by Jane M. R.
Chairs scoot back as we all stand. I’m closest to the door, so Crisy has to walk behind me to get to it.
“Wait for me,” I mummer over my shoulder as she passes behind me. She doesn’t indicate she heard. Or cared. I watch her walk out the doorway.
I don’t show I’m as eager to follow them. There is no point. My father will only call for me to remain and the other’s don’t need to hear what goes on between father and son in the dark suspicions of the Whaerin house.
Corrana is the last to leave.
“You know Brinella is involved.” My father’s tone vibrates across the dark landscape of the room. One of the gas lamps chooses in just that moment to shrink.
“You think everyone is involved.”
“That is incorrect.”
“Then why so anxious to kill her on a pure whim of your worries?”
“Because we wouldn’t have kept the amulet secret for this long if our ancestors didn’t do everything necessary to keep it so. And it is because of you,” he knives a hand in my direction, as if hoping a bullet from his gun would propel from it, “stopping Brinella’s death that the wizard is free.”
“You can’t know for sure that she is involved,” I defend, assuming that false calm. My father reads body language like a cat watches the flick of a string. “She’s locked in her room every night and attended every violin class and even went to Bristol with a friend. When would she ever have time to, one, acquire the skill to pick locks and sneak around and, two, to do it all without anyone suspecting? It has to be the thief.”
“The last family to support the wizard burned a year and a half ago.”
“They never recovered Joseara’s body.”
“Burned too ash.”
“The other bodies were not burned to ash. They recovered and identified those ones just fine. Just never Joseara’s.” I can’t make my father’s blame on people go away, but I can shift it to people I can’t care about. It doesn’t even matter if they may or may not be real.
“Brinella is not out of suspect yet,” he says, though his voice reserves some hesitation.
“But I don’t think any of that matters because…” Here it is. What I’ve wanted to tell my father since the beginning. I take a deep breath and exhale as if that will create a thicker buffer between us. “Because, what if we can’t make the amulet work?”
“We come closer every time we try.”
“It’s been three hundred twenty-four years,” I stress, building boldness with the bricks of every word. “If we could make it work, it would be working by now.”
My father’s eyes darken. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying…” I’m out of breath, robbed of it by my rapidly beating heart, “that maybe we should let it go.” So no one can suffer my father’s greed anymore.
My father seems to grow taller, even though he is already standing. Or maybe his shadow grew, stretching to encompass me beneath him. “Let… it… go?”
I try to act casual about it but my father is slaying it into pieces at his feet. I lower my eyes as his dark words swarm me like a hive of bees. “You have no idea what our ancestors did to keep that wizard a secret, to find a way to give the poor food, clothes, money, to lessen hard labors. You could even see us as being saviors. We have kept alive the last wizard. If it wasn’t for our ancestors, they church would have killed them all.”
I open my mouth to say something, but I’m not brave enough to continue a defense so openly against my father. But he guesses as much.
“Are you saying you don’t want to be part of this anymore? That you’d like your sister to take your spot?”
Icy horror prickles through me. I would throw my head on a blade before I let my little sister get wrapped up in this atrocity. “You wouldn’t.”
“Brocen took care of his wife when she voiced her concerns about the wizard. I took care of Durain and his father and would have done so to Brine if it wasn’t for your ignorance. If Varrica takes your spot, then you should know what would happen to you. This secret is much bigger than you.”
My heart stutters as if I had just been punched. “You’d kill me?”
He locks eyes with me. “I warned you about the implications of this when I asked if you could keep a three century old secret. You accepted, and accepted the consequences. Are you choosing to back out, then?”
All ten fingers clinch the armrests of the chair. Red desire to leap to my feet and strike my father fills my throat. But that’s all that would happen. He would just get angry. I’m not stronger than he is.
If I back out and my father makes good on his promises – he always does – then nothing will stop him from killing Brinella. He’s suspected her from the beginning. Would have killed her in some accident right after Durain’s funeral with the only reason being my father suspected Durain had shared secrets with her.
But I was in the coach with Brinella, and my father – though morally broken as he is – was not willing to involve me on the same whim. Going further to court Brine unstably ensured her protection, because whatever honor code my father is on these days, one thing he and his ancestors held dear was to never kill another’s significant other. So when Brocen’s wife became suspect, my father impressed upon Brocen so heavily that he did the deed himself, though I could never see any remorse in Brocen afterward; twisted by this insatiable hunger to have again the ancient family farming business his ancestors started.
“No,” I say.
He forces a tight smile. “Good thinking. And I know that you would love to show me how devoted you are to this, and that is why you will volunteer to assist my private eye in locating this wizard so we can seal him away again. Yes?”
My heart beats in my throat. “I volunteer.”
“That’s my son I’m so proud of.” He waits a moment for me to say more. When I don’t, he leaves the drawing room.
I dig hands into my hair, resting my forehead against the table. If the wizard is put back in the vault, I will just have to wait until my father dies so I can release him again. There is no way we are ever going to crack the code on the amulet, despite the hopes of three desperate people and over three hundred years of trying. Crisandra feels the same. No amount of magic will bring her mother back.
We would just have to get through to Corrana and her son if she ever decides to pass it on to him. She likely doesn’t want to be caught up in the same mix my father put Brocen through… killing someone due to their lack of support. But Corrana would never support freeing the wizard. She wants her ancestors’ masonry business back. Thus is why there were three keys. If she does not agree, I would have to… kill her.
I clench fingers into my hair. Evil if I supported this madness.
Evil if I do not.
I remember I asked Crisy to wait for me. I don’t think she heard, but I’ll check just in case.
I stand as if mechanically assisted by chains and pulleys like in the lumber house to lift logs. I walk out of the dining room, spying a servant turning off select gas lamps.
I leave out the front door my father won’t lock for another hour and stride across the grass, my heart jumping as I spy a shadowy figure on the gazebo overlooking the pond. The moonlight is just catching Crisy’s blond hair where she is leaning against the railing with her back to me.
Brocen waits by his horse, puffing on his pipe. The man rather thinks I intend to make his daughter my mistress despite my marriage to Brinella, so naturally he’s a huge supporter of allowing a Whaerin to call on his daughter whenever I like, as if he believes Crisy will have any share of the Whaerin profits. None of this is true, though, the ruse does help me to speak with Crisy about other matters.
Her eyes are already red when I step into the gazebo. Her cheeks aren’t wet so she hasn’t been crying. Yet.
“Crisandra.”
She sniffs. “Jaicom.”
“It worked.” Of course those are less poetic words she deserves since our last meeting at Varrica’s debutante.
But I can’t talk about what’s in my heart because, despite what Crisy believes, it will only hurt her more.
“Yes.” She fakes a smile. “I was afraid I made it too obvious for Brine to find it. I was afraid you made it too easy for Brine to find it until you mentioned you showed the priest the vault, too.”
“The hard part was getting the vault key from my father. I’m happy to report that he thinks Brinella only saw the outside and that I didn’t actually take her in.”
Crisy nods. She grips her bare arms, hugging them to herself. She’s cold. I remove my coat and reach to put it around her.
“Don’t!”
“Crisy…”
Now she’s crying, and I’m the cause and I can’t fix it. I force the coat around her anyway and pull her into an embrace that she fights even as she grabs my waistcoat and smothers her tears against the red fabric. I knew this mutual meeting on the gazebo to talk about our success in helping free the wizard wouldn’t last long.
“I’m so sorry, Crisandra,” I say, tucking her under my chin. She shouldn’t smell like rose. She should be honeysuckle. That is the stain that should be left on me after she leaves. “We talked about this –”
“I know!”
“Sssh, your father is with the horses. He’ll hear.”
“I know. I just don’t understand why you couldn’t keep pretending to court Brinella. I never thought you’d actually reach the point to ask her to m – marry you!”
“My father was picking up on my ruse. I had to show him I was serious about Brinella. The moment I stop being serious he’s going to kill her. We helped Brinella get our pieces of key to free the wizard now it’s only fair that we protect her. Crisandra, we have to stop this violence.”
“I know.”
“We have to.”
“I know!”
“I guarantee I hate this more than you do.”
Her breaths between her sobs stretches out. Her grip on my shirt gets tighter. I can’t do this. Can’t leave Crisandra – or myself – without some hope. “I’m trying to convince my father that Brinella knows nothing about it. He was never alerted to the key I left beside the vault every night, so that’s a blessing. He thinks the thief picked the lock. He knows Brinella doesn’t pick locks. I fed my father some story that Brine recruited the thief who was robbing the shops in town and I backed that lie with the fact they never found Joseara’s body after her house burned. I just turned Joseara Isendell into a thief and I think my father believes it.”
I don’t know why Crisandra took a deep enough breath to laugh at this, but I hope she will keep at it. She’s going to rip my heart out with how tightly her fingers are clutched to my waistcoat if she pulls away while crying.
“So… there is still hope. The moment Brine is out of suspect, I’ll cancel the wedding.” I say it like it’s only a matter of time.
Crisy isn’t laughing anymore. I hug her tighter to bring it back. Instead she sighs, the sobbing ebbed, though I believe it is more so she can hide red eyes from her father. Tears of joy she will say to him if he asks, to encourage our story that she will be my mistress. This is the game myself and Crisandra have spun around us. I don’t know yet if freeing the wizard was worth it.
She returns my coat. Walks down the steps. I keep watching long after she’s galloped from my view.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
BRINELLA
I open my eyes to light filling the room. I shift my shoulders until I remember Zadicayn is still leaning into me, drooling on my chest.
I hate to wake him. Who knows how long he’s gone without good rest? I only hope his nightmares will cease before I get married. I hate thinking of him alone, wandering his castle halls on sleepless nights.
The sun continues to rise, the gold wave sliding down my face and neck until it ruptures in Zadicayn’s eyes. I try to shield his face against the light but he blinks awake and sits up, wiping drool across his sleeve. “I slobbered on thee. I be so sorry!”
I laugh, jovial in the light of the morning. “I have to say, it is the first time a man has ever drooled over me.” He turns his reddening cheeks away, standing up to stretch. “What’s to eat in this place?”
Zadicayn motions with a finger for me to follow. I do so, being led into a room adjacent to the one with furniture where we slept. This new room has tables and chairs and shelves with what appears to be food stuffs.
And there is a tree in here as well. A real. Live. Tree. Walking. Around. Its bare arms looked exactly like tree branches and it doesn’t have a face.
Zadicayn seats himself at a table and I sit next to him, eyes fixed on the tree which is using twig-like fingers to adjust things on the shelves.
“What is that?”
The tree walks over to us on feet spreading out like roots and sets two glasses filled with green liquid in front of us. The tree walks back to the shelves. Zadicayn picks up his glass of green liquid. “That tis a Fae.”
“It looks like a tree.”
“It tis a tree.”
“So…” I have so many questions I don’t know where to begin.
He takes another sip. “Looketh here.” Murmuring beneath his breath, he draws his finger around the glass table top. Where the tip of his finger touches, a thin trail of light appears, glowing like white thread. I’m so astounded I almost miss what he is saying.
“…tis divided like this.” The pattern of light he left is of two circles, a smaller one inside a larger with lines connecting them. It resembles a wagon wheel. “There art hundreds of realms.” He taps the spaces between the lines. “So this tis merely a small representation of reality. This circle in the middle tis a representation of the Fae Realm; it tis connected to every realm, separated only by those five layers ye art familiar with. Remember?”
I nod.
“Fae art magic. The Life I speaketh with yesterday art the highest echelons of Fae. Also being the essence of every living thing, they also grant access to magic for wizards like me. When I speaketh a spell, I am actually speaking in their language asking permission to use magic. If they agree, they allow me to access the active magic generated by my pineal gland.” He taps the red jewel hanging around his neck to remind me that his amulet is essentially his pineal gland.
I watch the glowing pattern on the stone fade.
“All magic tis allowed in the Fae Realm so wizards can practice the language and make sure what they asketh for cometh out how they want. Such as, I can nary say just ‘fire’ and hath it come out of my hand like ye saw in the lumber house. I hast to sayeth something to the effect of, ‘transform the heat from my body and magnify its temperature to create a large cone of fire that I can release out of my hand and halt when I close my fingers.”
“Bloody priest! You have to say all that?”
“I hast to be specific or the Fae couldst misunderstand and I wilt be harmed… or die. But I say it all in the language of the Fae, and translated to their language it tis actually a lot shorter.”
The tree comes back with a plate in each branch of an arm and sets them down in front of us. I stare at my plate, not sure what I’m looking at. A bloated purple tuber, a squat red fruit with orange vertical strips, and a crinkle of something green. I look at Zadicayn who starts eating. When he doesn’t grab his throat and start convulsing on the floor, I take a nimble bite of the purple tuber.
“You said you asked to ‘transform’ heat from your hand to make fire. Why? You can’t just say ‘make fire?’”
“Mahic ith mae with pee…” He pauses to swallow. He still has this habit of talking while eating. “Magic tis made with three categories; transformation, relocation, and illusion. Magic can nary create anything. It can only transform something solid into something else ye can reasonably explain how they art connected. Like this glass stool… I can nary change it into an apple. Not connected. Unless ye can figure out a way that they art, which wouldst be a really long spell. Basically, ye couldst dost anything with magic, as long as ye can reasonably e
xplain why you needeth it and how ye can make the connection why they art similar.
“We tried to tell everyone this who wert killing us for our amulets, tell them all the rules but they thought we wert bluffing. They wanted to make money out of thin air. Dost nary work that way.” He pauses to swallow more bits of food.
I finally have the courage to try the blended up grass looking liquid in my cup. It tastes like grass. With a hint of lemon.
“That tis the hardest category to understand,” he says “The relocation tis what ye use my bloodstones for. And illusion tis just fun pictures.”
“What if the Fae refuse to honor a spell request? Like, you needed that fire to fight the Faewraith, but the Fae refused to give it to you?”
He finishes his grass drink. I dare to take a longer gulp of the green slush. “I hath nary heard of that happening. Honest families wert picked for just that reason – to lessen the abuse of magic. Wizards can use magic for self-defense, and they mighten need it upon the very moment. The Fae wilt always grant permission and then ask questions later. Like in my case. I besought for a bunch of spells to keepeth me alive and the Fae granted it.” His smile presses into a thin white line. “Of course when I left the vault three hundred or so years later, they wanted to wit – know – what happened.”
“Why are Fae trees?” I have so many questions lined up and Zadicayn, for once, is willing to answer them so I will blast him for as long as I can.
“Nary all Fae art trees. Fae art plants, yea, because the greatest magic of all tis a massive tree – or plant – growing from the merest of seeds. The plant transforms dirt and water into itself to make itself. Tis a basic, naturally occurring magic. Sometimes that magic tis so strong, Fae art born in the seed as well. When the plant reaches maturity, the Fae also grows then separates from the tree, keeping that sense of magic. Plants – or Fae – hold the realms together because they grow in both realms. Fae can transport betwixt realms at will.”