by Vic James
Of pure Skill.
He stood there, mesmerized, as the particles landed on his skin and disappeared. Melting snowflakes. Bright spirals of Skill eddied down, like the sunshine-trapped dust motes of Orpen library. He could watch it fall for hours. Forever.
Someone was shaking his arm. Silyen cursed them and closed his eyes, dismissing the vision.
He opened his eyes to find Luke’s face far too close. The boy blinked and took a step backwards.
‘We should go to the house.’
‘We’re not done here yet.’
Luke studied him, Dog shifting discontentedly on the shore behind.
‘You’re not . . . hurting yourself, doing this? Because I’ve really had enough of seeing people hurt, thanks very much.’
‘How touching. But no.’
And he reached past Luke, making the boy sidestep, and grasped again the flimsy threads of the estate’s ancient boundary enchantment. How tattered they were. How ragged. How threadbare.
His hands resumed their braiding. This boundary had been woven long ago, and it had slowly worn out. Even acts of Skill decayed over time.
But not only acts. If the Equals neglected their powers, how long would it be until their Skillful ability likewise declined and disappeared?
This country’s Equals ought to be grateful for the wake-up call Silyen had given them – though he wasn’t going to hold his breath waiting for the thank-you notes to arrive. There had been so many wheels already turning, to which he’d delivered an extra spin. Bouda’s schemes and Father’s coup. The laughable ‘secret’ of Meilyr’s activism, and the existence of a commoner network primed for unrest. Gavar’s anger, and his divided sympathies because of baby Libby. The opportunity for Silyen to demonstrate his own power, with the awakening of Aunt Euterpe.
There was just as much that he had not foreseen. Zelston’s murder and Midsummer’s daring. How swiftly and savagely Father would enforce his new regime.
And there were new opportunities every day. Luke’s suggestion of freeing the slaves of Far Carr had been inspired – albeit by motives rather different from Silyen’s own. Once news of it spread beyond the estate wall, who knew what would result. Perhaps the Zelstons would follow suit. Maybe the Trescos would. Father might dismiss them, but they were two of the great old families. Their actions still counted.
The Blood Fair had proved every bit as spectacular as he’d anticipated when he stood in the crowd, hoodie pulled up, waiting for a show. Gavar, Midsummer and Bouda had excelled themselves. There would be more to come, he didn’t doubt it. And when the dust finally settled, one way or another, the Equals of Great Britain would have remembered their true identity: as wonder-workers.
And who knew, in a country newly mindful of the power of Skill, people might turn for leadership to the strongest Skill-worker among them.
Take a bow, Lord Silyen Jardine of Far Carr.
The thought struck him as unspeakably ridiculous. The more he fought down laughter, the more uncontrollable it became. He sank to his knees, gasping. He felt dizzy and light-headed, and pawed at the cold ground and chalky brick for support.
The other two were talking. He could hear them, as if from a distance.
‘Mad bastard.’
That would be his ever-loyal retainer, Dog. When Silyen was King of England, he could elevate him to the peerage. The Lord Dog. Maybe he’d give him Eilean Dòchais.
‘. . . no food. And he’s been at it for hours. Seven? Eight?’
Luke Hadley. For honourable Sir Luke there would be a royal pardon. And the king’s favour.
Silyen doubled over. He was laughing so much his ribs hurt. He should get a grip. It wasn’t very seemly for a future monarch to be kneeling in the dirt, huddled against his own wall.
‘. . . well, he’s not bloody indestructible.’ A hand shook his shoulder. Then the same voice, closer. ‘Silyen? We’re almost back at the gate – just fifty metres or so.’
Silyen looked up, tears of hilarity leaking from the corners of his eyes. He was shaking his head.
‘I don’t want any of it, you know. None of that trash my family loves.’
‘No, no, of course you don’t. Can you stand up? Dog, a hand, please.’
Strong hands gripped under Silyen’s armpits and hauled him upright. Someone else’s fingers brushed the tangle of hair off his face and Silyen peered out owlishly. Everything was dark. It must be night time.
But it was too dark. It should be golden. Sparks whirling in every breath you took. Why was Luke talking about food? Silyen could eat the air, promise-crammed with Skill.
Luke waved in front of his face. Silyen swatted at the movement but Luke – he was strong, for a commoner – caught his hand and crushed the fingers together.
‘You’re freezing. You’re dehydrated and shaking. And you’re really not making a lot of sense. My sister would start talking about blood glucose. I don’t have the faintest idea, but I reckon a bacon butty and a sit-down in your mansion would be in order – once you’ve finished.’
Silyen didn’t need a bacon butty. He didn’t need any of it. Not even a crown.
‘A shed would have been enough.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t need a mansion. Would be fine as lord of a shed in a field, if it came with a seat in the House of Light.’
‘Is that so? Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’ve got a pretty big shed.’
Silyen shook himself. He was babbling. He was quite extraordinarily tired. How was it possible to be this exhausted and not be dead? Cousin Ragnarr had once ridden one of his horses so hard it had simply dropped dead beneath him. But then Cousin Ragnarr had been an utter shit. Silyen was glad Dog had killed him. And so spectacularly, too.
Focus, Sil. You had something to do.
Yes. A wall to complete.
Silyen peered past Luke. There was the lumpy outline of the gatehouse. No slaves lingering there now, needless to say. Such a short distance. He could do it.
‘Better finish,’ he told Luke.
‘Right you are. Come on then.’
And with Luke at his side, Silyen reached a final time for the fraying boundary magic. Reach. Splay. Thread. Twist. Repeat. He took that which was threadbare and made it shining and strong.
Splay. Thread. Twist.
Some unknowable time later, they stood in front of the gate. Adrenaline surged through Silyen.
He’d done it. It had been more exhausting than rebuilding the Kyneston ballroom and restoring Orpen Mote. More dizzying than swallowing down Aunt Euterpe’s power.
He blinked into bright-and-dark and saw, in his right hand, the cabled end of the thick Skill-rope. It seethed and spat with energy, as if he held a lit firework. In front of him was the end from which he’d begun. He grasped it.
As he wove the two ends together, they flared like flame, but it didn’t dazzle him, because he was Skill itself. Brilliance through and through.
The loop closed. Silyen’s hands fell away from the girdle of power he’d wound around his estate. He stepped backwards – and dropped into darkness.
When he opened his eyes, there was still fire. But it was burning in the hearth of Far Carr’s great hall, warming him along one side. A blanket had been laid over him. By his side, a tray stood on a low table, bearing the oddest assortment of drinks Silyen had ever seen, even for someone who had grown up with Gavar. Gin, lemonade, a teapot and a mouldy bottle of champagne so old it was either undrinkable or very, very expensive, or quite possibly both.
Curled up on the rug before the fire, and sound asleep, was Dog.
‘How are you feeling?’
Luke Hadley. The boy was in an armchair drawn close to where Silyen lay. He had a blanket, too, as though he’d slept there. His blond hair was sticking up, vivid in the firelight.
‘You certainly look better,’ Luke said brightly. ‘Which is good, because you need to call your brother.’
‘My brother?’
Silyen rubbed his for
ehead. Perhaps he wasn’t as awake as he thought.
‘Gavar. You said he took Abi from Gorregan Square. I need to know that’s what actually happened, and that she’s safe, and what her plans are. I’d like her to come here, if that’s okay with you, because she’ll need somewhere to hide. That’s why I didn’t ask the minute we arrived – so you could get the boundary secured.’
Abigail Hadley, a house guest? Silyen didn’t think he’d signed on for that.
‘I don’t have a mobile, Luke. You know technology doesn’t like me.’
‘I have a phone right here.’ Luke waved a cordless handset. ‘The Far Carr house line, used by Rix’s steward. And look, I can even show you how to press buttons with numbers on, in case you’re struggling with that concept.’
‘I’m not sure I remember Gavar’s number. And it’s . . .’ Silyen squinted at the ugly grandfather clock in one corner. ‘Quarter past six in the morning. I’m not sure my brother would appreciate it.’
‘He’s got a little kid, so I’m sure he knows what an early start is. And if you really don’t know his number, someone at Kyneston will be able to tell you. Or your other brother. Please, Silyen. I need to hear Abi’s voice. She nearly died yesterday.’
Silyen wanted nothing more than to pull up the blanket and roll over. But Luke had a point.
And annoying Gavar was always a mindless kind of fun.
He took the phone.
4
Gavar
The girl was gone.
Phone in one hand, Gavar pulled back her duvet with the other. The bare sheets were cold.
The girl was bloody well long gone.
Gavar had trained himself to swear less, since Libby was born. But that went out of the fucking window with the discovery that Abi Hadley had done a runner.
Which also meant that the sound that had woken him up a few hours ago, the sound a lot like his own motorbike engine, maybe had been his motorbike. He had dismissed the idea, because he was in bed and who else would be riding it? He took the stairs two at a time to the kitchen. The bike keys were gone. Fuck.
‘Gavar? What’s going on?’ His brother’s voice down the other end of the phone was sharp.
Why was Silyen calling at some ungodly hour to ask about Abigail Hadley anyway? And so soon after Bouda’s visit and her not-so-veiled threats. Yet he couldn’t imagine his brother and wife as allies. So Gavar belatedly asked the question he should have started with, had it not been quarter past six in the bloody morning when his phone rang.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Just curious about Gorregan. Because I thought I saw you rescuing a girl that our brother betrayed and our Father condemned to death, and it seemed an improbably decent thing to do.’
Fuck it. Gavar was through with trying to second-guess the motives of everyone in his family. He’d taken Abi Hadley. It had been a spur of the moment decision, in revulsion at the murderfest going down in the square. There was no shame in owning that action.
‘Yes, I took her. She would have been recaptured otherwise. But Bouda came snooping round here yesterday, so Abigail must have spooked. She’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
In the background of Silyen’s call, Gavar thought he heard someone else speaking angrily. The sounds went muffled, as if Sil had placed his hand over the receiver. Was Silyen in London, at Aston House with the rest of the family? Was this call a trap?
‘Explain?’ Sil was back, sounding breathless.
‘She’s vanished in the night. And she’s stolen my motorbike,’ Gavar snarled, ‘so I don’t think she’s popped out to buy a pint of fucking milk.’
He terminated the call and shoved the phone into his dressing-gown pocket.
Fine. Abi Hadley could do what she wanted, and good luck to her. He ran a hand across his face and exhaled.
The girl had overheard Bouda yesterday. She’d been standing there, just behind the hedge within the fence’s protection. She knew that Bouda and Father wanted her back, and that they would threaten her family to get her to comply. Had she gone to turn herself in? Handing herself back to more horror and pain.
Gavar had told Griff to empty the house of alcohol a few months back, wanting to make sure Libby never saw him drunk. Right now, it was a decision he was regretting. He opened all the kitchen cabinets. Nothing. Crouched to search the lower cupboards. Nothing.
His movements wafted a piece of paper onto the floor. Seeing his own name written there, Gavar unfolded it. He read the note twice, then screwed it up furiously. It only told him what he already knew – that Abigail Hadley wasn’t as clever as she thought she was.
And nothing proved it more than the last line she’d written: I believe you are better than your family.
What a joke. He was a Jardine, and a mediocre one at that.
He remembered Griff’s bureau in the sitting room. He could have sworn he’d seen his old nanny once pour herself a nightcap from a bottle in there.
He was in luck. And a shake suggested the bottle was almost full. It was a coffee cream-liqueur, sickly-sweet, but it’d do. Gavar wedged himself in Griff’s favourite armchair, and tipped back his head.
Sometime later, his phone went again. He would have ignored it, but the insistent buzz was annoying.
‘Yes?’
‘Gavar?’
‘Dearest wife. Missing me already?’
‘Are you drunk? It’s barely seven in the morning.’
Bouda’s disgust was palpable. Had he slurred? Who the fuck cared? Not Gavar.
‘S’just strong coffee.’ He peered into the bottle. Dismayingly, it was empty. ‘Was strong coffee.’
‘Well, you’ll sober up on the journey. I’ve dispatched a car already, and it’ll be with you within the hour, so get Libby and the Hadley girl ready. You’re to come to London immediately.’
What on earth? Had Abigail gone straight to London to give herself up? But in that case, there’d be no need for Daisy to bait her sister to Aston House.
He emitted a croak, which Bouda correctly deciphered.
‘Because of your brother, that’s why. Do you know what Mad Lord Silyen of Far Carr has done? He’s manumitted his entire estate.’
Manumitted. It had too many syllables for Gavar to pronounce right now, but he knew what it meant.
‘Freed them.’
‘Yes, freed them. Every single slave. Which rather puts a new spin on things. Your father and I have some ideas about what we do next. We’ll see you later.’
Bouda hung up, and Gavar sat there as the dialling tone whirred in his ear. Silyen. His entire sodding family was a nightmare. Would it never end?
So much for his carefully calculated insobriety. He went to the kitchen and downed three glasses of water, while urging his Equal metabolism to burn through the alcohol he’d just consumed. Then he stomped upstairs to get the girls woken and washed – and to deliver the news to Daisy that her sister had left in the middle of the night, to go over the water to Dubhlinn.
They were waiting for him in the Damask Salon of Aston House.
Father, Mother, Bouda and Jenner were sat on a long couch, like a jury. The one person Gavar might have counted on for a ‘not guilty’ verdict, or at least a ‘case dismissed’, was Mother, who of course excused herself immediately. She administered a dry peck to each cheek, and left to settle Libby and Daisy into the nursery quarters. Gavar had considered leaving the girls behind with Griff. But now that the cottage’s location was common knowledge, he would prefer to keep them close.
Gavar made for the adjoining armchair.
‘Did I give you permission to sit?’ Father barely turned his head as he spoke.
Gavar paused. He’d been made to stand for reprimands from his father since he was four years old. Possibly younger. Possibly even before he could stand. He pictured Father grasping him by the hands as he wobbled on thick toddler legs, delivering a rebuke on the slovenliness of his romper suit, or his disreputable teddy bear.
But he
’d never stood for a scolding in front of his younger brother and wife. And he certainly wasn’t starting now.
He sat and pulled out a packet of Sobranies, lighting up. His family was always on at him to stop smoking, which was ironic, given that they were the reason he needed to.
‘I said –’ Father surged from his seat, smashing the ciggie from Gavar’s mouth, his nails stinging Gavar’s lips. ‘Did I give you permission to sit?’
Something ignited in Gavar, hot and hating. Father was a bully, nothing more. The man bullied his wife, his children, his slaves, and now an entire country – which he doubtless also regarded as his. It was pathetic.
‘I wasn’t aware that I needed permission for such a mundane activity,’ he said, as calmly as he could. Aston House had been done up in Mother’s favourite flimsy French style. The furniture was all spindly legs and satin cushions, which would be matchwood and kindling to Gavar’s incendiary Skill. ‘Do I need to ask your permission for breathing, perhaps? Or breaking wind? Let’s test that, shall we?’
He leaned sideways in his chair – only for Father to haul him the rest of the way out of it.
‘Degenerate puppy!’ Father’s spittle landed on Gavar’s face as he shouted. ‘You mocked my authority in Gorregan Square, and now you mock me in my own home. How dare you? Do you not realize how precarious your position is?’
‘Precarious?’
It was to be this again. Hollow threats of disinheritance. Gavar almost sighed at the familiarity of it all. He had, over the years, had ample reason to research the process by which an heir could be disinherited. It was all but impossible.
Not entirely impossible – and as any disavowal had to be authorized by the Chancellor, Father could both act and approve. But the bar was set high. The only crime for which disinheritance was automatically enforced was premeditated murder of an Equal, which was one of the very few sins of which Gavar was assuredly innocent.
‘I think you’ll find the laws around disinheritance are pretty tight,’ he told Father. ‘So don’t trot that one out.’