by Kesia Lupo
Emris regarded her seriously. ‘Lena, you can’t think this way. The spell is chaotic magic. It’s not something you should feel special to have received.’
‘And yet … even though Vigo died because of it, because of me … if it weren’t for the spell, I would never have found my way out. I would never have met you or travelled to the City of Kings and learned everything I have learned, seen everything I have seen.’ She gazed into the writhing mists, feeling a similar writhing inside her own heart. ‘It feels wrong to be grateful, but I am.’
‘I can understand that,’ he replied gently. ‘But think of all the evil it has wrought too. The Radical’s fascination with you. The dead shop assistant. Lord Chatham. The circumstances in which we’ve had to flee – it’s all the spell’s doing. When we find Constance, she will remove the heart and destroy it, and that’s a good thing. The storm cloud will be gone forever. Isn’t that what you want too? To save your home?’
Is this my home? Lena thought. But she nodded. He was right. She knew he was. The storm cloud had caused her as much harm as it had good. It was just … without the spell, she’d just be … Well, who would she be really? Her old self? Trapped by destiny and painfully powerless? She sighed. ‘Let’s just go.’
‘Good. Now lead the way,’ Emris said softly. ‘I trust you.’ He turned to look at the sky one last time. ‘And hurry, Lena. I think they’re coming,’ he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Lena stole a glance at the darkening sky and the black shapes emerging from the grey, then set off into the forest.
They hadn’t ridden far by the time they heard hoofs beating the soft earth some distance behind and shouts of ‘Stop, in the name of the King!’ thronging the storm cloud like the cries of ghosts.
They spurred their horses faster, dangerously close to losing their footing in the mulchy forest floor, but soon it was clear the men were gaining. A few flashes of light zipped through the thick cloud, mingling with the blue-green flickers of lightning.
‘They’re attacking!’ Emris called over the noise of their hoofs. ‘We should separate – I’ll try and lead them off.’
And before Lena could protest, he had wheeled his horse off to the right and was swallowed in the cloud.
‘No!’ she called. But it was too late. How would he find his way without her? The thought of Emris lost in the forest – infested with vicious serpents and hostile mages – made her insides lurch uncomfortably.
The sounds of pursuit dropped off but didn’t disappear altogether. Among the maze of trees and the shifting cloud, it was difficult to tell whether the noises of hoofs and voices and the flashes of magic were real or figments of her imagination, or even the effects of the noxious cloud on her bare eyes. Lena shut her eyes briefly and felt for the tug of magic inside her growing stronger and stronger. She must be nearing the city by now. She just had to trust her instincts, like Emris had said.
Her eyes snapped open as the horse’s muscles strained and it vaulted a fallen tree, sweat foaming on its glossy coat. Lena clung on, her legs burning, hair lashing her eyes. The purple robes flapped behind her, damp with vapour. She sensed her mount wouldn’t last very much longer.
A close branch overhead whipped away the thought – she ducked at the last minute, a shower of dead lichen falling on her shoulders. The cloud was thickening, her exhausted mount working hard to pick out a trail. Lena ached all over, inside and out – but she couldn’t give up, not now, not ever. She was so close she could feel it.
She heard the thud of another set of hoofs, a cry of frustration or victory. That was real, she thought in panic. Someone was close by. Her horse swerved around a desiccated stump, snorting. She risked a glance over her shoulder, glimpsed a flash of something in between the thick, dead trees – still some distance behind but gaining.
Suddenly the ground lurched, her horse rearing with a wild scream as a ditch opened up on the forest floor, and Lena flew through the air. She landed heavily on her back in the soft earth.
‘Hey!’ she tried to shout, but – winded – only a muffled wheeze escaped her lips. The horse was already galloping off into the darkness.
She scrambled to her feet and ran along the path, which veered steeply uphill. By her reckoning, she was very close to the city. She panted as she climbed, pulling the purple robes up over her knees.
The city walls appeared from the storm cloud as if they’d leaped out of the soil. The rumble of hoofs grew closer and closer, and she scrambled to find the secret narrow opening under the wall. At least whoever was following her didn’t know about this – they would likely lose her trail here, and find the locked gates instead. But what of Emris? She pushed away the painful thought, dived on to her stomach and pulled herself through, the dead rose bush scratching her hands and snagging on the masked god’s long purple robes. As she emerged on the other side, she shrugged off the tangled outer layer – beneath, she still wore the simple grey uniform of Faul’s temple.
She looked up, and her heart plummeted. Whatever she’d expected to find, this was worse. There was smoke in the air, a sulphurous tang distinct from the foul electric odour of the storm cloud – and she heard shouts, then the clash of metal, the crackle of fire. Her stomach lurched. She ran forward to see a building burning on the main thoroughfare, acrid smoke mingling with the cloud.
She ran uphill towards the castle. On her way she noticed smashed windows, wide open doors, the storm cloud snaking into cramped living quarters, flickering over the chaos inside. Belongings were strewn, abandoned, across the pavement. And but for the voices, which she realised were echoing from further up the mountain, the lower town was silent and seemed to be deserted.
Lena was about to pass another open door when she saw something curious: the hatch to the crypt in the centre of the floor was slightly ajar. She approached it uneasily, a stab of fear twisting in her gut.
She crouched by the trapdoor, smelt the familiar odour of her old life: dust, mould, stuffy air. But in the faint light falling through the gap, she glimpsed something … something else. A cold sweat prickled the back of her neck.
She reached out, pushed the door slightly further ajar – and instantly staggered back, unable to breathe.
A desiccated hand lay on the top step – blackened, rotten flesh clinging to bone. It was attached to a black-clad arm leading down into darkness. She could see the vague shape of a head, turned away from her, and a long-robed body.
It was as if the person … the Ancestor … had been trying to escape.
She quickly replaced the hatch door, her breath coming in sharp gasps. She pushed a heavy wooden chair over the top, though it was pointless: every house in town had an identical trapdoor. If the dead wanted out, they’d find a way. Perhaps they already had.
I have to find Constance, she thought, backing slowly away from the trapdoor and stumbling into a run. Emris was right: I have to make this stop.
The crowd around the castle’s gates was hundreds strong, faces twisted, mouths contorted and shouting. Some carried weapons – beaten-up longswords or workmanlike daggers, and a handful of spears. Others made do with whatever had come to hand – kitchen knives, spades and scythes. Their fear and rage were palpable living things buzzing in Lena’s ears.
She struggled towards the gates, but kept losing her bearings – though small enough to slip through the gaps, she wasn’t tall enough to see the route ahead. She recognised a few faces here and there – the relations of the dead she’d tended to over the years, no doubt. For a split second she reached for her cowl, immediately realising that it wasn’t there, that she didn’t need it any more. She wasn’t a cryptling now. No one spared Lena a glance anyway, despite her birthmark: their eyes were too keenly focused on the castle, looming above, wreathed in fog. A few children clutched at their parents or grandparents, crying, not understanding what was happening.
Somewhere, the hounds were yowling, their voices like lost souls drifting into the sky. The sound was a chilling re
minder of those who had been condemned to death by the Justice.
The crowd cried wordlessly in return, surging towards the wrought-iron portcullis. It held firm, for now, under the assault of hands and shoulders and rusty old metal, and the guards were firing arrows at those brave enough to fling themselves against its bulk. But as she worked her way forward, Lena spied a large tree trunk – a makeshift battering ram – passed by the strongest among the crowd at the back towards the gate. The assault on the castle was barely starting – the people were determined to fight their way inside. Someone threw a bottle; the glass smashed against the walls.
A chant started up towards the rear: ‘Justice! Justice! Justice! Justice!’
Lena followed the eyes of the chanters, and thought she could see the Justice on the battlements as the storm cloud momentarily cleared, distinguishable by the gleaming buttons on his military coat, the gold epaulets. He was a lone figure off to one side, gazing out over the tumult like the captain of a sinking ship over a stormy sea. A silver glove – a gauntlet, perhaps – caught the light as he raised his arm to command another attack of arrows. Lena felt a surge of hatred so strong that bile rose in her throat. This man killed Vigo, and he nearly killed me … but I’m not here for him. Not yet anyway. She swallowed, and continued to slide forward through the crowd.
At last, Lena shouldered through a gap at the front – she was close now, up against the portcullis, but a way inside was as elusive as it had been at the back. Green-cloaked guards with drawn swords blocked the narrow staircase leading into the gatehouse beside the portcullis – and more were stationed on the battlements above, bows trained on the crowd. The walls were slick with storm vapour and impossibly tall.
The Justice raised his hand, which glinted in the half-light, and let out a bellowed command. As she watched, an arrow was loosed. She followed its trajectory – it fell dangerously nearby. A dull thud of iron into flesh – a woman’s scream. The metallic stench of blood filled Lena’s nose.
The crowd roared and heaved in panic as a volley of arrows whistled overhead – but instead of driving them back, the townsfolk surged forward. An elbow rammed into Lena’s back, knocking her on to her hands and knees right under the feet of a guard. The guard pointed his sword at her throat – he was standing in the small doorway in the shadows of the gatehouse.
But although he drew his blade back, the blow never came. He didn’t kill her. Thank the Ancestors, he didn’t.
She stared up at his peaked helmet, his young pale face. His mouth opened and shut – his eyes widened in recognition.
‘Wait …’ He grabbed her arm, pulled her up and towards him. No one in the crowd appeared to notice how she’d vanished into the structure of the castle’s walls.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ barked his older comrade from further up the spiral staircase. His dark green cloak was edged in black, his helmet taller.
‘This is the cryptling mage who escaped the hounds last week,’ said the young man grasping Lena’s arm. ‘I’d recognise that face anywhere – the Justice has had us tearing the city apart searching for her. Shall I take her to the dungeons, sir?’
Lena’s heart raced in excitement. Constance was in the dungeons. If they imprisoned her there, they might be delivering her to the very place she wanted to go.
The older guard narrowed his eyes at her, lip curled in disgust, and shook his head curtly. ‘No, best report to the Justice. He’ll be glad of some good news. But come back quick – we need every man we can get.’
Lena found herself bustled through to the courtyard, her blood racing with adrenalin. All right, they were taking her to the Justice … but maybe that wasn’t so bad. She felt a sudden thrill as she realised she had a kind of power over him. Training. Knowledge. And he didn’t know it – he’d be expecting a defenceless cryptling who’d been hiding in the city. If she could defeat the Justice, finding and releasing Constance should then be easy: the castle would be facing a rebellion without a leader. Who would be watching her?
Can I really do it?
Something about being back in Duke’s Forest made her wish for the safety of her cowl, of her small cell, the darkness beneath the city and the quiet dead. But the dead weren’t quiet any more, and she couldn’t be a coward. She clenched her fists tightly in preparation for the fight.
The storm cloud was thinner up here. Thick patches roamed the four towers, but in between, swathes of lighter mist danced with shadows. On the other side of the courtyard somewhere, Lena could hear the hounds howling in their kennels. The castle looked deserted but for the guards racing around the battlements above: the windows were shuttered, doors firmly bolted. But amid the quiet, Lena noticed disturbing signs: piles of dust scattered at the edges of the courtyard, the smell of rot and bitter herbs stifling her throat – a smell she had grown up with, but not out here, not in the daylight. Rusty swords and armour lay abandoned and a naked skull peered up from a gutter, leering. The dead had risen here too, and it appeared they had been in a fighting mood. She spotted movement at an upstairs window, the twitch of a heavy curtain. The rich folk had barricaded themselves inside, afraid.
They had rounded the north tower, but now the guard hesitated at the bottom of the steps up to the battlements. A figure was standing very still a few feet away, shrouded in the gloom.
‘Hey, who’s there?’ the guard called. Real terror showed on his face, but he drew his sword and grabbed Lena’s hand, pulling her behind him. As the cloud passed, the figure disappeared. The guard let go of her quickly, his eyes darting to her birthmark. ‘Come on,’ he said.
He led her up the stairs, but Lena knew someone was out there in the darkness. Watching. And she swore she had felt a small tug in the space below her heart. Was the spell trying to tell her something? She rested her hand on her ribs and looked back, but the figure was long gone.
The Justice was standing on the battlements, off to one side of the riot below. He had a good view but was protected against the rage of the people, able to direct the squalls of arrow fire from a position of safety. He stood alone, a drift of storm cloud at his feet, flickering green, and Lena fancied it was marking him out as an enemy. As she stepped up the final stair, the wind blustered with an unexpected force, and magic tugged at her from within. The feeling was like a strange kind of homecoming – bittersweet, sad, joyful. She shut her eyes, feeling the movement of the huge storm all around her and the little storm’s heart inside her own. It wasn’t under her control, and yet …
The guard pulled Lena closer, careful not to touch her skin.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we’ve found the cryptling. She was among the rioters.’
The Justice turned, and Lena found herself pinned by his steely blue gaze. The heat of her hatred felt so intense she was surprised he didn’t burst into flames. This man had condemned her – and worse, he had condemned Vigo, who was innocent and had tried to protect her. He had left the old man’s bones to the dogs, the ultimate insult, so Vigo would never join the Ancestors he had revered in life.
A silver gauntlet on the Justice’s hand glinted as he clenched his fist. She wondered why he didn’t wear a second. His other hand was black-gloved.
‘At last, some good news,’ he growled, his voice barely audible over the roar of the angry crowd. ‘I see no reason to delay execution. Fetch the houndmaster and tell him to bring his hungriest dogs. The hounds shall feast today,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ the guard replied, and turned – but as he did, Lena caught sight of a movement down the staircase. A purple spark shot through the spinning cloud and suddenly the guard stopped short, clutching his chest.
The young guard started to fall, toppling over the edge of the battlements into the courtyard with a nasty crunch that turned her stomach inside out.
A figure climbed the stairs, and Lena started at the sight of the brass mask she remembered vividly from the night of her escape. Instead of a rich purple gown, the masked lady now wore plain, functional hunting c
lothes, and her hair was loose and wild out of its tight, high bun.
She raised her cane and shot an attack at the Justice, a purple flash illuminating the storm cloud like another kind of lightning.
TWENTY-TWO
Stolen Magic
Lena shrank to one side, her face pale. Constance’s first shot had found its target, but the Justice appeared unaffected. He raised his hand and the gauntlet spat red magic – a flurry of sparks showering the battlements.
Lena stared at him. ‘You’re … a mage?’
He grinned humourlessly and Constance frowned, attacked a second time – but her magic seemed to be attracted to the gauntlet, which absorbed it with a flicker.
‘I’m not a mage,’ the Justice said, answering Lena’s question. ‘But with my little … device, I might as well be. It steals magic, you see. Not just the mage to whom the second gauntlet is connected – any mage’s power.’
‘But you kill mages!’ Lena shouted, her face pale and pinched.
He raised the gauntlet. A powerful slam of red power emanated from the palm – no subtlety or skill, simply an expression of pure force. Constance ducked, feeling the deadly heat of the magic as it passed over her head.
She kept her voice calm. ‘The girl has a point. I thought you hated magic, Lord Justice,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this a little hypocritical?’
He smiled. ‘Didn’t I tell you before? To conquer what you fear, you must become it.’
Constance flicked the wheel on her mask, revealing the spell-scape. Now she saw how the gauntlet was connected to a scarlet thread, which disappeared into the storm, heading, she guessed, to Dr Thorn, where he tended to Xander in the south tower. I knew I should have let him die, she thought.