The Magic Council (The Herezoth Trilogy)

by Grefer, Victoria

  Dorane threw a linen dress across the room. Drea gave no reaction, continued to defend her post as her husband demanded, “How am I supposed to respond to that?”

  “Tell me whether I go to my sister or go elsewhere.”

  The sorcerer snarled, “Go to Yangerton. Go, and hang yourself when you get there. You know I wouldn’t make you flee with nothing. Hang yourself and tell your sister to keep the boy’s mark hidden after you’re gone, won’t you? It’s on his lower back, so that should be easy enough for her. There could be trouble brewing.”

  Drea leaned against the door in alarm. Finally, he had evoked some display of unease from her. “What’s happening? What have you been up to? The Fist, what…?”

  “I’ll keep my distance, all right? If that’s what you bleeding well want, that’s what you’ll get. Go to Yangerton and keep Zate’s powers secret.”

  With that Dorane stormed out the cabin, leaving the front door open. Behind his back he heard Drea lock him out—a powerful if merely symbolic gesture—and rather than transport away, the sorcerer turned invisible in case his wife should peer out the curtainless windows. Only then did he realize he should have come here as soon as he’d lost the princes. Without Rexson’s sons in his possession to ensure restraint, the king could have sent guards here, or even Zacry Porteg, hours ago. Dorane had not considered that as he should; his thoughts had not run to his family, but to himself and the next tactic to ensure he got that council. Drea had spoken true. His priorities were not with her.

  She was through with him, all right. Dorane knew she meant to stay in Yangerton, mainly because she had only that day learned of his leave from work. A full month, and she hadn’t once taken a picnic lunch to the mill to eat with him like she used to do three times a week, sometimes four if the weather allowed. On top of that, she had learned how he’d spent that month, days as well as evenings, with the Fist, which was an indirect way of saying with Ursa. Drea hated Ursa, was insanely jealous of the woman for no reason at all, even after Dorane swore up and down there was nothing between them and never would be. Which was the truth.

  Drea hadn’t mentioned Ursa that night. That was another sign she had given up on Dorane. If she hoped for a future with him, Drea would have raged about the magicked woman, would have gotten everything in the open in order to move past it.

  Dorane had not expected to find his wife resolved to leave him, but then, he had only seen the woman twice in the last six weeks. Neither encounter had gone well, which should have served him as a warning. He’d mentioned business with the Fist that would take him to Yangerton each night for the foreseeable future; he’d explained that things were hectic with the group, and he could not sleep at home but would have to stay at headquarters for a while (a bold-faced lie). He’d forgotten their picnic lunches at the mill, forgotten to tell Drea not to go out to meet him, but in the end hadn’t needed to broach the topic. After cursing Ursa and magic, yelling about caring for Zate by her lonesome, and finally telling Dorane to do whatever he wanted—after all that, to bring her son and some sandwiches to her husband’s place of work was the last thing on her mind.

  To think of Zate was far more painful than of Drea. Dorane could only tell himself that at this point, both his son and his wife were better off without him. They were safer without him, if nothing else, provided they left home. Dorane hoped the king might grant the council and let August go—the girl would be in no danger if he granted the Fist’s council—but there was no guarantee the man would bend, for Rexson had proved obstinate in the past. Come time for Arbora to leak rumors of his telekinesis, well….

  The news would cause protests, panic, and violence. Dorane’s family should be somewhere no one could associate Zate with magic, somewhere like Yangerton, where no one but Drea’s immediate family knew she had married one sorcerer here in Podrar and given birth to another. Dorane could offer to transport Drea and the tot, but he knew she would refuse, and he still deemed it better for himself not to see his son. So he leaned against the logs of the cabin’s front wall, determined to keep vigil until Reeta’s carriage came up the dirt road. Drea wouldn’t know, she mustn’t know, but he figured one night’s watch was the least he owed her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Next Move

  The next morning, after breakfast, Vane and August went to the Palace library. The room was an impressive one, not wide but three stories tall. A staircase and series of platforms around the perimeter gave access to the shelves, shelves that covered every inch of every wall not occupied by a window or the fireplace. August had borrowed a servant’s frock, one that fit her well, and so felt more at ease than she had in the queen’s gown, though her brain still went fuzzy when she looked at the portraits of the king’s forebears in the halls and marked the swagger of the men’s expressions, the women’s haughty elegance. Vane had just recounted his dilemma about binding his powers. August had to admit:

  “I don’t know what you should do. To be a duke and a sorcerer at the same time…. I understand why you feel torn, but I haven’t the foggiest idea if it’s best for you to take your own powers away. Maybe things will clear up if you imagine someone else in your position, someone you respect.”

  Vane’s mind hit upon Zacry. “Do you have someone?” she asked. Vane nodded. “Well, pretend that person, just the way you know them, was Zalski’s nephew instead of you. Would he have a duty of some kind to abandon sorcery?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Oh,” said August. She screwed her face in confusion. “That was mighty quick, and a strong response. Are you sure you’re as torn you think?”

  “Maybe I’m not,” said Vane. No doubt remained in his mind. To view the problem from August’s suggested vantage point had shown him he imagined any responsibility to give up magic.

  “It took me forever to fall asleep last night,” said August. “I kept thinking about you and your uncle. Do you ever wonder what would have happened to you if he’d survived? I mean, do you think you might have ended up his right-hand man or something?”

  “I try not to consider that. It hasn’t done me any good, and it’s really just empty speculation.” He paused. “Is that why you thought I was a spy? Because of my uncle?”

  “The king told you about that?” August pulled on her curls. “Vane, that wasn’t the reason, not at all. Your uncle had nothing to do with it. The king warned me the spy might be friendly, that he might want me to confide in him, and I realized what a great deal I’d already told you because you were so kind after, well, after knocking me on the head.”

  Vane had knocked no one on the head. He had tripped her and she’d hit her face on the stairs, but he saw nothing to gain from voicing the distinction.

  “It had nothing to do with Zalski,” August insisted. “It really didn’t.”

  The sorcerer relaxed his tense expression. He was astounded how relieved he felt by the girl reinforcing her denial; he remembered Francie running away, dripping wet, from the riverbank after seeing his mark.

  This girl’s different. She’s telling the truth. She doesn’t hold my birth against me. She resents that I tripped her, though. How could I have been so dumb as to think she was Ursa?

  “You did right to suspect me,” he said. “You should be wary of strangers around here. Not paranoid, there’s no reason for that, but honestly, we don’t know who told your sister where the boys would be.”

  “I didn’t want it to be you. I was a bit, a bit shaken when it struck me that it could have been.” Her voice grew quiet, like on the day before. “You know, I wonder sometimes how I’d have turned out, if my father had raised me. Whether I’d be like Ursa, or whether her magic would have made me bitter. Things like that are strange to contemplate, aren’t they?”

  “So don’t bother with them.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it a lot since Ursa stole those boys away. That’s what troubled me about you and your uncle. It reminded me of myself. It’s more or less the same, isn’t it? T
he nightmares that could have been.”

  Vane agreed it was the same.

  “Vane,” said August. “Vane…. It’s an odd name, isn’t it? I don’t know that it suits you. It makes me think of a weathervane spinning any which way with a gust of wind. Like you let people bully you. I’ve always loved names,” she explained. “I like to think they reveal something about people. My name doesn’t fit me either. August’s the hottest month, when the sun’s overbearing, but I’m not. At least, I like to think I’m not.”

  Vane admitted, “My parents named me Valkin.”

  August’s eyes grew wide. “Did they? That’s a good name, a strong name. Much stronger than Vane is. Does anyone call you Valkin? Would you mind if I did? Not Valkin perhaps—that’ll always be the king’s son— but Val, maybe?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” said Vane. It seemed appropriate to have at least one person call him by his father’s name, after what he had read in Laskenay’s journal. “And your name has a second meaning, did you know that? It means majestic.”

  August thought of herself clad in the queen’s gown, feeling drowned by mounds of fabric. “That doesn’t match me either.”

  “You could learn to be august,” Vane told her.

  “How? I don’t know who August is.” Before Vane could respond, the oak-paneled doors of the library flew open, and the princes barged in. August smiled, a strained smile.

  Neslan told her, “We have an hour before lessons.”

  “You never finished that story about Sir Brogle,” said Valkin.

  “Could you finish it now?” asked Hune.

  August told him, “Of course I can,” and motioned for Hune to climb up next to her. Vane started to rise, but Neslan told him to stay.

  Valkin looked put out. “We’re halfway through the story. What if he doesn’t know it?”

  Hune said, “August can start from the beginning again and finish up tomorrow. Or the day after. And after that,” he looked up at the girl, “could you read us more about Adage? We have that book around somewhere.”

  August patted his shoulder. “Most definitely,” she agreed. It would be nice, for an hour a day, not to worry about spies, or when she might be able to leave the Palace, or where she would go when that time came. She had started telling stories to bring comfort to the boys, and now, with no idea of it, the boys would comfort her through listening.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Bendelof and Zacry were talking outside the guest stables, waiting while a teenager saddled two horses for them. They planned to go for a morning ride before meeting with Rexson to discuss the king’s next move: like in the old games of strategy Zacry had read about, rarely played nowadays, where two men each hoped to capture an opponent’s tokens while defending his own. Players alternated turns and, each round, moved one of various pieces usually carved from wood.

  Such a game was the analogy that kept coming to Zacry’s mind—a battle of wits between Dorane’s supporters and the king’s—though the comparison had its flaws. There was no patient waiting for the opponent to slide a piece, and no rules of engagement existed but those each enforced upon himself. Zacry thrived on the distinction. He had always been a restless soul, so the freedom to act whenever he should choose suited his inclinations. Mostly, he wanted to nab the culprits and get back to his family. For now, Bennie’s company was a pleasant substitute, and he told her he would be glad to transport her to Yangerton later in the week, to pack her things.

  “What do you think of Gratton?” she asked. “He offered his help to get settled here. I think I’ll take it.”

  Zacry’s response was immediate. “Let him help you move, that’s fine. As for any connection beyond that, you can do better.”

  Bennie blinked. “He’s rough around the edges. So what? So was Ranler, but it never stopped him being kind to me. You know how much he taught me. He meant more to me than all the rest. Oh, not in a romantic sense. I would never have married him, but that’s because his value system never quite meshed with mine, not because he was gruff. Bluster doesn’t bother me. What I can’t handle is a…. I guess you could call it coldness. A calculated control of what you feel. Zalski had that.”

  “Look, Bennie, I don’t like Gratton. He’s got a military mind, and the way he uses it irks me. I trust him well enough. And he’s wise to suggest you move to Podrar. I just don’t like the man, which has nothing to do with you and him. If you want to give him a shot, give him a shot. If he hurts you, put the details in the next letter you write Kora and he’ll have me to deal with.”

  “You think he’d break my heart, then? Or beat me? Which one?”

  “Neither. Like I said, I trust him. But if he does a thing to you, you let me know.”

  “If you trust him, why do you insist…? What’s that?”

  “Where?”

  “On the window.”

  Something flat and rectangular was just visible where it stuck out beyond the sill. Zacry went up to it; it was a letter, fixed against the wind with one of the larger pebbles from the cobblestone path a few yards away. The missive, the note—whatever it was—was sealed and addressed to the king, but Zacry slit it open and whispered it aloud for Bendelof’s benefit, forgetting she had learned to read in the past few years. The script was uneven, untidy, but he had no trouble making sense of the symbols that composed it.

  To the king:

  I’m dismayed, heartfully dismayed, that you would think it appropriate to imprison family members of the magicked. You’ve become a tyrant—August Hincken won’t be safe in freedom, but nothing justifies holding her captive. Consider this an official request for her release. She has no business in the Palace, none at all, and I’ll accept no excuse or explanation for her presence there. You are not within your rights to enslave the girl. You fear social unrest? Then don’t force me to make everything that’s happened public knowledge. The magicked will rise as one against you for August’s sake, and the kingdom itself may revolt when it learns your secret, unless—you know my demands. You have one week to let the girl go and to publicly declare your intentions.

  -Arbora Anders

  Bennie said, “Intentions for a council?”

  “Yes, for that council she wants.”

  Anger reddened Bennie’s cheeks. “How dare she accuse Rexson of kidnapping that girl? After what she let Dorane and Ursa do to his boys?”

  The sorcerer said, “Arbora knows what a hypocrite she is, she has to. Knows the king’s no danger to August. This is just a ploy. It’s the only way she could grab a position to bargain from, now she’s lost the children, and she jumped at it, probably feeling desperate. Unluckily for us, it just might be enough for her, if she’s prepared to keep her word. Come on.”

  Zacry grabbed Rexson’s spy by the arm, and they walked back to the Palace. They didn’t bother to take leave of the stable hand, who led out two saddled mares to find their riders gone just as Zacry and Bendelof found the king in the library. He had removed his outer robe and had a stack of papers, dealing with trade laws, set beside his armchair and looking like it might tumble any moment. He folded the document he was reading when the all too familiar incantation for a sound barrier reached his ears.

  “We’ll need to act on this,” Zacry told the king. He threw Arbora’s letter to Rexson. “They planted it at the stables.”

  “When?” asked Rexson. “How?”

  “How should I know?” said Zacry.

  Rexson began to read. Almost immediately, he lowered Arbora’s letter with a steady hand. “Bennie, get Gracia. And Gratton, on second thought.” He was oddly calm, overcome by a forced serenity. Zacry took down the sound barrier and Bennie darted off, leaving Rexson to ask the sorcerer, his tone as though they discussed the weather, “Can your wife and Kora take my children in between them? Two each? I wouldn’t want to force all four on one of them.”

  “Don’t split the boys up,” suggested Zacry. “Kora can take Melly. Heaven knows she can handle a little one. The boys can play with he
r kids during the day, or study with them, and sleep at my house. Kora’s place is already overflowing. Otherwise, she’d insist on keeping them too.”

  “I don’t want to impose, but if word should get out I have powers….”

  “Listen, your kids have been through enough. They don’t need some prejudiced lunatic coming after them because they inherited your magic. They’ll be safe in Traigland, which is all that matters, all right? What’ll we do here in Herezoth? That’s the question.”

  “We’ll find Arbora and her stooges within the week. We have to.”

  “And August?”

  The king had no answer, but the girl herself soon entered the library behind Vane, Gratton, Bennie, and the queen.

  “I figured August should be here,” Bennie said, a bit sheepishly. “The letter does concern her.”

  “And I decided to tag along,” Vane said, half-apologizing. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

  Zacry explained about the note. August turned pale as she listened and dropped in Rexson’s armchair, which he had left to join his wife and the others near the door.

  “What’ll I do?” asked August. “Should I stay or leave? I don’t want to cause trouble, I….”

  “This isn’t about you,” said Zacry. “Your sister’s using you to get what she wants, because she can, and it’s convenient. If you happened to be somewhere else she’d blackmail the king a different way, but her ends would be the same.”

  “Still, what’ll I do?”

  The king said, “Zacry’s taking my children to Triflag. I deem that best, Gracia.” He turned to the queen, who nodded, her lips thin. “August, why don’t you go with them?”

  “Triflag?” said August. “In Traigland? I suppose I could do that. The boys, they might get homesick. It would be good for me to be there with them.” She paused. “How long will the boys be there?”