“He is self-righteous,” Norwyn said, “but all he wants to do is please. What does it matter what he calls you? Would Toad approve of this?”
Dark swallowed.
Frog looked away and continued up the hill.
Dark thought of Frog’s father and his unflinching love for his son. Had he forgotten that?
“Well.…” Dark said quietly. “I will remember this conversation. But tell me, Norwyn, what in heaven are we doing here, anyway?”
They reached the top of the hill.
A mile ahead, a gigantic bowed white building imposed itself on the grassy plain. Smoke escaped from smokestacks on the roof. Around the building were tall metal arms that moved up and down, drilling into the ground. Translucent pipes connected the arms to the white building, and pink magic swirled through the tubes, flowing like electricity on its way to the factory.
“What is this?” Dark asked.
“This is an aquifer point,” Norwyn said. “They’ve tapped into it and are transporting the magic into the factory. They then use machines to adulterate the magic and embed it into forms that elves can use.”
Dark remembered the white cards that he used to escape from Lucan Grimoire’s factory. “Is this where they manufacture those white magical cards?”
“You mean grimoires,” Norwyn said. “No. Surprisingly, those are made from recycled magic.”
Dark shrugged. “I don’t understand what that means.”
“To recycle is to reuse,” Norwyn said. “Lucan has figured out a way to use magical byproducts to create sustainable magic. What you see here is not that.”
The pickup truck drove between the silver arms and entered a bay on the side of the building. A group of workers in construction clothing sat in the back.
“This is one of the many factories that manufactures products for a store called Gavlin’s,” Norwyn said. “It is one of the largest suppliers of magic in the world. One billion spiras a year.”
Dark growled. “Why are you showing me this again?”
“To help you see the big picture,” Norwyn said. “You’ve seen magic. You’ve seen the aquifer. This is what happens between.”
Dark spread his wings. “I’ve seen enough.”
Norwyn and Frog followed him into the air.
“What’s next?” Dark asked. “Are you going to take me to another Fenroot shrine?”
“No,” Norwyn said. “We have one more stop to make.”
“Where?”
“It’s better to leave you in suspense on this one.”
IX
Miri waited on a cold marble floor, her arms wrapped around her knees.
She was shaking.
Two elven investigators had interrogated her for the last two hours.
She cracked.
She told them everything. That was in the plan. But she did it in tears.
They broke her.
They asked about her past. They printed off a copy of her thesis on Old Dark, and they ridiculed her for all the errors she had made, down to missing periods and quotation marks.
They explored her relationship with Laner Tonsenberry. They characterized him as a tragic lover entangled in her claws.
They questioned her bills, her mail, things she had said in the past.
They asked her about Old Dark, what he was like, what he said, whether he indicated where he was going.
But what broke her was Jasmine.
“Her career is over,” they said. “She lost her love of archaeology. She can thank you for that. How does it feel to crush peoples’ dreams?”
She broke down and hated herself for it.
And the bastards didn’t even hand her tissue. They banged the table and said “We knew it! There’s finally some remorse deep in your heart. Or is there? Is this an act, Charmwell?”
She had shaken her head. She buried it in her arms, ignoring the two men.
“We’re going to talk to the other investigators,” the men said. “And for your sake, you better hope the stories match up. When we come back, we’ll tell you if you’re going to jail or not.”
And she waited for an hour, staring at the green walls of the interrogation room.
She was numb. She focused on the popcorn texture of the wall, unable to think clearly. Her hair was disheveled and her makeup had faded. She’d wiped some of her mascara on her scarf, which she had thrown on the floor.
She had chills. She was shaking uncontrollably.
Remember the plan, Lucan had said.
Somehow she hadn’t forgotten.
It wasn’t the plan that shook her. It was the investigators. Shrewd elven men, they sensed her emotions and seized on her the moment they put her in the car.
When she was a professor, she had to make proposals to the Board of Regents at the university. Many of them were no-nonsense elves who asked a thousand tough questions. She used to think those were hard presentations.
She wished for the Board of Regents now—the worst question from them seemed like nothing compared to the government.
She ran her hands through her hair and tried to calm herself.
But the door opened and one of the men returned. In his black suit, he looked imposing and severe.
“Miss Charmwell,” he said. “Today’s your lucky day. Your story matches the others’.”
Miri looked up but said nothing.
The man crouched in front of her. “Do you know what that means?”
She lowered her head.
“It means we’re going to clear you of most of the charges,” he said. “Fortunately for you, since you were employed by the government, we’ve decided not to prosecute you at all.”
“Because it would make the governor look weak if you did, right?” Miri asked, sniffling.
“The Governor’s disdain for you is clear,” the man said. “But yeah, maybe you’re right. It’s about the only thing you’ve gotten right in your life up to this point, so yes.”
“Screw you.”
“I’m not done yet,” the man said. “We’ll drop all of this. But we’ve got conditions.”
“No.”
“You will testify against Lucan Grimoire and Celesse Cullis. You’re going to tell the court that they actively covered up Old Dark’s tomb.”
“If I don’t?” Miri asked.
The man grinned. “You will.”
“Or what?”
“You’ll go to jail, Charmwell.”
“For what? You just told me you weren’t going to prosecute me.”
“You still obstructed the Magical Lands Act, and that comes with a heavy fine and two years in jail—should the district court decide that you didn’t cooperate with us.”
“Then lock me up.”
The man’s eyes widened for a second. “Very well,” he said. He opened the door behind him. “You’re free to go, Charmwell.”
Miri didn’t believe him at first. “What?”
“Get out of here. You’re cleared of most of your charges, like I said. You’ll have to pay some fines and do some community service, but that’s a small price.”
Miri stood.
Lucan had been right.
They won’t prosecute you. Your knowledge is too valuable. You’re the only Old Dark expert in the world. If anything, they’ll try to cut a deal with you. Trust us. It’s going to be fine. I’m the one who’s got the explaining to do.
“What about Lucan?” Miri asked.
“Don’t concern yourself with him.”
The man ushered Miri down a long hallway.
She passed by a wooden door with a window. Lucan was sitting at a table with a female attorney. Edwil banged his fist on the table.
Lucan smirked. He saw Miri and winked at her.
Normally his winking struck her as arrogant, but it made her feel good.
The plan was working.
The moment she saw him freak out, that’s when things would start falling apart. But that wasn’t happening now.
The man
pushed her past the door, down the long hallway. After many twists and turns, he ushered her out of a metal door and into the afternoon air.
“Enjoy your life, Charmwell. But this isn’t over.”
He slammed the door behind him.
She walked across the green lawn of the Hall in a daze. She might as well have been sleepwalking.
When she reached the end of the grounds, a dark street lay ahead of her. The sounds of the city whistled by in a blur.
This just doesn’t make any sense.
The plan.
She couldn’t forget it.
Everything was going according to plan. She heard Lucan’s voice in her head again.
They’ll let you out. But they’ll be watching you. You need to find Dark. When you do, bait him into the spotlight. Then the rest will take care of itself.
She looked back at the Hall of Governance. Its black spires glinted in the sunshine.
She didn’t know if she could do this anymore.
She didn’t know if she could carry out the plan.
It was all up to her. If she didn’t succeed, Lucan, Celesse and Earl might never leave the Hall.
She leaned against a wall. She wanted to vomit.
But then she steeled herself, looked up at the clouded sun and said “It’s all up to you now, Miri. Don’t blow it.”
X
Lucan gulped as two guards led him into the Governance Floor. It was a massive room with oak walls and hundreds of wooden chairs arranged around the room in an egg shape. The room looked like an auditorium, with several levels, and a stained-glass rotunda of a Crafter dragon shone above, letting down rays of afternoon light in rays of maroon, blue, white, and green.
The rays shone on a single table and chair in the center of the floor. On the table sat a microphone.
The guards guided him across the carpeted floor and into the chair.
A large hearing bench lay ahead. An elven woman in a black pantsuit waited for him with her hands clasped together. She wore a golden necklace that looked like a spider web, and she had silver hair and a stern air.
Lucan recognized her. Clarice Oceanfield. She was a senator in charge of the Environmental Committee, and the architect of the Magical Lands Act itself.
She ruled against him in the past. When he wanted to open his new factory, he had to testify in a hearing to disclose his business strategy. She was concerned about the impact of his factory on the environment. Water use, if he remembered correctly.
She also grilled him over unfair competition concerns, since another magical factory was within several blocks of the proposed site.
The senator asked hostile questions for two hours.
But a week later, his permits were approved.
To say she wasn’t friendly to him was an understatement.
“Mr. Grimoire,” she said, reading from a stack of papers, “I need not remind you that our discussion today is a matter of national security.”
“Yep.”
The senator had a crooked nose and wore red lipstick. She looked like a caricature from a political cartoon.
“You are here for a number of reasons. I won’t read the violations because we would be here all night. But before we begin, I want to be certain: do you understand why you’re here?”
“Yep.”
“The correct answer is yes or no, Mr. Grimoire.”
“Last I checked, yep is a synonym for yes.”
“We have rules and customs. You of all people should know them. If it is beyond you to use the simplest word in our language, then I am happy to make a recommendation to the court, one that would not be in your favor.”
Lucan rolled his eyes. “Okay, madame. I’ll use your words.”
The senator gestured to the court clerk, who was typing rapidly. “Let the record show Mr. Grimoire’s disdain for an age-old Governance process. It is time to begin.”
XI
Amal took in the gravestones at the Half Eight District Cemetery. The rows and rows of white headstones reminded her of teeth, and the rolling hills were full of them under a bright blue, clouded sky.
The colors were even more vivid than the first time she was here, when the wrought iron gates might as well have been the gates of Hell and the landscape was so beautiful it might as well have been heaven.
Today, the colors were even brighter, more detailed. Maybe it was magic. Or maybe it was the fact that she was here to visit her parents’ grave and she wasn’t in her right mind.
She crossed her arms as she walked down the lonely path through rows of flowered headstones. The wind blew gently, jangling her golden beaded necklace like wind chimes. In the distance, cars sped by on a highway.
She looked behind her.
Demetrius was leaning on the hood of their red convertible; his hat was low over his eyes as he read the daily paper. He must have sensed her eyes because he looked up and tilted his head. When she didn’t respond, he smiled.
She kept walking the path until a hill took her down through a row of sycamores and out of his sight. The leaves on the trees were almost firelit, a brilliant display of orange, red and green that reminded her of her earliest memories, when she was a girl on Haley Mountain following her father up a quiet mountain path, talking as the golden leaves whispered around them, danced off the trees and covered the mountain path with their delicate waves of color.
She missed those days.
As she reached the end of the row, she passed a commemorative plaque hammered into one of the trees. It was gold and black, with an embossed mountain on it. The mountain was majestic and surrounded by clouds.
Haley Mountain Resting Place
Haley Mountain was long gone—there were no mountains in the heart of Magic Hope City.
The mountain had fallen thirty years ago when the aquifer inside got so low that the interior of the mountain collapsed upon itself.
The news had reported it would happen for weeks. First came the tremors. Then the mudslides.
And as a little girl, she’d refused to believe it, refused to believe the only home she’d ever known would be gone.
Her mother had, too. She called the media delusional, cried that the magic companies wanted to kick humans off the mountain to appropriate it for themselves. The dragons had disappeared long ago.
But the mountain did crumble; the news reporters were right.
Her entire town, a terraced community on the side of the mountain, was the first populated area in danger.
Only half of the citizens wanted to evacuate.
Her mother refused to leave.
Her father disagreed.
They fought. They screamed and argued. And her father took her in his arms and he ran down the mountain on foot. They reached safety only hours before the entire mountain imploded on itself.
She watched her mother crumble along with the mountain. She had never screamed so loud in her life.
Her dad was never the same. He died of a broken heart a year later. And so Amal fell into the foster system, living from home to home, a forgotten member of society. Somehow she put herself through college and became a criminal magicologist.
It was only when she had established a career for herself when the government came to her one silver afternoon, with news that they were building a memorial site for the victims of the Haley Mountain Incident, because of increased magical conservation awareness. They relocated her father to this park and put her mom’s name on the gravestone since she was never buried.
All of Amal’s memories came rushing back to her as she approached their grave.
She knelt in front of the white headstone.
Here lies Mel and Fredericka Shalewood
She didn’t cry. She closed her eyes and bowed her head as the wind picked up.
She didn’t know why she thought coming here would help her make a decision.
Would she support the governor or go her own route? Would she break the gag order?
She didn’t have the courage
.
She sighed and opened her eyes. What was it her parents had told her as a kid? Her mother had said it just before Amal saw her for the last time.
Hard decisions are easy. Real decisions take bravery.
This certainly wasn’t a hard decision.
It should have been easy. When the governor made his offer, it should have been an easy yes or no! Why wasn’t it?
“I don’t know what to do,” she said out loud.
She knew her parents wouldn’t be able to hear her but it felt good to speak.
She waited in silence, trying to clear her thoughts and make space for the answer to reveal itself. She wished she could have been alive in the old days, when you could visit a dragon seer to solve your problems.
After a few minutes; she produced a handful of birdseed from her pocket.
Birds.
Her father and mother had loved birds. As a girl she built a bird house that hung on the front porch. It was one of the last things she saw as she and her father turned away from the home for the last time—the green bird house swaying in the wind.
The birdseed was heavy in her hand. She scattered it all over their grave.
“I hope this brings you some beautiful birds,” she said, standing.
She smiled at the grave, then dug her hands her pockets and started back toward the car.
No answer.
No decision.
She should have known better.
Yet relief took hold of her on her way back. She was so tense during the last day that she needed a release.
When she made it to the car, Demetrius was waiting with his arms crossed. “Well?”
“Nothing.”
“An awful waste of time then, don’t you think?”
She wanted to hit him. He was usually understanding about these things, but all the pressure must have been getting to him, too.
“Visiting a grave is never a waste of time.”
“That’s not what I meant. But listen, we’ve got to make a decision.”
Amal sighed. “You think I don’t know that, Demetrius?”
Her husband stopped talking. He knew he was in trouble. Any husband was in trouble when a wife used his first name.
“What, then?” he asked.
Old Wicked (The Last Dragon Lord Book 3) Page 5