Born of Magic

by H. D. Gordon

  “I’ll try this way first,” she said.

  The Warlock spread his hands. “Of course, my lady.”

  She spent the next thirty minutes attempting the spell, staring into the mixture of potions in the bowl, concentrating until sweat rolled down her neck, saying the incantations over and over again, until finally, she sat back and blew out a heavy breath. She brought her gloved hands up and rubbed her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut.

  Bassil raised an eyebrow. “No luck?”

  Surah opened her eyes and gave him an annoyed look.

  The Warlock smiled. “I see.”

  Just then, there was a knock at the door to her room. Silence fell over them as they stared at each other, unmoving. A second knock sounded, and Surah dragged her eyes over to the door. Samson had lifted his head from his paws, his ears swiveling and perking. Surah took a deep breath and flicked her wrist, opening the door with her magic.

  Theodine Gray stood there. Of course he did.

  His appearances were routine lately. And by the look on his face Surah could tell he did not have good news to share. Why would he? Things were on that kind of track lately, and she knew from experience that bad times had a way of proceeding worse, like sliding down a slope slicked with oil.

  Or blood.

  She felt the truth of the Warlock’s prediction in that moment, all the way down to her bones, as the Head Hunter delivered the word.

  Another Highborn woman was dead.

  Yes, darkness was indeed coming, rolling in like storm clouds.

  Chapter 10

  Surah

  Surah patted Samson’s head before entering the Grand Room, where she knew dozens of royals would be waiting. The tiger leaned into her touch, his amber eyes sympathetic.

  “Remember,” he told her silently, “don’t mention the Black Stone. Your father doesn’t want them to panic.” He paused. “I don’t want them to panic, either. It makes them smell like lunch.”

  Surah nodded once, gave her tiger a quick hug, and took a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and tilted up her chin, slipping on the royal posture and mask that she’d learned from her mother as a child.

  This was certain to be an unpleasant experience, but in her life she’d dealt with thousands of those, and her mother always said that composure was key. Surah agreed. She rolled her neck and went into the room, Samson at her heels.

  As soon as she entered, dozens of faces turned toward her and conversation stopped. The lords and ladies bowed to her, and Surah nodded to them, her heart twisting to see that many of them had tears streaked down their faces.

  Merin Nightborn’s family stood off to the side in a cluster, mother and father clutching each other, cloaks all black to represent their mourning.

  Everyone in the room was wearing black, actually, and for a moment Surah’s mind flashed back to the demons that had flown out of her father’s fireplace, with their shrieks of anger and agony and their dead, rotted faces.

  King Syrian sat at the head of the room on his throne, an enormous thing made of metal and polished wood the color of violet, where a similarly violet runner led up to his feet over the marble floor.

  Around him stood his two new personal guards, since his previous ones had died in the demon attack, which was another thing Surah was not supposed to mention. She walked gracefully up to her father’s side, taking the hands of those she passed and offering condolences to those who had lost someone in a sort of macabre mingle.

  Merin Nightborn’s mother had smeared mascara under her puffy red eyes, and her hands shook as she kissed the back of Surah’s. Surah pulled her into a hug and held her for a moment, earning a collective sigh from the room.

  This was why she was so loved in the kingdom, and she knew it. Not because she went around smiling and greeting her people, but because she actually cared when they were hurting, and she hurt with them. Maybe even more so than her father.

  And, now, they would turn to her not just for comfort, but also for answers and justice. Her respect for her lost brother grew in that moment. Being Keeper was not a pleasant job.

  When she reached the head of the room she turned and faced her people, bowing to her father as she stood beside his throne, waiting for him to start the dialogue, but someone in the crowd spoke first.

  It was Merin Nightborn’s father.

  “My Liege,” he said. “What is being done about my daughter?” His voice broke on that last word, and Surah’s chest tightened. She’d just lost her own brother last month, and she understood his heartache. She understood it too well.

  King Syrian spoke gently, his composure as solid as Surah’s, though she knew he didn’t like any of this just as much as she didn’t.

  “We are doing everything we can to bring light to the situation regarding Merin’s untimely death, Lord Nightborn,” he said. “And we will bring to justice those responsible.”

  Gregert Lancer spoke next, his voice as unsteady as Lord Nightborn’s. He was the father of Cynthian Lancer, the second Highborn lady who had been killed in the past two days.

  A death a day. No wonder the tension in the room was thick. If this kept up, if Surah couldn’t find a way to stop it, soon the whole kingdom would be crying out for answers and justice.

  In fact, Samson could smell the fear and anxiety on them already, but he didn’t tell his mistress this.

  Lord Lancer seemed to speak Surah’s thoughts. “My daughter makes the second murder in two days,” he said. “Something very serious is going on here, and we need answers.”

  Surah didn’t miss the fact that his eyes flicked to her as he said this. There were nods of approval and mumbles of agreement. She cleared her throat.

  “We offer our sincere condolences for your losses, my lords and ladies.” She looked to her father and put a hand on his shoulder. He reached up and covered her hand with his own. “We have all suffered too much death lately.” She looked back to the crowd, swallowing back just enough of her grief to keep the tears out of her eyes and still show her empathy. “And I intend to see the loss stop here.”

  “This is Black Heart’s work,” Lady Nightborn called out, swiping at the black smudges under her eyes. Her voice was clear and strong but laced with pain. Surah’s respect for the lady grew at this. Most Highborn ladies held their tongues in such meetings.

  “We all know he’s behind this,” Lady Nightborn continued, “and he has gone too far. He must be brought to justice.” Her small, gloved fists clenched at her sides.

  Now there were outright shouts of approval, and Samson swished his tail around him as he sat by Surah’s side. Surah placed her free hand on his back for comfort.

  She took another deep breath, her mind flashing back to an hour ago when she had seen Black Heart standing beside Charlie. When Charlie had escaped with him. When things had gone from not good to worse.

  Now, her people were calling for blood, and she couldn’t blame them. Hadn’t she gone off to kill the man who murdered Syris just a month ago against her father’s orders?

  No, she couldn’t blame them, but she still wasn’t sure whom to blame, and it was her job to find out.

  She was also not supposed to mention Charlie’s escape. As of right now, three people knew about Black Heart’s acquisition of his brother, and she wanted to keep it that way. She opened her mouth, not sure what to say, but knowing it was her turn to speak.

  “I will find him,” she said, her soft voice carrying sweetly and strongly through the room. “And if he is responsible for this, he will pay.”

  She could see by the looks on their faces that they were going to hold her to that.

  Chapter 11

  Surah

  “Surah, sweetheart, may I have a word with you?” King Syrian asked, after all the people had left the room.

  Theo gave a low bow and left, too, leaving her alone with her father and Samson, who spoke up in her head.

  “Run for it, love. I’ve got a feeling this isn’t a conversation you want to hav
e.”

  Surah ignored him, rather than snapping at him about how that was not in the least helpful.

  “Of course,” she told her father, taking a seat on the arm of his throne, smoothing her cloak out delicately beneath her.

  Syrian looked a little peaked, his cheeks slightly red and complexion very pale. She could tell he was thinking about her brother, one of those moments when the grief just seemed to slam into him harder. She was well acquainted with it. She took her glove off her right hand and touched her father’s forehead. He was a bit feverish. Her heart seemed to skip a beat.

  “It’s going to be all right, father,” she said, giving him a small smile, which he returned. “I’ll figure this out.”

  He took her hand and kissed it, looking up at his last remaining child with genuine love. “I know that, Surah. I know.” He coughed into his hand, a deep hack that shook in his chest.

  Surah’s brow creased, heart skipping once more.

  “You should lie down,” she said. “You don’t sound well.”

  Syrian waved a hand. “There is no time to rest now, dear. Too much to be done. There is a matter I want to discuss with you.”

  He coughed again, and Surah couldn’t say why, but her gut twisted at the sound of it. Syrian’s next words shocked her out of whatever she was going to say about it.

  “I want you to consider accepting Theodine Gray’s proposal for marriage.”

  Surah stood up involuntarily, the movement less graceful than was her custom, and paced over to Samson, who had a look on his face that said told you so. Surah resisted the urge to thump him on the head. Now her heart wasn’t skipping, but racing.

  For a moment she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  Then, she said, “Surely you don’t expect me to consider this while the Black Stone is missing and Highborn women are being murdered.” Her tone bordered accusatory, and when her father coughed again she felt bad for this, but it was better than voicing the Gods no! that was resounding in her head.

  Syrian removed a handkerchief from beneath his cloak and coughed into it. He saw there were spots of red on it when he removed it from his mouth at the same time Surah did. He tried to hide it from her sight, but she stepped forward quickly and snatched the white cloth from his hand. Her heart dropped as she looked down at the smattering of blood there.

  Her breath came short, her voice falling to just above a whisper. “What is this, father?” she asked, holding the handkerchief up for him to see. “What is ailing you?”

  Syrian eyed the cloth with distaste, and Surah could tell by his face that he had been keeping this from her. He seemed to be unable to find his words. Samson crept forward and sniffed at the blood on the cloth, his amber eyes were tender as they flicked to her.

  “I smell demon poison in his blood,” Samson told her. “He must have been scratched or bitten.”

  Even in her own head Surah’s voice sounded far away as she stared at her tiger. “Are you sure, Sam?”

  “Quite sure, love.”

  Surah’s heart clenched as she looked at her father. Her voice sounded robotic and far away to her own ears. “Where is it?” she asked.

  Syrian released a heavy sigh, as if he would really rather not show her, then pulled the collar of his cloak aside, exposing his shoulder. Four long, ugly scratches were raked across the skin there, an angry red color puckering the edges. The centers of the gashes were black, giving a visual of the poison inside his body.

  Surah’s hand came up and covered her mouth, her breath catching in her throat. She gave no effort to try and repress her reaction. She didn’t even think to.

  She stripped the glove from her other hand and gripped his arm, leaning in close to get a better look.

  “You’ve tried healing it?” Her voice still sounded funny, as if she could hear it outside of herself. Stress seemed to keep mounting and mounting in the past two days.

  “Of course I’ve tried healing it,” Syrian said, gently removing Surah’s hold and replacing the collar of his cloak, hiding the ugly marks.

  Surah’s heart hurt, actually hurt, as she looked at her father, into the violet of his eyes, which were the same color as her own. He was all she had left as far as family went, and her heart knew those scratches were death marks.

  Unless she could find the Black Stone. Black magic was the only thing that could heal a demon poisoning, and Surah could see on her father’s face that he had already thought of this.

  “You tried using the White Stone?” she asked anyway.

  Syrian smiled at this silly question. “Yes,” he said. “But we both know it was futile.”

  Surah had figured this, but she still had hoped. Her mouth fell open, wanting to ask him why he hadn’t told her, why he hadn’t mentioned the urgency of her success in the mission ahead of her.

  Instead, she leaned forward and kissed her father’s brow, which was warm and clammy under her lips. Syrian gave a small smile and patted her hand. Surah straightened her back, taking a deep breath, trying for her composure.

  “I will find it, father,” she said, and swallowed. “I promise.”

  Syrian smiled again. “I know you will, Surah. I know.”

  The trust in his eyes made her heart hurt more still. He coughed into his hand, using his magic to summon another kerchief, which went to his mouth a clean white and returned splattered with red.

  He eyed the mess and crumpled it in his fist, regarding his daughter with gentle eyes. “Think about what I said. Please.”

  Surah nodded, but instead of thinking about Theo, what she thought was, I’m coming to find you, Charlie Redmine, and Gods help us both when I do.

  Chapter 12

  Surah

  There was a knock on her door. Samson raised his head from his paws.

  Surah shot him a look telling him to relax, then flicked her wrist and opened the door. Theodine Gray stood there. Her heart picked up in pace at the sight of him, but it wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

  “And you tell me to relax,” Samson said in her head, the smirk clear in his tone.

  Surah bit back a response and offered the Head Hunter her best princess-smile. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  Theo bowed to her, then nodded. “Yes, my lady. Whenever you are.”

  Next, Surah called her two personal guards into the room. Noelani entered first, her sharp, pretty face set into Hunter mode, making her look older than usual. She wore a black cloak, the hood covering aqua-colored hair that was cut close on both sides of her head. She bowed to Surah.

  Lyonell followed on her heels, his expression as serious as his wife’s, his large shoulders just a little too tight, his mouth set into a grim line. Surah had already filled them both in, and they were determined to protect her in her mission, though she thought she could move faster on this if she could work alone. But they were having none of that, not after the thing she had pulled when she went to avenge Syris, and after over two decades of having them as her protectors, she knew arguing would be futile.

  Lyonell bowed to his princess as well. “We are ready when you are, my lady,” he said.

  Surah nodded, wishing again that she could just take Samson and do this by herself. But her father’s life was on the line, and she wasn’t stupid enough to refuse the help. She took a deep breath and looked up at Bassil, who was standing next to her.

  “I need eagle’s blood to find the Black Stone,” she said, and the Warlock nodded at the others, confirming this. “I am normally opposed to the use of black magic,” she continued, “as it stands against the beliefs of our people, but certain circumstances call for certain actions. I do not want to find the Black Stone, I have to find it,” she paused. “And I will do whatever it takes.”

  Everyone in the room nodded their agreement, as she’d known they would.

  She gave another nod, this one somehow more final, as if the show were just really about to begin.

  “All right, good,” she said. “Step one is acquiring some blo
od from a Great Eagle, because I will need it to perform a spell to locate the Black Stone.” Surah’s face was set hard as she looked at them. “You all understand what sort of task this is?”

  Nods all around.

  “Good. You also understand how urgent this task is?”

  Immediate agreement.

  Surah brought her hands out of her robe and held them out to Noelani and Lyonell, who gripped them with unquestioning trust. Theo stood independently in front of her, gray eyes staring deep into hers.

  Bassil touched her shoulder. She turned her head to look at him. Once again, the look on the Warlock’s face made a chill crawl down her spine.

  “You need at least a pint, princess,” Bassil said, his deep rumbling voice as grave as the dead.

  Surah nodded, silently steeling herself for what was ahead. Samson unfolded himself from his relaxed position by the window and moved lithely over to where his mistress stood, his head held low, amber eyes surveying the room. He slid in between Surah and Lyonell, forcing the two of them to reach to maintain hold of each other’s hands.

  The tiger’s huge head turned as he looked over at Surah, brushing against her side with his enormous body. “Let’s go, love,” he said. “I am born of the Wildlands. Do not fear what waits there. I am the greatest when it comes to Great Beasts. The eagle’s blood will be yours.”

  Surah could barely hear him over the sound of her heart beating out of her chest, and the silent confession she gave just before zipping them out of the room surprised even her when it sounded in her head.

  “But I am scared, Sam. I am.”

  Samson brushed his head against the hood of her cloak, his warm breath caressing her face, coarse whiskers scratching her skin.

  “I know, my love. I know.”