

  ‘Turah,’ said Lena. The kneeling girl had a sheaf of grain in one hand and a full pitcher in the other.

  ‘What colour are the robes of her initiates? And what magics do they practise?’

  Lena knew this one. ‘The colour is ochre. Magics of agriculture, the earth and—’

  Fast-approaching footsteps interrupted her. ‘Third Huntsman!’ a voice cried.

  Emris turned – a grey-clad woman was running from the direction of Faul’s temple, her robes flying. She was Emris’s age, tall and had cropped red hair, tightly curled. ‘Sir. We’ve received reports of a Radical in the palace. You’re to lead the team.’

  ‘The palace?’ Emris was already hurrying back towards Faul’s temple, where a group of novices were leading horses out of the gates, godspeed charms woven into their bridles. He matched the woman’s long, hurried stride. Lena followed at a jog, her heart pounding. ‘What’s happened, Mara?’ he asked the woman.

  ‘It’s not clear. But they say it’s one of the King’s magicians, sir. Lord Aster.’

  Emris’s lips were tight. ‘Is the King safe?’

  ‘He’s alive, but nobody is safe,’ said Mara grimly. ‘The Radical is holding half the court hostage in the ballroom.’

  Emris mounted a horse. Lena tried to grab another, but the woman held her arm. ‘We need these for the hunters,’ she said sharply. And she glanced up at Emris. ‘Shall I take your Rogue to her room, sir?’

  Your Rogue. Is that how they all see me? Lena wondered, with a flash of anger. Some little pet of Emris’s? She wasn’t an animal or a curiosity to be owned. ‘I’m not “his” Rogue. And there’s no way I’m going back to my room!’ Lena retorted, shaking off Mara’s grasp.

  Other huntsmen – perhaps fifteen or twenty – were streaming out of the temple and claiming horses for themselves. Emris met Lena’s eyes, a tiny smile on his lips.

  ‘I’m coming whether you like it or not,’ she said to him determinedly. ‘If you leave me, I’ll just run after you. So you might as well let me.’

  Mara looked outraged at the idea, but Emris’s smile broadened. ‘I wouldn’t dream of stopping you,’ he said, offering her a hand. ‘Let’s go.’

  Lena blushed and nodded, her stomach somersaulting in fear and excitement. Once she was safely in the saddle in front of him, Emris wheeled the horse around and kicked it into a gallop. The others followed his lead, and at the edge of the square their hoofs found purchase on the air. Lena felt her breath snatched from her lungs as they rose – up, up and up into the starry night.

  As they gained height, the gentle sounds of the city dropped into whispering silence. Emris swerved to the north, the muscles of the horse tensing under his command.

  ‘This will be dangerous,’ he said in Lena’s ear. ‘I don’t want you getting hurt. You need to promise to follow my orders, all right?’

  ‘I promise I’ll be safe,’ she said, sidestepping the question.

  ‘I’m not asking more of you than I’m asking of any of the huntsmen here,’ Emris said. His voice was serious. ‘I mean it, you have to follow my orders, no matter whether you agree with them or not. Promise?’

  Something in his voice convinced her to agree. ‘I promise.’

  The bright jewel of the palace glowed in the darkness, the curiously plain square bulk set on the northernmost of the seven hills, rising from the ground to impossible height, its glowing windows like eyes narrowed in suspicion. Seven towers stood sentinel above the battlements, as straight and thin as needles, their pointed roofs shining with gold even in the moonlight. The building was surrounded by a steep green verge and a deep moat, encircling it like a glittering necklace.

  As they descended, Lena noticed that the wide drawbridge was down and appeared to be deserted. Odd, she thought. Even in Duke’s Forest, the castle was heavily guarded. ‘Where are all the guards?’

  ‘They probably rushed to help inside the palace,’ Emris said, his voice low with foreboding. ‘Something is very wrong here.’

  The horse descended further, its hoofs finally hitting the drawbridge with a clatter – the other huntsmen following closely behind. At the sound of the hoofs, a pair of guards emerged from a small room at the side of the gates, dressed in black-and-white livery, their faces grim.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Emris demanded of the first.

  ‘In the ballroom, huntsman. Lord Aster has taken the King and his guests hostage,’ the man said, accepting Emris’s reins, ‘along with most of the guards who rushed to help at the first sign of trouble. At least one woman is dead.’

  As Emris questioned the guard for details, Lena wandered a few paces to one side, peering inside the wide, white-paved courtyard, edged by greenery. Yellow light fell in long strokes through the windows on the left side, glittering chandeliers visible between their frames. And there, in the centre of the courtyard, she glimpsed a flash of red. Her skin turned cold and she peered closer. A woman in a red silken gown lay sprawled face down on the paving stones, blood pooling around her head.

  Lena had seen plenty of dead bodies in her life. Some of them had even been victims of violence or murder. She was not squeamish. But this woman’s body was unnaturally twisted, her arms splayed at impossible angles, her legs mangled. Smashed glass surrounded her body in glittering shards. What had done this? A fall from a great height?

  Or Chaos?

  Why had Lena been so determined to come here? Did she really want to help, or was she drawn by something inside herself? She felt a prickle of fear.

  Emris was at her side; he’d noticed the corpse. Lena watched as his eyes darkened. ‘As I feared, Chaos has grown powerful in this man. We need to hurry,’ he murmured, as if to himself. He signalled the other hunters over his shoulder. ‘Lena,’ he said, turning back to her. ‘I need you to watch what’s happening from the outside.’

  ‘From outside?’ She needed to see! How could she understand from out here? ‘But—’

  ‘Remember your promise, Lena. See those bushes outside the ballroom?’ He pointed to the green manicured bushes below the room where great chandeliers were framed by the windows. ‘Hide there and watch. If things go wrong, take one of the horses and return to the temple, tell them what happened. Do you understand?’ Not waiting for her reply, he entered the courtyard, followed by the other huntsmen, stepping carefully around the body and the blood spreading across the paving stones.

  Lena waited a few breaths then crept into the courtyard herself. A border of soft earth and thorny roses protected the broad window sills of the ballroom. She edged into the flower bed, felt the sharp thorns scratch her legs as she tried to find purchase on the pillowy earth. Standing on tiptoes, she glimpsed inside.

  The room was cavernous. A hig
hly polished marble floor reflected the candlelight from the chandeliers, hanging relatively low from an enormous ceiling painted with scenes from temple stories. A huddle of frightened people in sumptuous dresses and silken suits stood a little distance from Lena’s window. Among the huddle, she noticed Lord Chatham. He didn’t look frightened like the others. Everyone was watching something at the far end of the room, including the group of black-and-white-clad guards standing uselessly in the grand doorway opposite, swords drawn. On the floor in front of them, one of their number was sprawled in a pool of blood, obviously dead – his body twisted. Lena knew instinctively that he had died in the same way as the woman in the red dress.

  She peered further into the room, wondering where Emris had gone … Ah, yes. The twenty huntsmen were filtering in through another grand set of double doors. They stood in a half-circle formation, facing the far end, where a raised dais housed a throne. On the throne sat a handsome man dressed in green velvet wearing a slim golden circlet upon his head. The King. Even from a distance, Lena could tell that his expression was oddly strained, for at his side, his hand resting on the King’s shoulder, was the man Lena knew right away must be the Radical. Even so, he didn’t look very dangerous. He was dressed in silver brocade and was portly, his fair hair wavy and slightly receding.

  She lowered herself down – the effort of standing on tiptoes was juddering her legs – and stepped out of the flower bed. Keeping low, she crept along to another window, closer to the end of the room where the King sat. A drainpipe ran up the side, and Lena lifted herself on to the wide window ledge, angling her body into the shadow.

  Yes, this was a better view. From here, she could see how the Radical’s eyes had turned a brilliant swirling colour, like the rainbows in spilt oil, no distinction between his pupils, irises and the whites of his eyes. He was smiling. She leaned against the window, straining to hear. Emris was speaking to the Radical, stepping forward. She picked up a few words.