by C. L. Polk
The subject was a woman draped in the rich silken folds of a garnet-red sheet, the powerful color a complement for the flawless, deep bronze skin of the woman herself. Her hair was a cloud of brown-black curls, so richly detailed they seemed to sway and bounce. Her face bore the high-bridged nose and elongated eyes of an Amaranthine, set in a haunting, sorrowful expression. All around her, oak leaves in the brilliant shades of autumn fell, one of them about to land in her outstretched hand.
Aife’s jaw flexed as she gazed on the greatest masterpiece of Briantine’s life. She folded her arms and stared at it as if she could light it on fire. Amaranthines scattered as if the wind had blown them away, all of them gazing at their Grand Duchess with deep, silent dread.
She turned blazing dark eyes on me. “Tell me the story of this painting.”
“It’s considered the greatest work of painting in Aeland,” I said. “Briantine was a prodigy. A genius. A Study of the Human Figure and the Means of Its Capture is the cornerstone of every artist’s education. Briantine wrote and illustrated it at fifteen—”
“This painting.”
“Right.” I tried to banish the quivering in my limbs with a deep breath. “At age nineteen, Briantine had famously declared that the Maker Halian’s gift had come to rest in his body when he was named the royal portraitist by Queen Mary-Henrietta. He was unpacking his new studio when a veiled woman came in the night, wanting her portrait done. He tried to refuse, but she drew off her veil and he could think of nothing but painting her. He toiled for hours and produced what he swore was his greatest work. But when he woke up, she and the painting were gone. She left a bag of golden oak leaves as payment.”
She didn’t take her eyes off that painting. “And then what happened?”
I drew in a breath. “He tried to duplicate it. He would do nothing else. He couldn’t talk about anything else. He went into deep debt, he angered the Queen, but he could do nothing but paint her. This was his last attempt. They found it drying on the easel next to his dead body. He had put out his eyes, then killed himself.”
“And so Halian’s gift destroyed, as it ever had … but not without help.” Aife shook her head, softly, sadly. “Leave me here. I wish to be alone.”
I bowed my head and backed off. I turned and nearly collided with Aldis, who took my arm and led me away, pausing before a painting of children playing in a sleepy, sunny peach orchard bursting with fruit. He looked nearly as angry as Aife did, but this time it was at me.
He jerked me around to face him, his face furious. “What have you done with the Laneeri?”
“Unhand me.” I wrested my arm from his grasp—without applying the shin bruising he all but begged for. “What were you doing, binding Sir Percy’s soul to you at his execution?”
“My duty to the Hand of the Throne of Great Making,” he said, “not that it’s any business of yours. I am a shepherd of souls. We did not wish to lose track of this one.”
That had to mean the Amaranthines had some other plan to get justice from the people who’d had the asylums built. Aldis didn’t have to tell me that. But that didn’t mean I could confide in him like a friend. “The move is temporary. The cells are being cleaned and made more comfortable, and then the Laneeri will be returned.”
“How long?”
I’d just made another job for myself. I would write it when I made it home, and it would be on Janet’s desk first thing in the morning. “Two days.”
“Unacceptable.”
“You asked for this,” I said. “You said they were being kept poorly. Now you’re angry because we’re improving their cells. I could give you a bag of gold and you’d complain that it was heavy. If you don’t like it, take it up with the Grand Duchess. I’m sure she’s in the mood to hear it.”
His nervous glance at the Grand Duchess standing alone before The Lady of Oaks warmed me, however petty it might be. I walked away from him and past a portrait of Princess Mary, letting my feet carry me all the way to the guard station where I should have been an hour ago.
SEVEN
Sing Down the Storm
The storm-headache, a bruised arm, an endless list of tasks that needed my approval—hours were eaten while I tried to settle enough issues at Hensley House to reassure the servants and get some sleep. But though the smooth silk sheets were infused with a fragrant herbal blend meant to encourage slumber, the bed cozy from a half-dozen warming pans, I couldn’t relax. My thoughts dashed from one problem to the next, denying me peace. Sleep came, but it had to be banished minutes after it arrived.
William and George packed in extra warmers for the short trip to the pale moonlit building that stood on the edge of a cliff and gazed at the confluence of the river and the sea. The Knightshall was the westernmost point of Kingston, our bulwark against the fury of the Cauldron. I leapt from the sled and dashed into the building, passing long buffet tables groaning under the weight of enough food to supply three times our number. Not a scrap of it would go to waste. I hurried past white-robed Secondaries gobbling down pasties and threw open the door of the Hensley suite. I would eat when I was dressed—
Teal curtains stopped my headlong rush surely as a brick wall. Had I gone the wrong way? I hadn’t. I knew the path from the front door to the finest of the dressing suites. That was our fireplace, though Great Grandmother Fiona’s portrait had been taken down. The windows showed the proper view, though they were curtained with teal velvet instead of orange—
I stared at the portrait that had usurped Fiona’s. A wide-browed man with thin wisps of ashy hair, that particularly sensual curve of the upper lip, but the nose told me who had taken my suite before the movement of the room’s air announced the presence of a visitor who didn’t bother to knock. Of all the—
“Grace.”
I turned to confront Raymond Blake, pointy nose and all. “Why did you take my suite?”
He smiled, a cajoling, come-along smile. “That was a mistake. The election … well. They were just trying to show initiative. Everything will be put back.”
Did I believe that? No, but I had to let it go. “I’d like to make some changes to the reception room anyway.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’m sure you have a grand vision.”
Trip and fall in a hole, Raymond. I used a well-rehearsed smile. “Is everyone in attendance? Have we gathered everyone we need?”
“You were the last. But where is your Secondary? You haven’t lost him already, have you?”
Blast it to pieces. “Miles has sustained serious injuries and recovers in the care of the Amaranthines,” I said. He also wasn’t bound to me anymore, but I wasn’t about to start that conversation.
“I’m sorry to hear that he’s unwell, but I’m glad to hear he hasn’t run away again,” Raymond said. “That would have been too embarrassing.”
“Indeed,” I said. “I’ll let him know you wished him a swift recovery.”
The others would expect Miles in tow, attending me during Storm-Singer business. I had forgotten that Father had forced us to bond. That was going to be a problem, but it could wait for another day.
I retreated to the dressing room with an open door illuminated by the gaslight. Hanging on the valet stand was the robe of the Voice. Black silk, beaded all over, subtly sparkling like the night sky. Dozens of small jet buttons closed the front all the way up to the standing collar. It was a masterwork.
I had imagined the first night I put on the full vestments of the Voice of the Invisibles. In all my imaginings, it had never been like this. It had meant something. It had felt like something. I should feel different.
A bell sounded in the corridor, calling the Invisibles to the ritual hall. I turned my back on the Voice’s robe and found a kettle full of water that had cooled to lukewarm. I bent over a basin to wash my face before shrugging into the robe’s full, shimmering folds. I had to re-earn the respect of the Invisibles, and this ritual would be a step forward—or back.
It was time to do magic. I
banished doubt and hurried to the ritual hall.
* * *
The Sky Chamber looked empty without the First Ring. Secondaries sat scattered around the padded red bench built along the curving walls, their white robes the only teeth left in a poor man’s mouth. Links stood in their places on the inlaid floor patterned in the interlocking pentacles that was the template for dozens of mages weaving their power together, and our place inside it.
The storm swirled in my awareness. The path would scythe over Kingston and continue south, where it would strike the coast and its scattering of islands, shredding the ribbon of Samindan-settled towns that fished and sailed and gathered pearls, then drive farther south to become Edara’s problem and not mine.
I took my place on the violet tile that marked the center of the room. Through the dome above me, fast-moving clouds driven before the storm churned as we sang the ritual. By the first chord, they parted and let starlight fall on us.
The song wasn’t the power. The song guided each singer to cast their power, first into a coil that melded the raw energy of their bound Secondary to their trained skill, then into the work that braided the lines together. I would spin their magic into a force that could dissipate a squall, bring moisture to dry earth, change the path of the wind across miles of ground.
The power grew with every voice. In the Sky Chamber, a hundred twenty-six mages and as many Secondaries put their power into my hands, and it wasn’t enough.
I dragged them all with me to meet the storm’s arms, fighting its force to reach the center. My stomach growled. Unfortified, I pressed on, guiding us through the unreal cold and furious wind. Where should I start?
Stretch it, Father had said. We didn’t have the power to do that. Maybe with another hundred mages on the other side of the storm—I had thought it immense, when I sensed it. Miles across. It was at least as wide as Kingston itself, just in the eye. We didn’t have a hope of stopping it and never had, and that wasn’t what made me want to weep.
I could barely hold our power inside the storm. I couldn’t split it—not even in half, or we’d all get knocked aside, blocks tumbling from the swipe of an angry child. Whatever I did, it had to be with our power united.
“Why aren’t you doing anything?” Raymond asked. “Do something.”
The whole construction wavered at Raymond’s words. Curse the man to void and chaos. No one would forget that I had met the eye of the storm and faltered.
But I wouldn’t let him drive me into foolishness. I wouldn’t act until I was ready. We were in the eye, and my joints ached as if I stood in it, the pain throbbing in my forehead and temples. This was the storm’s engine, the heart of the destruction that moved steadily toward us, and I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stretch it, couldn’t slow the cycle—
I couldn’t slow the wind, but I saw a way.
“What are you doing? You have to do something!” Raymond exclaimed. “Try, you have to try!”
“Ray. Please be quiet. On your toes, everyone.” I teased out the strands of our magic into the eye, spreading across the air warmed by the Cauldron. “Chill the air in the eye.”
The Storm-Singers from the country Circles understood immediately and set to work. The storm was the battle between warm air and cold, and it would rage until cold won. The country mages who brought the rains and calmed cyclones every summer knew exactly what to do. The rest watched for an instant before copying the rainmakers.
The winds howled, but didn’t the eye narrow somewhat? I stretched out my awareness. The storm spiraled around its center, the difference barely noticeable. We had hit on the solution, but we didn’t have enough power. We needed double the mages we had if we were going to halt it. There was nothing left to do but pray.
O Guardians, you deathless ones, watch over us—it was a prayer for the already dead, a wish that our loved ones would find comfort in the Solace. It was the only prayer I had ever learned, living in my father’s house. Please. Please, help us.
I didn’t know who I prayed to.
I didn’t know who answered.
A line of power stretched into my awareness. It was wound into a cable of power that staggered me. It wasn’t just the immense might of that energy, but that each line was equal in strength and talent … this was two mages linked together, rather than a mage and a bound Secondary.
It wound around our lattice, and strength filled my bones. My knees stopped wobbling. And the power—that bright and glorious power—spread into the eye and joined our efforts, freezing the air to match the cold winds that churned around the center of the storm. It shrank a little more, like the pupil of an eye shying away from the light.
This had been the first. Another storm would come. And another. How long would we last against the Cauldron? Without the First Ring’s power, how long could we stand?
One of the Links fell to the floor in a faint, and then another, closer to me, collapsed with a little cry. We had pushed to our limit. The storm had degraded, but it was still coming for us. One by one, the mages arranged around me withdrew their power from the Work, unable to go on. But the mage duo worked until only I remained, then withdrew, retreating back to the boundaries of their bodies.
I fought dizziness to trace their path back.
As I watched the trail of the mages who helped us, sparks of light ignited on the southern border of Kingston—witches, risking discovery to meet the storm that threatened us. More than a hundred witches clumped in the middle of Riverside, rising to meet the winds. It shivered over my scalp. They had waited until we were done. They had watched us weave power and then had plunged in to help after we expended ourselves—how many times had this secret Circle risked discovery when Kingston was in danger?
I didn’t need to know. If I brought attention to them, the Examiners would swarm Riverside looking for people to lock up. And I couldn’t spare them a moment, not when I needed to know who had helped us meet the storm.
I swayed dizzily and fell to my knees. Sickness roiled through me, and the shrinking, trembling weakness in my limbs couldn’t hold me up anymore. I hit the floor, exhausted. But still my senses extended past my body as I chased that bright, unnatural power as it disappeared inside the multilayered, ancient wards set on the seventeen domes of the palace.
Our saviors had been Amaranthines. They had helped us all the way from the palace while the elders of the First Ring sat in their cells and did nothing.
Then I was back in the Sky Chamber. It spun and tilted so wildly I had to close my eyes, breathe, and wait for one of our attendants to get to me.
Many hands eased me onto a stretcher. “Send a message,” I said. “To Her Highness Aife of the Solace. I humbly request an audience—”
No one listened to my ravings as they took me somewhere to sleep.
EIGHT
A Wall of Secrets
Kingston was blanketed in our failure by morning. Three feet of snow had landed on the city, but there was an emergency session at Government House, and I had been the one to call it. I had William search out a waxed pair of skis and my old boots, and I selected the quilted tunic that had kept me warm in the Amaranthine camp to wear on my expedition.
Workers had already ventured out, attempting to tamp the snow down into dense layers. People were digging their way out their front doors, helping each other clear snow, sharing hot drinks that steamed in the chilly air. I was cheered by the resilient determination of Aelanders. I skied along, warm from my exertions, and made it to a near-empty Government House.
I passed through the quiet corridors intent on the palace. Two Amaranthines had helped us fight the storm last night, and I meant to find out who. But when I arrived in the wing of the palace where the Amaranthines quartered, a red ribbon was tied to the doorknob of the room where Aife received guests. Not available, then. I turned to Miles and Tristan’s quarters and knocked. Miles answered the door. He was already dressed, a gleaming olive silk tie snugged against the collar of his shirt.
“I
knew you’d come, even after exhausting yourself last night.” Miles rolled down the hallway, and I scrambled to catch up. “That storm was a monster. I’ve never seen so much snow in my life. I don’t even know why you showed up to work today.”
We nodded at the Amaranthine guards and hurried into a corridor lit by temporary gaslamps casting a pale green glow on the walls and floor. “It’s an emergency session, and the day I let Elected Members go wild in Parliament without me is the day of my death.”
“Ah, clarity.” Miles glanced at me with a little grin. “So Sevitii’s had a night in comfort. Now we see if she’s grateful for the luxury, or whether it inflames her sense of importance.”
“Which do we want?”
“A little of both— Oh.” Miles rolled to a halt in front of a flight of wide marble stairs.
My face flushed, hot and embarrassed. “Blast it. I didn’t think.”
“It’s all right. I can make a flight of stairs, if you’ll handle the chair.”
It was awkward, but I pulled it up the stairs while Miles took the obstacle at a walk. “See? Nothing to it.”
He was doing much better than I feared, his breathing only a little labored when we reached the top. He planted himself back in the cushioned seat and propelled himself down the hall. “Is it still the same suite?”
His wheels slowed as they met a long, narrow carpet meant to muffle footsteps. “Can I push you?”
He sat back with a sigh. “Go ahead.”
Soon we stood before a golden oak door flanked by guards, who didn’t know which of us to look at.
“Who has seen the prisoner?” Miles asked.
The guard with two golden bands of rank on his sleeve answered. “Only the two maids you assigned, and never without guards. Will you be going in alone?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
They unlocked the doors, and I led the way inside.