by Sarah Hoyt
Behind his eyes, which closed in an attempt to block out his thoughts, images of armies descending on his beloved homeland and laying waste to it while killing its peasants and raping its magic passed like a blood-soaked painting succeeding another.
He was called back from these troubling visions by a slap of a card on the table. “This,” Nell’s voice said, slowly, “is the questioner, who I think for this purpose must be you, as you’re the only other person present, and one involved in this matter.” She lay down the King of Clubs, and Seraphim grinned at it, because he suspected half of Britannia would expect him to be the King of Hearts in any reading. But clubs was more like it. His was wealth acquired by work – or at least it would be, if he had his way. Right now the wealth was largely imaginary. Even his exalted position – before this adventure – was something precarious that only work could secure to him.
“And this,” Nell said. “Is myself – since I’m also involved in this matter.” She lay the queen of Hearts over the top of the King of Clubs, crosswise. That not-quite physical pain troubled Seraphim once more. The Queen of Hearts. A woman who represented home. As Nell must, being the rightful princess of Britannia. A woman who represented love– his brain skittered away from that thought. He was done with love. His one affair had exploded in his face just before Gabriel’s liaison had become near-public. He shuddered at the memory of his hellish six months. At least he’d not been sent down from Cambridge, as poor Gabriel had been.
Over the last few days, he’d been closer to Nell Felix than he’d ever expected to be to a woman not related to or married to him. She’d helped him with details of everyday life and shown him the mysteries of zippers, among many others, which had required a level of closeness he’d not expected to have with a decent woman not betrothed to him.
Truth be told, before his discovery of her origins, he’d thought that he would have to do the decent thing and marry her. Where this would leave him with Honoria was not something he wanted to contemplate. It was quite possible that Honoria had severed her relationship with him in his absence, particularly since he was fairly sure he was now considered a fugitive from justice. If not, then he must perforce jilt her when he returned, and marry Nell.
He was fully aware that in either case this would cause a rift between the two houses, possibly for generations. Though he supposed, Michael being sixteen, he could be offered as a husband to Honoria, a sacrificial lamb in Seraphim’s place. Michael, being who he was, and married already to his inventions, was likely not to notice a forcible marriage, anyway. He’d drift gently through the ceremony, then disappear into his workshop to sketch a magic powered ring-bearer.
The image made him smile, and then he remembered both that Michael was a captive in Fairyland, and might well be dead now, and that Seraphim could not possibly marry Nell. She was the princess of Britannia. The royal princess of Britannia. What talk had there been of her marriage, over the years, should she return? Something about Francis of France. Seraphim shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hoped not. The rumors about Francis were almost as ugly as those about the fellow that Gabriel had taken up with at Cambridge. They were definitely as … odd. Such a marriage, royal or not, was not likely to result in the harmonious union that the current monarchs enjoyed. It would also probably not result in children. Unless the princess got bored with a loveless match and sought– he put an end to the thought, quickly, before it could fully form. He was not his father.
Nell was out of his reach by position and birth. And anything of an underhanded nature, anything disrupted of the vows of marriage – undertaken for love or by duty – would be beneath his honor. He sighed audibly, and realized that Nell had lay a row of cards above them.
He stared down at the ace of diamonds; the three of diamonds; and eight of clubs; a ten of clubs; an ace of clubs. He looked up at Nell and waited for her interpretation, knowing there were as many interpretations as readers, and it was important to know what the one scrying thought it all meant.
“These are the roots of the trouble,” she said, her eyes troubled. The long, elegant index finger touched cards. The Three of Diamonds, “Legal trouble, or trouble with the law. I think this is a given, for you and me, both.” The Eight of Clubs. “This trouble would seem to result from jealousy and greed – though I don’t know whose.” The Ten of Clubs. “Travel to distant lands.” Her lips quirked. Then her finger pushed at the ace of diamonds, bringing it out of the row. “This one is troubling, because I have no idea what it means – I get a strong feeling it refers to a piece of jewelry.”
“Perhaps it is your pendant,” Seraphim said.
She inclined her head, though apparently not convinced. “And the Ace of Clubs. This represents happiness and wealth,” she said. “And I fail to see how that can be at the root of our problems.”
This time Seraphim inclined his head, acknowledging his own confusion.
“These,” she said, rapidly slapping cards down, “are the people and things who can help us.”
The Jack of Clubs, the Jack of Hearts, the Queen of Clubs, the Queen of Spades, and a Five of Spades. Nell frowned at this array at the feet of the two original cards then, rapidly, reached into the deck and covered the Jack of Clubs with a cross wise Jack of Spades, and then over the two, slanted, set the Four of Clubs and the Six of Diamonds. Then she seemed to regard this mess, and the whole row, with a look of utter bewilderment. “Uh,” she said, and scratched her nose, in an endearingly young-looking gesture. “That, I think, Your Grace, must stand for your family, but…. Is your mother perhaps contemplating a second marriage?”
“What?” the exclamation was wrenched from him, uncouth bluntness and all.
Nell sighed. “Well,” she said. “I’d assumed this,” she set her finger on the Queen of Spades, “was your mother. It usually stands for a widowed lady. And this,” her finger on the Queen of Clubs, “I assumed was your sister Caroline, who seems self-willed and intelligent.”
“She is that.”
“And this,” the Jack of Hearts, “would stand for your brother.…” She paused, seeming bewildered. “Either of your brothers, to be sure. Since it often stands for a male relative.”
“To be sure,” Seraphim agreed.
“But this,” she pointed to the small pile, “is clearly someone about to embark on a second marriage that is fraught with perils and complications. And, as you know, the Jack can stand for either male or female. Usually for young, but not always.”
Seraphim felt a sick lurch in his stomach. His mother had been widowed long enough and surely she was allowed to marry again. But what if she chose unwisely? He would go a long way to keep her from hurt. She had told him nothing of another relationship. What would she keep from him?
But Nell’s hands were rapidly slapping down another row of cards: the Two of Spades, the Nine of Spades, Ten of Spades, the Three of Spades and the Four of Clubs. Her finger pointed as she said, “Gossip and intrigue; bad luck in all things, destruction and deaths; imprisonment and unwelcome news; unfaithfulness and broken partnership; changes for the worse, lies and betrayal. That seems to be at the root of our troubles.”
“Intrigue me,” he said. “I’d have thought that we had been plunged into this by loving kindness and a wish to help us.”
“Don’t be scathing,” she said. “It is clearly trying to tell us there is a vast conspiracy underlying this all.”
“That, too, we could have gathered.”
“Undoubtedly.” The finger poked at the Ten of Spades. “This one worries me. Whose imprisonment?”
“Michael’s maybe,” Seraphim said. “Or yours being sent to this world.”
“Very possible, and in fact part of it, I sense,” she said, “but I also sense that’s not complete. There is more in this.”
“The conspiracy.”
“No, I mean, there are other people imprisoned.”
Seraphim’s stomach lurched again. “I’ve had dreams,” he said. “It is very possible that e
ven now Gabriel is in jail.” He tried not to think of what the law thought of half-elves and how harshly it dealt with those unpredictable creatures. “It is my ambition to bring him out safely before they can do one of the curious things they love doing to half elves, like stripping him of his magic.”
Nell almost let the pack of cards fall. “Strip him of– Is that even possible?”
“Very possible. If you don’t mind destroying the mind with it.” To her credit, she looked as sick at this as he felt. “That,” she said, “must not be allowed.”
She slapped a row of cards down. “These are the people arrayed against us.” The Three of Clubs, covered by the Nine of Hearts; the Seven of Hearts; the Nine of Clubs; the King of Spades. After a while, and hesitating, she covered the King of Spades with the Eight of Hearts. “Someone who is making a marriage or attempting to make a marriage to gain advantage from his partner.” Honoria. Seraphim’s stomach lurched. “But it’s covered by the dream card. This marriage is a key to all this person’s hopes and dreams.” Honoria. He really was an abominable cad, Seraphim thought. Well, he would marry her, then. It wasn’t as though he could marry Nell. “An unfaithful, unreliable person who breaks his promises.” Seraphim’s mind lurched to that damned necromancer that Gabriel had got enmeshed with. Seraphim should have killed him. But at the last minute, the man’s gallant deloping at their duel – firing into the air, which admitted his guilt in the matter – had touched Seraphim’s compassion. At least the cad and the filthy necromancer knew he was a cad and a filthy necromancer. Seraphim’s hand had deviated a few inches and not got him through the heart. A mistake that. He’d make sure the hunt to find him resumed. Yes, as a half elf, he was likely to be put to death for Necromancy. But then, better that than endangering Gabriel. “A new lover or admirer to whom you should not be resistant.”
“Beg your pardon?” Gabriel. On the other hand, Gabriel would kill Seraphim if Seraphim killed his—
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s among the people or things that might either attack us or array to make our life difficult. How would I know? It’s probably your mistress or something.”
“I don’t have a mistress.”
“No? Gossip would have you keep any half a dozen of them.”
“Indeed. Carefully laid gossip, m’dear. The truth is I can’t afford a single mistress, much less six.”
“Very well, then,” she said, and pursed her lips, in clear disapproval of his morals, which made his having a mistress or not a question of money, not of heart. “It might be a relationship for someone else. I daresay it will become clear.”
“I daresay, like most scrying, probably much too late.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. “And these.” She tapped on the juxtaposed cards. “These are – or is, perhaps – an ambitious, authoritative man and a,” she frowned, “an intruder. Someone from elsewhere.”
“Covering the ambitious man?”
“Yes, not merely involved with him, which would be crosswise, but covering.”
“Oh,” Seraphim said. He shook his head. “Someone from.… An elf? A changeling?”
She started. “Yes. Yes. Definitely that.”
Seraphim sighed. “Not a surprise. They are involved in this to their black hearts, I’d say. It worries me, because Gabrie–”
At that moment, they both felt it: like a tearing midair that indicated someone had opened a portal nearby. Nell dropped the cards and ran out the kitchen door, Seraphim followed more slowly, out the door, past the small patio, through the gate in the fence, to a field they’d watched the mechanical plows – Nell called them tractors – dig up the day before.
In the middle of the field were two men, one of them standing and swaying on his feet. “Mr. Penn,” Nell said, “but who is it with him?”
Seraphim stared, “The damned necromancer,” he said. “But why is he digging in the dirt with his bare hands?”
The Threads of Time
Caroline knew this was a dangerous spell, but she’d seen Gabriel do something like it. Not to this level, she thought, as she stared at the wounds on the dragon-woman’s back. She needed to reach for a time when the woman’s back had been whole, and superimpose it on it as it was now.
Of course, doing that in Fairyland might be more difficult than doing it in the human world. Or at least more dangerous. But Caroline had realized long ago that you didn’t have a choice between something you really liked, and something you dreaded. Or not usually. You had a choice between two things that were both unpleasant, and you tried to choose between them for the less unpleasant one.
In this case, she could choose to ignore the woman’s need and keep herself safe. But then it was unlikely she would be allowed to walk the rest of the paths of Fairyland till she found Michael. And even if she were, she wouldn’t have the allies she was supposed to acquire through her journey. She knew the rules of Fairyland. Everyone did. They were built into the earliest stories told to the smallest children. In Fairyland, you had to help three people in desperate straits, and then – after you did that – you’d get where you wanted to go. Distance in Fairyland wasn’t straightforward, or measured in meters. It was measured in feelings and the heart, and three good deeds were the sacrifice needed to get where she was going.
To rescue her brother Michael.
She pulled back a strand of her thick, curly black hair. It felt clammy. All of her felt clammy, as if the clearing had suddenly got very hot. The dragon woman turned back to look at Caroline over her shoulder. Her eyes were the oddest Caroline had ever seen, a golden-orange, as though it had flecks of fire burning in its depths.
“I’m going to do something…,” she said, and looked into the woman’s eyes, and swallowed. “I’m going to use magic that might feel odd to you. Please, bear in mind, I do it only from the best intentions. It is the only way to heal you.”
The large, fiery eyes blinked. “Do it, then,” she said, intently. “Do it and be done with it. I cannot bear to be captive here while my baby might need me. Do what you have to do, no matter the risk. You were sent to me by the paths, they must know you can heal me.”
Caroline wished she could be anywhere near that certain. She put her hands up and recited the incantatory protections for when one worked with time. For all the good it would do her, here, in the heart of a place built entirely of magic, and while using the magic on a sentient being.
She was going to die of this. No. She banished the thought, forcefully, and lifted her hands, to let the magic flow through her palms, onto its destination.
Then she did what she dimly remembered watching Gabriel do. She remembered seeing it – and she might have – though it would have required her to link to his mind and look through his mind’s eyes. Perhaps she had. She had been very young and very unguarded, and Gabriel, too, hadn’t guarded against her.
Because of that, she could remember the mental vision of time as a tapestry. She’d once seen a tapestry weaving machine. Michael had wanted to see one of the new manufactories, operated almost exclusively by magic, where men did no more than feed thread to the machines, and clip the finished product, or clean around the working, moving parts of the machine.
She and Michael had escaped through the window of their nursery while their nanny was asleep and walked down to the village, where one of the manufactories was. It had taken them the best part of the day, and when they’d been found – through a spell cast – Seraphim had collected them in the carriage. She remembered being afraid he was finally going to give them the spanking that he and Gabriel so often threatened them with. In retrospect, though, she thought what he had done: sitting white faced and tight lipped next to her in the carriage for the full hour drive back home, had been far worse. As had the fact that neither Seraphim nor Gabriel smiled at or talked to Caroline or Michael for a good two months.
The manufactory itself she hadn’t thought about till now. Michael had been fascinated by the gleaming, moving parts, the thread moving into place,
all without the touch of human hands. Caroline had looked at the people cleaning accumulated lint from the machines, or feeding them the colored thread. They were children, little older – or perhaps younger – than herself. It was the first time she’d been aware of her good fortune and her station in life.
Now, though, as she reached for the threads of time, she saw it exactly as that machine in that long ago manufactory. There were threads – the life of each person, the path of each object everywhere – being fed into time, and what emerged was the completed tapestry. Reaching out, she touched the mind-seen strands mid-air. There were Caroline and Michael going to see the manufactory. There was Gabriel, coming in in the middle of Seraphim’s birthday party, in that outlandish outfit, all rags, with the livid marks of whip strikes livid across his face and the exposed parts of his skin.
Caroline blinked at this. She’d been born after Gabriel had joined the house, and she was quite sure that, though she’d heard him described as filthy and covered in rags, she’d never heard of whip marks. Whip marks why? Who’d dare whip the child of the Duke of Darkwater – even if a bastard son? She blinked, and shelved the thought for another day. For a moment that thread, and the one next to it – Gabriel and… she blinked again – Seraphim’s? gleamed with the bright blue of strong magic. It was tempting to see what was happening to them. But she could not. Not in the middle of this working.