by Kesia Lupo
‘Come on,’ Emris said, urging her onwards through one garden and then another. Lena’s boots were soon caked with mud from the drenched flower beds, her robes soaked through. Lights started to flicker on inside the buildings, and the small comfort of a fire and a lamp appeared to Lena like another world. The ground started to slope upwards as they emerged on to a street again.
Lena realised they were heading broadly east, out of town, and had reached the tangled warren of streets which had seemed like lace from far above, climbing up one of the city’s seven hills. Emris darted left down a dark alley and he drew her aside. The rain had lessened at last, and a reddish, sickly sun showed through the drizzle.
‘Hide here for a while,’ he said. ‘I’m going to create a diversion.’
‘Emris – no. It’s too dangerous! What if they catch you?’ None of this is his fault, she thought. I can’t let him suffer the consequences. Not like Vigo did. ‘Besides, I haven’t heard anyone following for a while … Aren’t we safer sticking together?’
‘It’s not that simple, Lena. Look.’ He pointed upwards. Sure enough, she spotted riders in the sky, a few of them barely streets away. ‘They’ll be combing the city for us until it’s too dark to see. If I can lead them somewhere else, we’ll be safe until dawn.’
Lena hesitated, seeing the wisdom in what he was saying but not wanting to accept it. ‘I …’
Emris shook his head. ‘Just hide. I’ll find you again – please, just for once, do as I say. Stay here until nightfall. I promise I’ll be back.’
And before he left, he pressed his lips briefly to hers – so briefly she wondered if she had imagined it, and held her hand over her mouth as if to keep the ghost of the kiss.
Lena crouched in a doorway in the quiet, dilapidated alley where Emris had left her. It was lined with empty, broken windows and abandoned newspapers, and the stench of feral animals. She sat against the darkest wall at the end, drawing her knees to her chest. She’d been waiting for hours: it was dark now, and a beam of moonlight lit the detritus at the alley entrance.
The houses here had been grand once, with huge deep doorways and wide steps – but they looked old too, their bricks flaking and ivy trailing through their windows. The night grew quieter as the moon rose: for hours, the only sound she heard was a distant drunkard lurch, singing, into a gutter.
Tears streaked Lena’s cheeks with salt as she wondered what had happened to Emris. The butterfly perched on her knee, gazing at her as if in sympathy.
‘He said he wouldn’t be long,’ she whispered. ‘But it’s been hours. What if they captured him?’ Her forehead sank down and the butterfly crawled into her hair – she felt its warm weight against her skull, the gentle simmer of its magical heart chiming to her own. She’d wait until sunrise, she decided. If he didn’t return, she’d have to flee the city on her own.
And then what? She ran through all she’d learned of Valorian. West was Duke’s Forest; north were the wastelands; east, she thought, promised trading ports and military posts. But the south … yes. Emris had said the islands were wild and foreign; perhaps there she might have half a chance of leaving herself behind, of disappearing.
Is that what I really want, to disappear? Lena shook her head. She was finally beginning to feel like herself. Would she really be forced to throw it all away?
EIGHTEEN
Truth
Constance woke in the evening, her hand resting in Xander’s. He was sleeping, his face ashen and pale. The light was dying, and it had started to rain, water trickling down the walls into her cell.
‘You’re a physician,’ she said to Dr Thorn. ‘What’s the matter with Lord Irvine?’
‘I can’t be sure without examining him. But I’d hazard a guess he’s bleeding internally. I’ve seen men beaten like that before.’
As she’d suspected. ‘And what does that mean?’ she asked quietly.
‘For his chances? I’d be surprised if he lasts the night.’
‘Don’t say that,’ she snapped, running a hand through her hair, unbound and matted around her shoulders, her hairpins all fallen or twisted.
‘Just because it’s painful, doesn’t make it any less true,’ he replied calmly. And he lay down on the straw, turning his face to the wall, cradling his gloved hand as if it was hurting.
Constance concentrated on eating the meal she’d been brought a few hours ago, disgusted at the dry, mealy bread and the brackish water – but forcing it down to keep up her strength. A puddle had formed beneath her cell window – a product of the rain running down the walls. She’d had an idea. If the girl had followed her instructions, she ought to have found Emris, and he would have taken her back to the City of Kings. If she could only send him word …
She gazed at the puddle. The light down here was fading, but it might just be enough.
It was worth a try. It was dangerous: without an enchanted mirror, the entire operation relied on her own magical resources. But what choice did she have?
She knelt over the dimly lit puddle and plucked a few strands of straw from its surface. Lowering her face, she glimpsed her pale reflection swimming unsteadily in the dirty water.
Her magic pulsed under her skin, thrumming through the metal of her left arm. But she touched the puddle gently with her hand, feeling the wetness against her fingertips and releasing a glittering liquid magic on to the surface of the water. She imagined the temple, the mirror in Emris’s room – the familiar furnishings, the rugs, the bed. She pushed her vision into the magic.
‘Emris Lochlade,’ she whispered, breathing on the puddle’s surface.
And slowly an image swam into view, dim and indistinct but undeniably there.
‘Emris?’
Constance? In her mind’s ear, she heard him drop something, the clatter of a chair, and in the puddle his scarred face swam into view. He was dishevelled. Scorch marks on his grey robes suggested a fight, and his right shoulder drooped. But she already knew she hadn’t time to ask – the drain on her magic was intense and unrelenting. You ignored my advice then, he said, quickly composing himself. You shouldn’t be doing this. It’s dangerous. Where are you, anyway?
‘In the dungeon in Duke’s Forest. Things are more serious than you realise. My father is dead,’ she whispered. ‘Emris, is there a girl there with you? A girl with a birthmark on her face, a mage …’
He nodded. Her name is Lena. I’ve been trying to figure out—
‘Let me figure it out for you,’ she interrupted. ‘She has the heart of the storm spell – a small brass butterfly that once belonged to my mother. Emris, you have to send her back to me so I can destroy it – before it’s too late.’
Emotions crossed his scarred face, fleeting as shadows, until his eyes settled into a kind of understanding. The books … the forbidden magic you were studying …
‘What is it?’ She could feel the connection slipping.
You were studying the storm spell. It’s necromancy – that’s why you had all those forbidden texts … and your experiments in Chatham’s workshop. You were studying it to find out how to break it. His voice was full of sudden wonder, even in her mind.
‘For gods’ sakes, Emris.’ She streamed her magic across the puddle, feeling her hand tremble with the effort. ‘There’s no time. The Justice has taken control. I am trapped in the dungeons and the dead are rising. The fate of Duke’s Forest rests on your shoulders.’ Her whole body shook with the effort. She could feel Emris’s confusion over the mirror-bond, though he said nothing. ‘Just hurry.’
His expression shifted from confusion to determination. We’ll be there tomorrow.
And with that, the connection severed.
NINETEEN
The Cat
Lena woke to the sound of rumbling, and a warm, furry creature pressing against her legs.
She opened her eyes. A small grey cat with a snub face stood on the steps, silvery in the moonlight, purring loudly and nudging its cheek against her shin. She sat up, her
back aching from leaning against the door, and rolled her shoulders. The cat regarded her thoughtfully.
‘Hello, puss,’ said Lena as the cat nudged her again, smiling in spite of herself. The butterfly peeked out curiously from behind her ear, not quite daring to fly. Lena rubbed her knuckles against the cat’s head until it sank to the ground, its purr thunderous. ‘Who are you, eh? What’s your name?’ The cat meowed and rolled on to its side, arching its back in delight. She ran her hand through its soft fur.
As quickly as the cat had succumbed to Lena’s attentions, it leaped up and padded down the steps to the street, glancing over its shoulder at her. It licked its paw with sudden businesslike ferocity, as if to say: Me, make a fool of myself? Lena grinned. The cat stared at her expectantly.
‘What is it? You want me to follow?’ she whispered.
She stood up and walked down the alley, her legs aching from sitting still for so long, hunched up against the chill. The cat instantly trotted along a little further and waited for her at the nearby corner. It carried on when she caught up – and disappeared down a set of steps between two houses.
‘I don’t really want to go down there,’ whispered Lena, peering into the gloom, hesitating at the top of the steps. What if Emris returned to find her gone? She’d promised herself she’d wait until dawn. The cat wrapped itself around her legs, then hurried into the darkness, meowing – as if in encouragement. The stairway was narrow, pitch-black and silent as the dead. The cat meowed a second time – the sound fainter, further away.
‘Come back, puss. It’s too dark,’ she whispered.
Another, slightly impatient meow. A deep silence.
‘Hey, are you there?’
Nothing.
She edged forward, trailing her fingers along the wall as she eased down the steps. A noise – a creak, or perhaps a whine – sounded from further along. Lena felt her heart squeeze, her breath shallow. The stairway reeked of rotten food. What the hell am I doing? I should turn back!
‘Where are you?’ she breathed. The butterfly fluttered out from behind her ear. In the darkness, she noticed the tiniest flicker of bluish light at its core, wreathed by cloud. Her eyes started to adjust, vague black shapes materialising in the gloom as the butterfly fluttered on: a long ladder or plank leaning against the wall at the bottom of the steps, a pile of rubbish.
A yellow flash in a dart of moonlight – two feline eyes further along.
‘Stupid animal,’ she grumbled. ‘What are you doing? I thought—’
That noise. A subtle creak. The cat’s eyes vanished.
Lena hurried over to the end of the alley, felt the solid brick wall with her hands. ‘Where are you?’ she murmured – but the damned creature had gone.
She leaned against the wall in despair, but the surface shifted, the creaky moan now identifying itself as the noise of old hinges. Gasping and unbalanced, she fell through to the other side, slamming painfully against the ground.
Dazed, she felt the cat nudging her head, her cheek pressed against a cold stone floor.
‘Hello, Lena,’ said a man’s voice, low and warm. ‘I see my friend found you.’
Lena lifted herself on to her elbows and looked up. Despite the eggshell-pale mask covering his face – swirling with fire patterns around the eyes – his voice was unmistakeable. ‘Emris?’ He was holding the cat – purring fiercely – in his arms.
She scrambled to her feet. Her ears were ringing, a bruise rising at the side of her head. She stood in a nondescript red-brick corridor, the high ceiling shaped into a pointed arch. ‘What—’
‘Draw up your hood and follow me,’ he commanded softly, setting down the cat and pulling his own grey hood down over his mask. ‘In the halls of the masked god, we can never be certain who to trust.’
The masked god? Her heart lurched. She followed Emris at a brisk pace down the long corridor. As the passage wound deeper into the building, it broadened out, red brick melding to stone, doors appearing on either side. The cat slunk away down a different passage. Despite the late hour, they passed a handful of other people wearing masks and loose purple robes, each mask as individual in decoration and even expression as their robes were uniform. One woman stalked past in close-fitting black, her hood pulled low, the smell of blood following in her wake. Lena shuddered.
Eventually, Emris stopped at a wooden door that opened into a modest dark room, a fire crackling in a large fireplace. He shut the door behind them, locked it and set his torch in an empty sconce on the wall. The room was windowless, but contained a single bed, a desk and a wooden chair, as well as two battered armchairs in front of the fire. Emris removed his mask, setting it on a stand on the mantelpiece. The painted flames around the eyes shone in the firelight. A mirror with a strange iridescent sheen hung on the wall next to the bed. He took a taper and walked around the room, lighting the candles.
‘We haven’t got much time. The palace guard are searching for you in every corner of the city,’ he said, ‘and the initiates of Mythris are not known for their trustworthiness. I’m sure the King has several in his pay.’ He blew out the taper and signalled for Lena to sit in a low chair by the fire.
‘Tell me what’s going on.’ She rubbed her forehead and whispered, ‘What is this place? Why are you … ?’ She gazed around a second time. The room showed definite signs of habitation: the half-empty glass on the table, the crumbs on the floor.
He sighed. ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you. Like Constance, I am an initiate of the masked god, and by Mythris’s nature we are sworn to secrecy. But now, of course, it can hardly be avoided.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, as if the whole situation were entirely ordinary.
‘I don’t understand. You’re …’
‘The Third Huntsman of Faul – yes. Remember, you don’t necessarily have to pledge yourself to one temple exclusively. I was pledged to Faul as a novice but secretly the masked god recruited me to the cause. Nowadays, I spend my days with Faul and my nights with Mythris. It’s how Constance and I first met.’
‘What?’ Lena blinked, confusion sinking under a kind of anger – at him, perhaps, but more at herself. It occurred to her how little she knew Emris, a man she had met a handful of days ago, a man she had nevertheless trusted. He had told her about the initiates of Mythris, their reputation as spies and assassins for hire. If that was true … She stared at his face, trying to figure out if another version of Emris was hidden beneath: a killer, a liar. Masks behind masks.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes grave. ‘Lena, I can see you’re struggling – and I can’t blame you. It’s a lot to take in. But I’m still me. I never wanted to lie to you. And now I have to tell you something important.’
His serious expression made her nod slowly, pushing away her shock. ‘What is it?’ she asked, her voice quiet.
He ran a hand through the tight curls of his hair. ‘It’s Constance. I had it all wrong. I’ve spoken to her at last, and I finally understand.’
‘Spoken to Constance?’ She frowned, uncomprehending. ‘How?’
‘When we were together, we spelled two mirrors, one of mine and one of hers, so that we could speak to each another in secret. That’s mine.’ He gestured at the mirror hanging beside his bed.
Lena tried to ignore the tug in her heart at the intimacy this implied. ‘What did she say? What’s happening in Duke’s Forest?’
‘Things aren’t going well. Constance said her father is dead, and the Justice has seized control outright, crowning himself Duke. Constance has been imprisoned in the dungeons. But, Lena, listen to me. I finally understand what she is trying to do.’ His eyes had lit up with something like joy. ‘She’s not a necromancer at all. She was studying the storm spell, and she’s going to try and break it.’
‘The storm spell?’
‘The storm cloud over Duke’s Forest is … well, it’s a spell to raise the dead, Lena. And it’s starting to happen.’
‘The Ancestors?’ she gasped, her mind t
urning confusedly, remembering how dead bodies reacted to her touch. Had it been the storm cloud all along, not her at all? It made no sense – she was a mage, wasn’t she? And who would want to raise the Ancestors anyway – to what purpose? ‘Where do I fit into this?’
Emris breathed deeply. ‘I think I’ve figured it out. Constance believes the heart of the spell is housed in the butterfly. But what she doesn’t realise is that when you found the butterfly, the spell passed to you.’
Lena pressed her hand against her chest as if she could feel the spell inside her. ‘But how … ?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never heard of anything like this before. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible.’ Emris smiled slightly. ‘But then this is perhaps the greatest spell ever cast. Of course it would have an intelligence of its own.’
‘It … it’s conscious?’ She remembered how the spell had taken over when she was attacked by the snake, which had mysteriously died even as she passed out. She remembered how the Radical had told her she was something different. She remembered too how her power had appeared to help her in the shop, bringing the butterfly back to life – how the mechanical creatures had launched themselves at their creator as if animated by some other, vicious consciousness. How, outside the Holy Council, she had severed her ties to Faul so that her power might overwhelm her and take care of Chatham. Saving her. Saving itself.
‘A spell like that has Chaos at its core,’ said Emris, ‘and it wishes nothing more than to be free of anyone’s control, to wreak its own havoc on the world.’