The Magic Council (The Herezoth Trilogy)

by Grefer, Victoria

  “In fact, if you’ll pardon the discourtesy, I should like to return to them. If you require anything, August, anything at all, you will inform me?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  August rose to her feet and gave an awkward curtsy. The queen inclined her head and swept from the room.

  “August,” said the king, when the two found themselves alone, “if I may ask, would you have any idea where Arbora and Dorane took your sister?”

  “I don’t. I honestly don’t, if not to one of their houses, and that would be foolish at this point, wouldn’t it? Their homes are the first place you’d look for them. And I, I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I’m awfully sorry, but I’m not comfortable speculating. I don’t support the kidnappers, but the boys are safe now, and I don’t know if I could live with myself if I helped to kill my sister. She is my sister, in spite of everything, and that counts for something, surely it must? I understand that actions have their consequences, that Ursa deserves punishment, but please, don’t ask me to send her to the hangman!”

  The king considered her request. Lines of guilt tinged his tense expression. “I won’t ask that of you.”

  “Thank you. Oh, thank you, Your Majesty!”

  “Forget I asked you anything. Rest for the moment, no? You’ve had a horrid day.”

  August sank into her curtsy with jerky, ungraceful motions, and the king left. She reclined on the mattress when he had gone, amazed at its softness, and shut her eyes, wondering: What would she have done, if the king had insisted she help hunt Ursa? Whom would she have betrayed, her blood, by speaking, or her kingdom by keeping silent? How dreadful, how simply dreadful, to make that choice!

  But he didn’t make me choose. Thank the Giver, he didn’t make me. He withdrew the question, and I don’t think he’ll ask again. I’m sure he won’t. He seemed to understand. He had a brother himself, didn’t he? The brother who should have been king. Little Hune’s named after him, or after Rexson’s father. They had the same name. Maybe he’s named after both.

  He’s my favorite, I think. They’re all dolls, but Hune’s my favorite.

  * * *

  While August consulted with the king and queen, Bendelof was walking Podrar’s streets with Gratton, who insisted she have an escort when she expressed a desire to see the city. Before her return to the capital as Rexson’s spy, she had not ambled down its roads in fourteen years.

  Those roads were still wider than Yangerton’s, and less crowded, excepting three or four major market streets that Bendelof avoided. The buildings were not tall, but they looked cleaner, and in better condition, than she remembered. There were more of them than in years past.

  Podrar had a homey atmosphere. Where Yangerton delighted in its urbanity, its grunginess, its hustle and throngs, Podrar attempted to maintain the better aspects of village life. The people were calmer than in Yangerton, and kinder, if arrogant. Life was slower paced. Instead of finding a guild’s clothing shop, for instance, with numerous weavers and seamstresses working as a unit and training apprentices, you were far more likely to run across a cloth merchant on the street corner who would haggle with you, but not too forcefully, before you took your purchase to a tailor who almost certainly worked alone, likely out of a small, cluttered workshop that was really a room of his house. He would welcome you like a long-lost relative, with a shade of curiosity as to where in the dickens you had been up to now.

  “So why exactly is it you’re leaving Yangerton?” Gratton asked, pulling Bennie from her mental comparisons.

  “Arbora and Dorane saw my face through the window. They’ll know Gretta Yastly was Rexson’s plant. That might not seem like much, but I’m sure they’ve studied Rexson’s history, the both of them. Back during the Crimson League my name was on wanted posters, so I’m a known associate of his: known to that pair, you can believe it. Who would Rexson turn to when his boys disappeared? People he could trust. And who could he trust, needing secrecy? The old crew. I’m the old crew. They saw me, they’ll suspect I’m Bendelof Esper, and if they or someone else in the Fist decides to come after me, Yangerton’s where they’ll trace me, so I’d rather just go somewhere else. It’s all the same, really. I never married. I have no real ties to anywhere. I have friends in Yangerton, but I’ve left friends before.”

  “Where are you thinking of going?”

  “Fontferry, maybe. Up north. I liked Fontferry.”

  Gratton shook his head. “You can’t be anonymous in a blasted tiny village.”

  “There’ll be work in Fontferry, I know that for sure. A woman who works with me just went up there to visit her grandma, and she said….”

  “There’s work here too. In Podrar. If you’re looking to lose yourself in the masses and Yangerton’s not an option, well.…”

  “Maybe,” said Bendelof.

  “Blast it! Who do you know in Fontferry, woman? You have Hayden here, the Peasant-Duke himself. He’s not a bad sort. And you have me. Rexson’s told me about you, and I think your story’s fascinating. After everything you did for that man, to never have asked a thing of him in return, not even a bronze piece…. He told me, too, that you took it on yourself to go to Traigland with Kora Porteg, to make things easier for her. Listen, I’d help you get settled here, which means you’d have an easier time of it in Podrar than in Fontferry. Fontferry! Blast Fontferry, it’s time you did something for yourself. For God’s sake, let someone help you for once. You don’t need to go traipsing off among complete strangers.”

  Bennie drew in a sharp breath. Then she began to tremble. She had been lost in her own thoughts, and then Gratton’s words; she had not realized her feet, even after so many years, were guiding her all the while down the route in Podrar most familiar to them, the route that led to the lot of a vanished cabin in one of the city’s poorer zones. A woman Bendelof grew up with, a fellow member of the Crimson League, had dubbed the cabin “the Landfill.” The League had used it as a hideout.

  The Landfill had burned to the ground over a decade ago, and nothing had been built in its place. A building-sized hole still existed where the basement once had been. Ironically, even painfully so, people had thrown refuse in it: liquor bottles, apple cores, all sorts of things. Bendelof shut her eyes and said a quick prayer for the soul of Sedder Foden, a Leaguesman who had died here. For a man named Wilhem Horn, one of Rexson’s spies, who had breathed his last on this spot as well.

  Gratton put an arm around her. Bennie hardly knew the man, but she was grateful for his solidarity, for human contact, and felt no urge to shy away.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Memories,” she whispered. “Ghosts. I know this place.”

  “From the Crimson League?”

  “I thought I’d put those days behind me, but I’m starting to think I was merely outrunning them, leaving them a step behind. They’re catching up to me. The ghosts, the ones we lost, they chased me here. I didn’t realize they were chasing me.”

  Gratton turned her around and led her away, still holding her tight.

  “I was young,” she explained. “Officially of age, but what does that matter? Some people at sixteen are strong, I guess. They’re physically strong, emotionally strong, but others are still innocent, and I was too young, too young for all those deaths I witnessed. Too young to be fighting for my life.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “Zalski let me live much longer than he should have.”

  “Well, that’s one mistake I’m glad he made. A mistake the king’s sons are lucky as hell he made.”

  “Thank you,” said Bennie. “For coming out here with me.”

  “So will you move to Podrar, or won’t you?”

  There was an earnestness, an unselfishness about his eyes that she had not expected. His features, too, had softened a bit; he honestly believed that finding a job in the capital was best for her. Maybe he was right.

  “I’ll move to Podrar,” she consented.

  * * *

  Zacr
y and Hayden were the only members of the rescue party who had not yet changed clothes. The dew had dried from their shirts, but Zacry’s was singed and streaked with mud, while Hayden’s had numerous grass stains. Dirt smudged one of Hayden’s cheeks and would not rub off. So as not to soil the furniture, they had pulled back the rug and sat on the stone floor in Zacry’s room; Hayden was massaging a cramp in his calf, his fair head lowered. He lifted it to say, “I almost forgot how much I don’t miss this. I really don’t miss this.”

  “You miss the people,” said Zacry.

  “I do miss the people. That Vane, is he really Laskenay’s son?”

  “Born months before Zalski’s coup.”

  “I never knew about him. She had no reason to tell me.” Hayden paused. “He looks nothing like her. He has Laskenay’s cool thought in battle, though. That woman was like ice when she had to be. That was Laskenay’s strength, one she shared with her brother. Your sister never could be cold that way. I don’t know she had the heart to even try. That was Kora’s strength. I’ve always thought it was Kora’s warmth that turned Zalski’s general against him. We sent her to meet with Argint toward the end, out of desperation….”

  “She’s told me,” Zacry said.

  “Well, there was something in her face when she got back: a mute outpouring of her soul. I felt it burn me, I swear. If the general saw what I saw, or anything close to it, I’m positive that’s what turned him. Not just then, not immediately, but when all was said and done…. He denied it to his death, old Argint. Said Kora had nothing to do with him killing Zalski. I discussed it with him numerous times in private, and never once believed him.”

  Hayden shook his head, his thoughts far away from the present moment. “You’re right, Zac, I miss the people. My God, I miss the people, some days more than others. You remember Bidd? My cousin?”

  “Of course I remember Bidd. He grumbled worse than anyone when Kora had me use you for target practice.” The first spells Zacry had ever cast, he had done so against Bidd, Hayden, and their friend Hal.

  “I’m getting married,” Hayden said, “in December. Her name’s Tara. Damn if Bidd wasn’t supposed to witness the vows: officially witness, by his signature. It was all he knew how to write, was his name. We had an agreement from the age of seven. I’d be his witness, and he’d be mine.” Hayden shook his head, then changed the subject. Bidd and Hal were both long dead. “How’s your sister?”

  “Wishing she were here right now, if I know her at all.”

  “She should be here. She doesn’t belong in that place. Her husband’s not a Traigland national, is he? There’s no way he is.”

  “Parker’s from Yangerton.”

  “I knew it! If Rexson could have had more time to think of a way to save her…. He had none to work with, that was the problem. He could exile her or let them kill her then and there. That mob, I swear to you….”

  “Kora told me everything, Hayden. Well, just about everything.” Zacry had been trying not to picture his sister admitting to Zalski she had invaded his mind on a regular basis. The thought made the young man feel twelve again, wracked with guilt to know her confession had been to protect him. His stomach flipped. Hayden kept right on.

  “To be exiled like that…. She belongs here, Zac. You too. You should come back, or stay, since you’re here now. You weren’t banished.”

  “My wife would move here if I asked her. She’d like Herezoth, always wanted to see it. I’d come back in a heartbeat myself. The thing is, Kora can’t come back, and I’d be an ungrateful cad to leave her alone over there. She’s working on a book, has been for years. Besides her family, that’s all she’s got. She and I talk every day. I couldn’t take that away from her, not after what she’s been through. Besides, I want my daughter to know her aunt. I won’t rob Viola of that.”

  “I get it,” said Hayden, “I do. Bidd and I were like brothers. If it was him in Kora’s place, I wouldn’t leave either. But hey, you were at Wheatfield with us, weren’t you? At the barn.”

  “For a while I was.”

  “How bad was my cooking? When I had to cook? No one ever complained to my face about it. I’ve never cooked for my fiancée, you see, and I want to give it a go, but I mentioned the idea to Bennie, and she told me to try something else. Said my talents were elsewhere.”

  “Honestly,” said Zacry, “your cooking’s one of the things I remember most about Wheatfield.”

  “So it was all right?”

  “It was awful. If you haven’t learned to cook since, I’m with Bennie. You’ll scare the girl off, or you’ll choke her. She’ll choke on the first bite. The first bite was always the worst, and if she doesn’t know what’s coming….”

  Zacry grinned to imagine the scene, complete with a slender, busty woman in a house frock who looked horrified as she spit a mouthful of stew into Hayden’s face. Hayden, for his part, feigned insult. The sparkle in his dark eyes was too strong to be convincing. “Listen, it’s not like we had a proper kitchen. Or cooking tools. Or spices.”

  “Everyone else made it work,” insisted Zacry. “You’re no chef, not even close.”

  Lacking both menace and conviction, Hayden said, “Go to hell.”

  “You don’t want that. I broil the best chicken you’ll ever eat. If I’m in hell, I can’t broil you one and let you take the credit.”

  “First of all,” said Hayden, “I seriously doubt your chicken’s that good. Even if it was, Tara’d want me to cook it on a regular basis. The secret wouldn’t last. But thanks.”

  Hayden kneaded his calf some more, then stretched out his cramped leg with a low groan. “You all right?” Zacry asked.

  “Good enough to go wash up. I can’t leave the Palace looking like this. I’m a duke now. Kind of funny, isn’t it?”

  “I thought that was more of an honorary thing?”

  “In a way. But I do represent Crescenton at court, and I take that seriously. Rexson didn’t make up some title for me. He gave me the duchy his best friend should have governed. Neslan left no siblings, you see. His mother outlived him, and her sister had three daughters. Gracia’s the oldest of them.”

  “I’d heard she was Neslan’s cousin.” Neslan Dormenor, the Crimson League’s scholar.

  “On his mother’s side, yes. When Rexson took the throne, Neslan’s father was dead with no living blood relatives. The old duke’s widow, as duchess, fulfilled his duties at court but when she died, his duchy reverted to the crown. I ended up with Neslan’s title, and I try to do it justice.”

  Zacry said, “He’d appreciate that.”

  “You remember Neslan well?”

  “I remember books. I never saw him without a book.”

  “Neither me,” said Hayden. “You know, it’s funny, but the son Rexson named after him’s most definitely the bookish one.”

  With that Hayden rose to his feet, bending back to rub his calf one last time. He told Zacry goodbye and headed to a washroom.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Diary

  Dorane’s tone was deadpan. “He won’t be letting us live now,” he said.

  Arbora replied, “The king? I imagine not. We have nothing to bargain.”

  The officers of the Enchanted Fist had gathered around Arbora’s kitchen table. The room was small and cramped; the only luxury Arbora allowed herself was a sanded and stained wood floor. Dirty dishes filled the washbasin.

  The three magicians would be safe here long enough to decide where to go next. The king would not begin the hunt for them just yet; he would see his sons settled in the Palace first. Ursa leaned over the tabletop, holding a wet rag to the knot on the back of her head where she had hit her basement wall, and harrumphed with oomph.

  Ignoring Ursa, the sorcerer asked, “That woman with the red hair, who was that? She looked like Gretta Yastly.”

  Arbora told him, “We knew her as such. Her real name’s Bendelof Esper. I’m sure it is, from the Crimson League. I spoke with her just yesterday.”

&
nbsp; “Gretta’s a brunette.”

  “It’s called a wig, Dorane. I should have recognized her. I should have realized…. One of the king’s old companions, you see? I never thought he’d find our headquarters, that’s the trouble. It never struck me he might….”

  Expressionless, Ursa said, “The king sent her to spy, fantastic. Even better, like Dorane said before, he’ll be determined to kill us now he’s got his boys. He’ll kill us, an’ we won’t even have no council to show for it. Maybe we should just run. Leave Herezoth.”

  Dorane’s face looked tortured. Incredulous, like it had all afternoon. He lamented, “We would have ended it in days with terms Rexson could have lived with, terms we all could live with. No one had discussed my imprisonment. He would have had his sons, and us our council. Why couldn’t he wait? Why couldn’t he just have waited? And who, who was that kid? The sorcerer?”

  “Judging by his age and the fact he knows the king, he’d have to be Zalski’s long lost nephew.” Arbora, in her fascination with the sorcerer-dictator, had researched Zalski’s roots years ago. She’d discovered his sister had given birth to a child, only one, who for all intents and purposes had vanished before his first birthday. “I always assumed he died as an infant.”

  “And the other?” asked Dorane.

  “There was two of ‘em?” said Ursa. She lifted her head.

  “Where did Rexson find the other?” Dorane pressed.

  “Traigland,” said Arbora. “Traigland, where else?”

  “Traigland?” said Dorane. He clutched the end of the table with both hands, with white knuckles. “Was that Zacry Porteg?”

  Arbora laughed, a hysterical laugh. “Who else could it have been? Why wouldn’t that man help the king? Why wouldn’t the king turn to him after what he did to Zacry’s sister? His blasted sister? He only banished her under penalty of death. That’s trifling, apparently. It’s perfectly logical, perfectly, don’t you understand?”