We Are Blood and Thunder

by Kesia Lupo

  ‘Step away … can never hope to defeat … the gods …’

  He was like a different person – no longer her mild-mannered teacher and friend, but formidable, angry and powerful. In the bright light of the chandeliers, his scars seemed to glow pale against his dark skin – a reminder of everything he had survived, everything he had conquered. Even from a distance, behind a window, Lena could feel the magic rolling from him in waves. She leaned closer, her weight on the cool glass … and suddenly, with a creak, the casement swung inwards and Lena tumbled into the room.

  Her head hit the marble – hard. A loud ringing started instantly in her ears. For a moment, the cold surface beneath her felt like the stone of a tomb and she was caught in a vivid and confusing dream in which Vigo was telling her firmly to decide what to do with her life, while at the same time removing her heart and putting it into an earthenware jar. She heard her heartbeat, loud as a drum, as if he were holding it up to her ears … but no, that didn’t make sense. And with that thought, the world returned abruptly – the fresh pain in her head, shoulder, hip. She laid her palms flat and pushed against the polished floor.

  ‘Hello, little spy.’ The Radical was in front of her, smiling as she sat up, his black-rainbow eyes swirling.

  Behind him, hunters swiftly moved to surround the King, who seemed unharmed, and rushed him to the doors where the waiting palace guardsmen whisked him away to safety. The huntsmen started to hurry the other guests from the room. Emris was standing on the dais nearby, very still, watching her, and his eyes were alight with rage.

  ‘Oh … Ancestors …’ Lena breathed, nearly more terrified of Emris than of the Radical.

  Nearly.

  The Radical wrapped the fingers of one hand around Lena’s throat and lifted her slowly to her feet. The pain was almost enough to send her spiralling into blackness – and his strength was uncanny for a portly man. It’s not his strength, she realised. When she was upright, he pressed her against the wall by her throat. ‘Fancied a peek at Chaos, did you? Curious to see what I was like?’

  Lena tried to say something – anything – but she couldn’t speak. His hands were greasy and smelt of blood. She met his eyes defiantly. And then, as if in surprise, he released her. She relaxed against the wall and gasped for breath, but the Radical lifted her chin and stared again into her eyes. His eyebrow lifted. She found herself transfixed by the swirling, colourful pools, her magic stirring inside her, her fingers tingling as if she were about to shoot lightning from the tips. She felt sick. ‘Why, hello …’ the Radical murmured. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘H … hello,’ Lena managed. ‘I’m … Lena Grey.’

  ‘I was Lord Aster until this evening, but I’ve made some excellent improvements since then.’ He smoothed down his coat, which Lena noticed was spattered with dark stains. Blood. Over the Radical’s shoulder, she saw confusion passing over Emris’s face.

  ‘You’re not like those others dressed in grey, are you? You’re different. Are you like me?’ The Radical sounded playful, and the childlike voice didn’t suit him.

  ‘Um – no,’ said Lena, rubbing her throat, her voice harsh. She risked another glance behind the man. Emris was creeping forward, slowly, slowly. He waved an arm. The other huntsmen spread in a semicircle around the room, blocking the exits. Keep him talking, Lena thought, catching on to the plan. ‘Or … I don’t think so, anyway.’

  ‘Not yet, perhaps? Let’s have a look at you,’ he said, and he clapped his hands together. Lena found herself raised up a foot into the air, her stomach turning at the sensation. Her arms spread out – and when she tried to struggle, she found she could not. Invisible bindings, ropelike, tied her in place. She felt like a pinned butterfly, suspended.

  She could see the fear on Emris’s face – but he didn’t even hesitate. He crept closer, and closer.

  ‘Just a girl from the outside,’ the Radical was saying, peering at Lena from one side then the other. ‘A girl with an ugly mark.’ He prodded her cheek, his overlong fingernail scratching her skin. ‘But on the inside …’ He peered into her eyes again, close this time, so close she could smell his breath – alcohol and meat. He pried apart her eyelids and her eyes stung furiously. She desperately tried to edge her head away but found her neck pinned into place. Her stomach roiled. ‘The stink of a god,’ said the Radical, sniffing and releasing her eyelids. ‘But not as strong as usual. What are you?’

  ‘They say I’m a mage,’ Lena said quietly, blinking, trying to keep her voice conversational. But I’m not so sure, she nearly added. Magic rolled off the Radical – overwhelming, heady, like a strong perfume.

  ‘Ha! That’s what they tell you, is it? No, you’re something else entirely,’ he whispered now. ‘The gods cannot truly bind you. Their little tricks cannot tame you.’ And suddenly, realisation flashed in his rainbow-black eyes. ‘Ha! I know it! You are—’

  He cut off abruptly. Lena felt the bindings fall from her body and she crumpled to the floor. ‘What? I am what?’

  She didn’t understand at first – but then she saw that the Radical had grown deathly pale. He tumbled to the ground like a felled tree, his head hitting the marble floor with a loud crack, and Emris stood behind him, over his body. In his hands, suspended between his palms, he held a glittering ball of dark, iridescent darkness – just like the Radical’s eyes – which lit up Emris’s face in curious flickers of multicoloured light. Lena gazed down at the corpse. Lord Aster’s eyes were ordinary again, ordinary and dull and staring at the ceiling as if in shock.

  Holding the ball carefully in his hands, Emris carried it to the centre of the room and placed it on the floor. At a silent signal, the huntsmen surrounded it, raised their hands and spoke as one.

  ‘By the power of Faul, we banish thee, Chaos. By the power of Faul, we bind thee to the void. By the power of Faul, we charge thee never to return.’

  They repeated the incantation three times, and Lena watched as the ball of energy appeared to struggle, fizzing and popping on the marble floor. At one point during the last incantation, it rose up by a foot, sending sparks flying into the air, a wild light reflecting in the chandelier overhead.

  But as the huntsmen spoke, an invisible power resonated through the room, emanating from their hands. The air around them rippled, and waves of grey-white energy pulsed towards the ball. And when they had finished speaking, it was simply swallowed up in a pocket of air. Everything was quiet.

  Footsteps rushed towards her. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ Emris said, and without waiting for a reply, pulled her into a tight, punishing hug. Lena allowed herself to sink into the embrace, warmth rushing to her face.

  ‘I didn’t mean to. Besides, I saved the King, didn’t I?’ Lena managed, feeling close to tears of relief, and Emris squeezed her tighter.

  ‘For gods’ sakes just … don’t do that again,’ he said quietly, murmuring the words into her hair. ‘I need to settle a few things before we leave. Wait here for me, all right?’

  When he was gone, Lena sank to her knees. She didn’t think she could move, even if she’d wanted to. For a few moments, she simply stared at the body of Lord Aster, wondering if this was what her future held. Around her, the place grew alive with sounds of relief and activity – sobbing ladies escorted out to the hallway, huntsmen performing searches of the surrounding area, guardsmen retrieving the body in the centre of the ballroom and the dead lady in the courtyard. Eventually, Lord Aster himself was raised on to a stretcher and removed.

  ‘You dropped something,’ said a familiar voice. She turned to find Lord Chatham kneeling on the floor at her side, lifting the small brass butterfly in his perfectly manicured hands. Panic gripped her, flooding her with sudden energy. It must’ve fallen out of my pocket when I fell.

  ‘Give it back,’ she said unthinking, reaching out.

  Chatham stood up, evading her grasp. ‘Your manners, Rogue, are quite appalling.’

  She scrambled to her feet, her head spinning. ‘Give
it back, please,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  Lord Chatham’s eyes were glittering with mingled amusement and curiosity. ‘Of course, all in good time.’ But he examined the butterfly closely. ‘How intriguing … As I suspected … How did you come by my little creature, Rogue?’

  So he did create it, Lena thought. ‘My name isn’t Rogue. It’s Lena Grey. And that’s none of your business.’ She held out her hand, palm upwards. ‘Give it back.’

  A self-satisfied smile curled his lips. ‘You stole it, didn’t you?’

  She flushed. ‘I found it,’ she protested.

  ‘Be that as it may, Lena Grey, aren’t you curious to know what it really is?’ He held the butterfly up to the light.

  Lena glanced around nervously, but everyone else in the room was busy – including Emris, whose back was turned as he consulted with one of the guards. ‘Of course – but just … just give it back first!’ she hissed, trying not to attract attention.

  Chatham’s eyebrow rose. ‘Oh, you’ve been keeping it a secret! How delicious.’ He smiled, predatory as a cat. ‘I could tell you a few things that might surprise you …’ He met Lena’s eyes, smiling wider at the curiosity she knew she was betraying. But then he shrugged. ‘No matter.’ He dropped the butterfly into her waiting hand. ‘If you do decide you want answers, you already have my card.’

  He walked away as Emris started to approach from the other end of the room. Lena closed her fingers around the butterfly, relieved to feel the filigree of its wings against her skin as she slipped it back into her pocket with a sigh. She couldn’t help it: she was curious. She did want to know how the butterfly had come to be in the crypts. It had always felt important to Lena, something that she was destined to find – her own tiny, beautiful thing in the dark, monotonous world of Duke’s Forest. Of course she wanted to know what it really meant.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Emris watched Chatham’s retreating back suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, grasping for an excuse. ‘He was just trying to get me to visit him again – but I said no.’ She was surprised at the steadiness of her voice.

  Emris met her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. ‘That was wise. He’s so keen to be friendly with you that you have to wonder exactly what it is he wants in return.’ He met her eyes again, and Lena could tell she hadn’t quite convinced him with her lie. ‘Remember, people like Lord Chatham don’t give anything for free.’

  Lena felt fear and guilt and relief battling inside her, but brushed the feelings aside.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, his voice gentler. ‘I don’t know about you, but I feel like it’s been a very long night.’

  The journey home by horseback over the city and under the stars, Emris’s arms encircling her, left Lena smiling and warm inside. She tried to bury her guilt about lying to him under that feeling, and – just for now – she was too tired to dwell on it anyway. Other riders surrounded them like a flock of grey birds, cloaks flying in the thin, cold wind. She watched the dark parkland roll away beneath the horses’ hoofs, and ahead the glistening fountain and the busy night market around the Holy Council glowing like an enormous gemstone. The river sparkled in the moonlight, and beyond, in the commercial district, the sounds of a raucous party floated into the quiet sky.

  ‘What happened in there?’ Lena asked quietly, as they started to descend towards Faul’s temple. ‘How did that man become a Radical? He was independently licensed, wasn’t he – but what does that really involve?’

  ‘Yes, he was licensed – like Lord Chatham and eleven others,’ Emris said grimly. ‘Chatham has devised a number of tests, similar to those you will perform for the Holy Council, to prove a Rogue has control over their power. He then issues a certificate authorised by the King. That’s it – and they think that is enough.’ The scorn in his voice was palpable. ‘They tell the world they are safe – and, to give them the benefit of the doubt, perhaps they even think they are safe themselves. But without a god’s control, their power is drawn from Chaos, and given long enough I believe it will overwhelm each and every one of them.’

  Lena paused, thinking about the creature who had been looking out from behind Lord Aster’s eyes. ‘Why was Chaos so interested in me?’

  Emris sighed, as if he’d feared the question. ‘Chaos noticed something special about you, Lena – just like the rest of us. You don’t need to read more into it than that. Chaos is a trickster. Notice how it simply abandoned the King when a new distraction arrived for its attention? It isn’t rational, or even particularly smart. It’s just immensely powerful.’

  Special. Not different – special. Lena felt her heart glow. ‘That ball of magic …’ she started, not sure how to finish.

  ‘That was the physical manifestation of Chaos – of pure, unadulterated magic. Like a parasite, it grows inside the host, invisible, before taking it over entirely. Nothing was left of Lord Aster – he was a vehicle, no more.’

  ‘How long had it been growing inside him? Would he have known?’

  Emris turned his horse towards the broad Sacristi; she felt the movement of his arms where she rested her shoulders against his body. ‘Who knows. But he has been an independently licensed magician for over fifteen years. They all said he was safe.’ Emris shook his head. ‘Two people died today to prove it wrong. Thank Faul it wasn’t worse.’

  A chill ran through Lena’s body. Vigo had always told her that magic was an evil, unpredictable power – and in a way, he’d been right. She shook the thought from her mind, disturbed at the idea that Chaos could overwhelm her without her even realising. ‘Perhaps this will change the law,’ she suggested.

  ‘Perhaps. But somehow I doubt it. There are too many vested interests in the system.’

  ‘But if the King—’

  ‘The King’s interests included. Remember? The King himself commissions magical items from his magicians, as if they were no more than a collection of merchants.’

  The ground was flying upwards rapidly, the grey cobblestones silvery in the moonlight, and hoofs hit stone, galloping for a few moments before clattering to a stop at the temple entrance.

  As they dismounted, Emris said, ‘I’ll have to report to the First Huntsman – and you should see the healer. You’ll find one on duty in the office by the training rooms. Meet me in the map room afterwards? I could use a night cap.’ He smiled, and Lena felt warm inside all over again.

  In the map room – empty, as always – Lena sank into her favourite chair in front of the fire and sipped on a goblet of wine. The blue-clad healer had sealed the small wound on her head and prescribed a draught of restorative medicine in a cup of wine and a good night’s sleep.

  Now, in spite of everything, Lena felt safe, peaceful and warm. And yet … she played over the Radical’s words. She wasn’t a Radical, he’d said, but she wasn’t a mage either. Despite Emris’s reassurances, she couldn’t help thinking the Radical had been about to tell her something important before he was silenced forever.

  And then there was Lord Chatham, promising answers about her butterfly. Would he be able to guess what the Radical had been about to say? Perhaps there was something in her that the temples would never quite understand. Chaos? Despite the routine she’d fallen into, and her comfortable friendship with Emris, she still felt uneasy every time she stepped into Faul’s temple – as if the god was watching her suspiciously, rather than watching over her as he was supposed to do. What are the gods anyway? she wondered. How can they be so different from Chaos? They’re beings of magic too, aren’t they?

  And still the Ancestors waited in her nightmares, always on the edge of her consciousness. Angry. Vengeful at her betrayal.

  At that thought, she set down her goblet and tipped in the small vial of medicine. When she sipped again, the wine tasted sour, so she threw her head back and swallowed it in two big gulps. Then she rested her head against the wing of the chair and closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, Emris was gently shaking her awake.

>   ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed,’ he said softly.

  ‘Oh … I didn’t realise …’ She stood up, feeling foolish and bleary as he led her towards the guest room door. Her neck ached where it had rested to one side against the wing of the chair.

  ‘I have some news for you, Lena,’ he said, stopping on the threshold. ‘The Council has decided about your test. It’s the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘The day after tomorrow?’ She was abruptly wide awake. ‘But … that’s really soon. I’ve only been training for a few days!’

  ‘Relax. You’ve made good progress on simple manifestations and combat. And we’ll focus on your spells tomorrow – I’m free all morning. And in the afternoon you can practise on your own.’ He reached out to her, squeezed her shoulder. ‘I ought to be angry with you about today. You shouldn’t have climbed up on to that window sill, let alone leaned against the glass!’ He smiled, the affection clear on his face. ‘But for some reason I just want to help you. I can’t resist it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lena said, uncomfortably but not unpleasantly aware of how close he was standing, the weight of his hand on her shoulder. She felt a twinge of guilt at the way her thoughts had been tending – towards Lord Chatham, and Chaos, and the butterfly, and away from everything Emris told her was good and necessary. ‘You’ve done a lot for me,’ she added. ‘I’m grateful, I really am. I’d be lost here without you.’

  He smiled, and she found herself wishing she could trace the lines of his scars with her fingers. His voice was husky when he spoke next. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Lena. Get some sleep.’

  But even as she lay in bed, Lena still felt wide awake, feelings and thoughts spinning around in her mind like Hunter chasing mice. And she knew, with sudden clarity, what she had to do.

  FOURTEEN

  The Dead

  Constance followed Captain Trudan down the uneven, slimy steps to the dungeons, where the physician was locked in one of the cells destined for traitors, the lowest of criminals. Unlike the sparse but habitable cellars Constance knew were reserved for the cryptlings and morticians, the dungeons were cold, dark and damp – the ceiling was distant, the windows at ground level shedding ghostly evening light as if from another world. The straw clearly hadn’t been changed in several years, and rats crawled freely among the old rags and refuse. Constance held a scented handkerchief to her nose.