by Nyna Queen
“Therefore, an—I must say, somewhat less popular—theory suggests that we are, genetically speaking, all the same: trueborns, halfborns, shapers, all molded from the same genetic muck. One big family of human beings.”
“So what?”
“You must consider the implications, dear.” Edalyne put a hand to her chest. “We, the royal height of civilization, the epitome of power and refinement—in the end, no better than the halfborns, those unwashed commoners, we so like to look down upon? The very thought! That our rule might not be a nature-given law but rather the result of an act of lowly barbarism, taken forcefully with our superior powers. Such an assumption would shake the foundation of our established society.”
Edalyne shook her head.
“Of course, there are various independent genetic studies that prove this theory in black and white, yet for obvious reasons they are mostly declared poorly conducted, the scientists are discredited, and usually quickly sink into obscurity, while sponsored studies with the desired results make it into the scientific journals.”
No wonder Alex had never heard of any of this then.
“But there still remain the shapers,” Edalyne went on, “rubbing our noses in our self-deception. And there is ample evidence supporting this theory that even a non-geneticist can comprehend. So can, for example, even a child conceived from a union of trueborns be born without a magical talent.”
“A fail,” Alex muttered.
“Yes, the not-so-flattering term we use, which quite descriptively shows what many of us think of those born without magic. Also, if you compare our numbers, we trueborns make less than a fifth of the world’s population, while a superior race would surely dominate this world, would it not? One could therefore just as easily imagine the following: A long time ago, only halfborns existed. But at some point, just like any other physical feature or mental ability, a genetic mutation must have led to the appearance of magical talents—the same way that skin color has adapted over generations to the levels of solar radiation in a certain area. These first magic abilities, though probably only a fraction of what they are today, must have provided a survival advantage. At first, it is reasonable to assume, there would only have been few people with these talents, but they likely accumulated in the same local area, as new mutations often do. These people must have mated with each other and also with magicless humans many, many times, until a noteworthy pool of magically gifted people finally bred true: the first ‘real trueborns’ with dominant genes, whose offspring were likely to inherit their gift. It also seems likely that by affinity or conscious choice these first ‘real trueborns’ would predominantly mate among themselves, trying to further purify the breed and to bring forth more powerful and more diverse magical talents.
“And while our existence shows that they succeeded and we are at an unprecedented height of power and a wide variety of strong magical talents, the centuries of inbreeding have taken its toll on us; a toll many of the elite like to turn a blind eye to.” Edalyne pursed her lips. “Our oh-so-venerated pure gene pool is weakened and nowadays many of our children are born with physical shortcomings: a generally weak physical condition, eyesight problems, degenerative diseases that change so quickly we cannot keep up with the development of cures …”
A soft sadness filled Edalyne’s clove-brown eyes. Alex inevitably thought of her sire, of his condition, little though she had understood of it at the time. Had his sickness been caused by what Edalyne had just described?
“I wasn’t aware,” Alex said quietly.
“Oh, it’s nothing we like to broadcast.” Edalyne smiled ruefully. “Our healers and researchers are still grappling to find individual causes for this ‘epidemic,’ refusing to see the wider picture. But a fact remains a fact, no matter how much you wish to ignore it. And now look at you.” Edalyne cocked her head to the side. “Your kind has exactly what we lack: strong health, resilience, heightened physical senses and abilities …”
“Yeah, that and deadly teeth,” Alex retorted dryly.
“Oh, but we are all deadly by nature, dear.” A spark of magic ignited between Edalyne’s fingertips, sneaking around her hand like an obedient pet, and died. “Our magic is just as deadly as those teeth and claws of yours, though admittedly, not as eye-catching in its origin. When trueborns and halfborns mate these days, due to some genetic quirk, this deadliness tends to literally take shape in physical manifestations. It’s what you call your second skin, no?”
Alex nodded. She certainly knew a lot about shapers, Edalyne. Alex knew she was part of Stephane’s team of advisers. Perhaps it had been she who had done most of the research on this topic before her husband had taken his position with regard to the shaper regulations.
“But not all shapers have this ‘second skin,’ do they?” Edalyne asked her. “And your abilities differ just like our magical talents—same source but different manifestation?”
Alex nodded again. She thought about it for a moment. It was true. She had met a handful of half-breeds who were shaper-born in the sense that they had a halfborn and a trueborn parent, but without any of the typical manifestation: no claws, no teeth, no special abilities. Halfborns by appearance in every possible way. And it was also true that among shapers the physical abilities varied, in the same way their magical powers did: some had none, some had little, and a few were almost as strong as some trueborns.
Edalyne leaned toward Alex. “Everything about you, even that strong instinctual drive our scholars use to promote the ‘beast-nature’ of your kind, in evolutionary terms makes you best fitted for survival. Because it is instinct that in nature helps you survive, while an overly logical mind, the likes of which we pride ourselves upon, tends to let its owner think himself to death. So one could even say—and I would be stoned if I so much as voiced such a thought in the elite circles—that shapers, in their entirety, are the next step on the evolutionary ladder.”
Alex stared at her. Oh, she could see why this thought was unpopular. Shapers as the superior breed, the “better” humans? The idea was so ridiculous, Alex almost laughed. Still, to think that Heloise might view her uneducated shaper-hide as a danger to her own sublimity, provided her with a short, delicious burst of satisfaction.
Edalyne gave Alex a meaningful look. “It seems a sensible assumption that, if trueborns and shapers were to mix, their offspring would, to a great extent, inherit the desirable traits of both sides, strong health and strong magic. But, ah … to believe that the dilution of our treasured blood—that actually low-born mongrels—could be the remedy to all our problems … You can imagine how well that idea would sit with the trueborn population. For generations, we have told our children that the union with such base creatures is barely considered better than an act of sodomy. People like Heloise go so far as calling it racial defilement.”
Alex swallowed. “So that’s what Heloise thinks,” she said carefully. “What do you think?”
The whole conversation gave her the impression that Edalyne’s view on the topic was very different from that of her mother-in-law. However, their being unsuitable breeding material wasn’t the only prejudice against her kind. Take Josy’s first reaction to Alex being a shaper, for example.
The other woman’s gaze rested on Alex for a long time, calm and unreadable. “I think that power entails responsibility. I think that pride is a dangerous thing and that, if we care at all about the wellbeing of our children’s children, a shift in paradigm is inevitable.”
The coach raced into a tunnel cutting through the mountain, momentarily plunging them into flickering darkness. Alex curled back in her seat, trying to digest all the information she had just received. It had never occurred to her to see her heritage as anything other than misfortune. That's how it was constantly drummed into them, from the moment they were born. Hearing the advantages of shapers praised by someone as high and privileged as Edalyne Dubois-Léclaire made her wonder if she should be more grateful for what she had. She didn’t hate being a sh
aper—never had—she only hated what it entailed.
Yeah well, you don’t get to cherry-pick, sugar.
About half an hour later, they reached the Saunier Estate. It was dominated by a vast white and peach building with terracotta shingles, surrounded by exotic palm trees that probably weren’t easy to maintain in this climate.
Edalyne had called Elizabeth Saunier’s tea party invitation “a gift from heaven.” Alex wasn’t so convinced about that. In fact, she was quite sure that the Jester had arranged it just to spite her and was now laughing in his sleeve as he watched her march up to her most certain doom.
An older servant in pristine clothes guided them into a big reception room. You had to give it to them, the Sauniers had taste—or they paid someone who clearly had it—and they had money and liked to flaunt it. The floor was a swirling pattern of white and deep green marble, polished to a mirror sheen. High walls rose at least fifteen feet above their heads, silken-white and decorated with silver metallic accents. Peach and pink roses were scattered everywhere, their buds spicing the air with a sweet, floral scent. A huge sculpture occupied the middle of the hall, its silver-blue glass spiking upward in a spiral of frozen flames.
Between two long, tall windows, the back wall was decorated with an enormous painting. It was the kind of painting that was completely lost on Alex: entirely black with a couple of random dots of red and purple and two distinct blue stripes. It probably cost an arm and a leg but in her eyes, it could just as well have been the result of the artist accidentally dropping his color pallet. Inwardly, Alex rolled her eyes. Big name. That was all it took and you could sell your toddler’s scribbles for a couple of grand.
Six women were gathered in front of the painting, bathed in the sunlight shining through the windows, drinking bubbly from elegant crystal flutes. Several of them pointed animatedly to the painting, no doubt complimenting its artistic worth.
When they approached, one of the women disengaged from the others and came toward them with open arms.
And here comes Elizabeth Saunier!
Tall and dark-haired, with just a first splashing of gray in there, she projected trueborn elegance from the top of her head to the pointed tips of her glamorous three-inch high heels.
“Edalyne, my dear! I’m so glad you could make it. And I see you brought your companion.”
Her wide smile was almost motherly but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Those eyes told Alex everything she needed to know. Yeah, I got your number, sugar. This woman would have to be handled with care.
Edalyne and Elizabeth exchanged kisses as if they were best bosom buddies. Ugh!
Slightly bewildered by the unexpected invitation, Alex had asked Edalyne why the wife of the senator of Warlington would bother to invite her, when they were sort of sworn political enemies and Edalyne always looked like she’d spotted a slug in her salad, whenever she talked about the woman. Edalyne had smiled and said, “Keep your friends close but keep your enemies closer.” When Alex had frowned, she’d added, “Don’t be fooled by the skirts and the giggling, dear, this will be a highly political event. Elizabeth will try to get information out of me without volunteering any and I’ll do the same vice versa. And we both know exactly what the other is doing. It’s almost like a game.” She actually sounded as if she might enjoy it, too. Crazy, twisted trueborn people!
Finally, Lady Saunier turned toward her. Alex curtsied the way she’d learned, murmuring a polite greeting.
“Alexandre, isn’t it? It’s such a pleasure to meet you, dear. Edalyne, you didn’t tell me that she’s such a peach! This girl is way too fair for the countryside. It’s about time for her to see the wider world.”
She leaned over to Alex with a confidential note in her voice and squeezed her arm. Alex was hit by her heavy perfume—an amalgam of roses, patchouli, and vanilla, sweet and smothering. “Balls, banquets, dresses, jewelry.” She sighed dreamily. “You’ll love it, dear. Believe me, you’ll love it.”
She’d love not being pinched in the arm, thank you very much.
Alexandre was the name they had, after much debate, chosen for her trueborn persona. They had agreed that they needed something a little more sophisticated than Alex or even Alexis but still close enough that she’d be inclined to react to it—and voíla, this was the result. The name came with a more or less half-baked back story about her being minor trueborn nobility, bits of magic, but nothing special. Her parents had died when she was little and since then she’d lived in the country with her great aunt who happened to be an old acquaintance of Heloise Dubois-Marcrant. Before her death, her great aunt had implored Heloise to take “that poor, unfortunate girl” under her wing and introduce her to high society so that she got a chance for a decent marriage. Obviously, Alex wasn’t particularly fond of that part of the story but she had to admit, it was probably the most believable cover they could come up with.
Not once letting go of her arm, Lady Saunier ushered Alex over to the gaggle of waiting girls. Oh yes, this woman grabbed what she wanted and held onto it.
“Ladies, meet Alexandre de Nuy. She is a protégée of Lady Dubois-Marcrant and comes to us right from the beautiful countryside of Bouldershore.”
The other girls met her with a mixture of polite interest and open contempt. Alex kept her smile plastered firmly in place, as she, in turn, scrutinized each of them, while pretending to nurse a glass of champagne.
The youngest of the gathering, at seventeen years old, was Elizabeth’s daughter, Priscilla—the one that Stephane suspected the Sauniers would like to marry off to the prime’s son. This girl was a spoiled brat if Alex ever had seen one, and she immediately felt bad for having accused Josy of it. Every second sentence started with “my;” my new designer shoes, my private tutor, my thoroughbred dressage horse …
There seemed to be no ordinariness in her money-dominated little world. Her laughter was too loud, her jokes too saucy for someone of her age and whenever something didn’t exactly go her way, she instantly reverted to pouting.
Then there was Cecile, a doll-faced beauty with caramel curls, pale jade eyes, and milky white skin—the epitome of trueborn nobility. She was the daughter of Estelle de Moineaut, the senator of Belmont, another of the Southern Provinces. It was a house, Alex had gathered from all the political conversations she’d observed in the run-up to this event, which hadn’t declared any loyalties in the current election campaign yet.
Trying to make a big catch, Elizabeth?
Edalyne had given Alex a short briefing on the other participants of this little tea party. Apparently, Lady Saunier liked to surround herself with the rich and beautiful, and if she could milk them for something, all the better. Alex supposed that feeding these girls a couple of apples was a small price to pay when the droppings they left for her on the road were made out of pure gold.
Marie-Louise d’Antoine, for example, a darker-skinned woman with sleek black hair and smart designer glasses, who was clad in enough lace to bury someone in, was the younger sister of the governess of Thyral and the Shamour Islands. Arcadia consisted of sixteen southern and fifteen northern provinces, both of which put forward one governor for the High Council, the realm’s government. The third member was the prime, and the final member was the governor of Thyral and the Shamour Islands, a harbor province with a connecting group of islands that, for some historical reason Alex didn’t know, had an autonomous status. Whatever power they might have held in the past though, Stephane had told her that today the governor, or rather governess, of Thyral was more or less a figurehead and would usually fall in line with the other members of the High Council. However, if there was a tied vote, her voice would count just as much as the others. It was the prime who would have the casting vote in such a case. But power or no, apparently Elizabeth thought that being favored by Thyral’s governess might sway some of the undecided voters to vote for her husband in the election.
But Lady Saunier’s focus wasn’t all on politics. Thin, doe-eyed Sharon wasn’
t just a daughter of the elite but had also just started a promising career as a model with one of the most prestigious designers in Crona. Possible political influence and a chance for runway-hot dresses—could it get any better?
The last one in the flock was standing slightly apart. It was little more than a step, but she may as well have hung a sign around her neck announcing, “I don’t belong.” Her bright copper red curls framed a round, freckled face with hazel eyes and rosy cheeks. Alex noted that her dress was much simpler than the bling of the others and the only jewelry she wore was a necklace made of big chunks of caramel and red stone. Alex remembered her dearest Aunt Sheila wearing something similar and would bet it was a family heirloom. Not much money there.
She was the only one in the gathering—except for Alex—who wasn’t a descendant of one of the great royal dynasties. But it so happened that her uncle, with whom she was very close, owned the biggest art gallery in the realm and there was barely a masterpiece sold in any of the provinces that hadn’t passed over his table at least once in its lifetime. Since the Sauniers were obviously fired up for expensive art, Alex could see why forming a bond with the girl would be considered useful.
Elizabeth introduced her as Bernadette Wintering.
“But you can call me Bonny, if you like,” the young woman said quickly, with a small, nervous smile.