A Declaration of the Rights of Magicians--A Novel

by H. G. Parry

  “And you have some idea where that might be?”

  “I think I may be beginning to,” he conceded. “That time in France… These past few months, I’ve been thinking back to the moment when the shadow dispersed and everything seemed to be right again. I felt very close to something meaningful on that night. I feel it’s something that would be worth my life.”

  Pitt nodded slowly. “You mean to become a Templar.”

  “Perhaps.” He tried not to flush with embarrassment. “In time. If I can ever make myself worthy. I suppose… I want to vanquish evil. I don’t think, even now, I quite understand what evil is, but I know what it felt like when it passed.”

  “You are aware that your eyesight is terrible, aren’t you? When we were in Rheims, you almost shot me.”

  “I know,” Wilberforce said ruefully. “But if God intends such a life for me, he will guide my hand.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “As, I can only imagine, he must have guided my hand from quite destroying Britain’s political future the last time I held a pistol.”

  Pitt didn’t smile at that, as Wilberforce had intended he should. Instead, he seemed deep in thought. Wilberforce, knowing by experience that something important was forthcoming, sat back in his seat patiently and took another sip from his teacup. It was pleasant in the warmth of the fire, and more pleasant still to be finally speaking aloud what had been oppressing his mind for so many months. Something heavy and constricting had been cut from him, and he was surprised by how much physically lighter his limbs felt. Whatever happened now, he was at least being open again.

  It was longer than he had anticipated before his friend looked up with sudden purpose.

  “Wilberforce,” Pitt said. “I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never before told anyone. I will not ask you to swear not to divulge it, because you may feel you have to, and I trust your judgment implicitly.”

  “Of course anything with which you choose to entrust me will be my honor to protect,” Wilberforce said immediately. “Anything right, I mean.”

  “I don’t know if you will think this wrong. I hope not. You are, of course, familiar with my family bloodlines to an extent.”

  “Yes, of course. The Grenville line is pure Commoner, with no manifestations of magic as far back as the records show. The Pitt line is—that is, apart from—”

  “It’s ordinary Commoner blood also,” Pitt supplied as Wilberforce stumbled, “apart from a strain of magic that goes back several hundred years.”

  “Blood magic,” Wilberforce said. “I’ve heard the rumor.”

  “And I doubt you heard it by that term. It’s far too polite a euphemism for political gossip. You would have heard it called vampirism. And you would have heard that it emerged to a slight extent with my father.”

  “He had mesmeric abilities, didn’t he?” Wilberforce said. Neither of them had talked about their deceased fathers very often, to his memory, but of course he knew about the career of the Earl of Chatham. “He was braceleted until he was awarded his title. But that’s nothing unusual, and certainly nothing dangerous. For a person to be deemed an illegal vampire, they would have to meet… certain other requirements.”

  “I know,” Pitt agreed. “I happen to meet them.”

  Wilberforce didn’t say anything at all. Somewhere, he knew, he was feeling great shock, but on the surface of his mind was nothing but cold, numb disbelief.

  Blood magic had been illegal throughout Europe for more than two centuries—since, in fact, the end of the Vampire Wars, when rival families of blood magicians had come to power simultaneously in England and France and almost torn Europe apart in their battle over territories. Wilberforce had learned about the wars in boarding school as a period of blood and darkness that had lasted a hundred years: wars where vampire kings drank the blood of their own people and their enemies to increase their powers, where necromancers worked with them to raise armies of the dead with dark arts long since lost, where magic reigned on the battlefields. Finally, the Knights Templar had stepped in. They had not only overthrown the vampire kings, but also eradicated all traces of blood magic from Europe (and it seemed, at least so far, to be a uniquely European strain of magic). It was the start of their absolute authority over policing and regulating uses of magic—an authority that was still respected even after England broke with the rest of the Catholic Church. More important, it was the end of vampirism. Part of the reason that even Aristocrats were required to be tested for magic at birth was so that if an infant showed even the slightest sign of blood magic manifesting, the child could be instantly put to death. It was not something Wilberforce had ever expected to encounter in his lifetime, much less in his house.

  “Do you want me to go on?” Pitt asked.

  “Please,” Wilberforce managed.

  Pitt nodded and looked down at the table briefly before speaking again. His voice was as steady as ever, but Wilberforce could see unaccustomed nervousness behind his eyes.

  “I was classified ungifted Commoner at birth,” he said. “And for most of my childhood, I was. When I was fourteen, as you know, I was sent to study at Cambridge. I was young, but it was thought that I would be able to cope with the work. Within three weeks, I was dangerously ill. It must have been developing for a while, but I was so busy that I didn’t notice, or ignored it. I woke up one morning burning with fever that nothing could ease, not even magic, and after a short time my stomach began rejecting anything they tried to feed me. It was generally thought that I would die, and I was removed home in order to do so. The university claimed to have no idea what was wrong, and perhaps they were telling the truth. Perhaps they were trying to protect me. I’ve obviously never been able to ask.”

  “I’ve known people whose abilities didn’t manifest until they were quite old,” Wilberforce said automatically. “Not violently like that, though. They just developed over time.”

  “Late manifestations of magic happen more than the Templars will admit—and the tests at birth are useless if the magic hasn’t awakened. It’s of no consequence with Aristocrats, but the Temple Church doesn’t like it when Commoners escape braceleting. In my case, of course, being an Aristocrat wouldn’t have saved me. If I’d been born with my particular magic, I would have been killed upon inspection. As it was, I nearly spared them the trouble by dying myself. Blood magic isn’t like the kind that your friends manifested. My body remade itself on the way to adulthood, very slowly and very uncomfortably. But in any case, I intended to die. I never had any intention of taking what I needed to survive.”

  “Which was human blood.”

  “More or less. I don’t know how much you know about blood magic—I only knew a little myself when I was fourteen, and we had it in our family history.”

  “Very little,” Wilberforce said. “I know the vampire kings could control entire countries with their minds. And they never aged once they reached adulthood, and they never died.”

  “As far as I know, that’s true. The drawback is that it requires blood sacrifice. For the magic to work, the magician needs to kill, and take into themselves the lifeblood of others. And it isn’t just for magic. The magician—vampire—needs the life of others to live at all. My father’s doctor knew this, of course, even if the doctors at Cambridge didn’t. He should have had me killed as soon as I arrived home. He didn’t.”

  Pitt paused, waiting for Wilberforce to ask a question, but Wilberforce found he couldn’t. He simply looked at him.

  After a moment, Pitt went on. “Toward the end of the Vampire Wars, alchemists were experimenting with an elixir that allowed vampires to eat ordinary food instead. It never worked more than partially; afterward, it was made illegal, for fear it would allow the last of the vampires to escape detection without curbing their need for blood. But because I had only a weak strain of blood magic, and because he’d been my doctor from a very young age and he was fond of me, Dr. Addington decided to try it. At first I couldn’t keep that d
own either, and I deteriorated further. I don’t remember very much of that, but my parents told me they came very close to forcing him to stop and let me die in peace. But he kept adjusting it, and finally, without warning, it began to work, and it’s worked ever since. I still take it, every evening. I’ve never taken human blood.”

  Wilberforce took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out again. “Then surely you don’t—”

  “Fit the classification? Believe me, I do. If the elixir stopped working and I wanted to stay alive, I would need somebody else’s life. As I said, that’s how blood magic works. It’s supposed to make those with my particular Inheritance essentially immortal, which is inconvenient for those who would rather have a normal lifetime without facing the choice between murder and painful death.”

  “That’s why you knew the shadow was there in France,” Wilberforce said slowly. “Was that why it was looking at you? Remember, I asked you—?”

  “I remember,” Pitt said. “It surprised me too. Shadows don’t usually notice me in particular. I’m not a shadowmancer, as true vampires are. I do notice them, though, yes. And I notice bloodlines.”

  “But that’s all you have? All the abilities, I mean.”

  “That and strong mesmerism. I’ve never used that—well, not since I learned how to repress it.”

  Wilberforce brushed that off. “But that’s a legal ability, for an Aristocrat, which you are. Your father had it too. And you don’t need to murder to survive, and of course you wouldn’t, even if you did. Surely the Templars wouldn’t classify you as illegal? It’s not as though you’re dangerous.”

  “I am,” Pitt said. “Believe me, even with the alchemy, I am.”

  “Why?” Wilberforce said. “I know I have no right to ask—”

  “You have every right to ask,” Pitt corrected him, too calmly. It occurred to Wilberforce too late that Pitt was trying very hard to answer all his questions, and that it must be almost physically painful for him to do so. Pitt didn’t like talking about private matters at the best of times; this was very private. It was life and death. “The way it was explained to me, when I was fourteen, was this: vampiric abilities are designed for the domination of others. Sensitivity to bloodlines for their value as energy. Mesmerism to kill more easily, obviously, but more importantly for control, because pure vampires don’t only crave blood; they crave power. If I were to use those abilities, I would be trying to turn to my purposes something intended for destruction, and eventually they would destroy me.”

  “Good God,” Wilberforce said. “You must have been terrified.”

  Pitt looked at him for a second and then laughed. Wilberforce hadn’t meant to dissolve the uneasiness between them, but he noticed it dissolve, and smiled himself.

  “Well, at the time I assumed I was going to die, so it was a purely hypothetical terror. But yes, in retrospect, there probably isn’t a reassuring way to tell someone that if they use the magic they need to survive, they’ll become a monster.”

  “They shouldn’t have told you that. You were a child. And it isn’t true—at least, not more true for you than it is for anyone else. To some extent, we all have the capacity to become monsters.”

  “To some extent,” Pitt agreed cautiously. “The capacity is rather greater in an unregistered magician, and certainly in an illegal.”

  “Why should it be?” Wilberforce said. “They’re human beings—you, certainly, are a human being.”

  “You are aware that the Tower of London is full of human beings who have been put there solely for having magical Inheritances that they failed to report?”

  “Perhaps that’s unfair too,” Wilberforce said, and realized that he’d said something important. He was beginning to understand that he’d never, for all the talk he and Pitt had had about magical legislation, really thought about magical Commoners as he should. Nobody in his family had ever inherited magic; those of his Commoner friends who did kept their bracelets hidden and never spoke of them. He didn’t know any unregistered magicians.

  Except he did, of course. He was sitting right opposite one.

  “I don’t think the Knights Templar would agree with you,” Pitt was answering him. “The cells are almost at capacity at the moment, I believe.”

  “But they would kill you if they knew about you,” Wilberforce said. “They wouldn’t lock you up; they would kill you.”

  “Yes.” His voice was quiet. “Yes, they would. And that did terrify me at the time, of course. I understand their reasons; I can even agree with them, on principle. But when I was fourteen, I very much did not want to die like that.”

  “You would still prefer not to, I assume,” Wilberforce pointed out. He remembered suddenly why they were having this conversation and felt a sudden and unexpected flash of anger. “Did you tell me this to prevent me becoming one of them? Because you think that if I do, I’ll now be forced to kill you?”

  “Not at all,” Pitt said, slightly surprised. Wilberforce believed him. He’d known his anger was unjustified, but things he’d felt secure in had been greatly shaken, yet again. “I never thought of that. I have every confidence that you would no more support the Knights Templar in something you believe to be wrong than you would support me. If I ever were to meet my death at your hands, I would undoubtedly deserve it.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “Only a little,” Pitt said, with a much-needed smile. “In truth, I’m not sure why I told you—except to explain any personal biases I may have against one of my closest friends becoming a Templar, and because I feel you deserve to have the information. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. As you point out, it does put you in a difficult position.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Wilberforce said, as sincerely as he could. He wondered briefly why it was so often more difficult to sound sincere when you truly were. The shock was beginning to wear off now, the faint horror was beginning to seem shameful, and what remained was the realization that he had just been honored with a great show of trust. “Eliot doesn’t know, I take it?”

  “No—not unless Harriot’s told him, but I asked her not to. You understand why I couldn’t let him know—not when he was about to propose to her and not now that they’re married. It’s a question of family bloodlines. I couldn’t jeopardize her happiness by making him reluctant to marry into our family, or to have her bear his children.”

  “Eliot would have married your sister anyway,” Wilberforce said firmly. “I understand that you want to protect her, but he wouldn’t have cared one bit. Nor do I, by the way. Whatever path I decide to follow, of course I won’t divulge your secret. God will understand perfectly.”

  “Will he?”

  “Of course,” Wilberforce said, surprised. “My dear Pitt, do you really think that anyone, much less a demi-vampire, could retain their reason and their goodness and become first minister of this country before the age of twenty-five had God not intended it? You’re meant to be exactly where you are.”

  “Are you going to talk like this all the time now?”

  “Absolutely,” Wilberforce said with a straight face. “From now on, I will never speak of anything less serious than Providence and one’s immortal soul, and never smile even under the utmost duress. That is what we religious people are like.”

  “Don’t jest. It’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  “That is rather ironic coming from you. The last time I dined with you, you wouldn’t be silent on the subject of national debt. National debt. At the dinner table.”

  “At least I came to the dinner table. You sound as though you mean to withdraw from such frivolities entirely.”

  “Not withdraw entirely. I just want—” Wilberforce sighed. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know anything; that was really what I realized all those weeks ago, and what I’m still realizing, every time I have the delusion that I have any answers whatsoever. I don’t even have the questions, most of the time. There are flashes of light, that’s all, and I’m trying
to relearn everything I thought I knew by them. It’s hard.”

  “I’ve made it harder. I’m sorry for that, for the sake of your immediate well-being, but I can’t say that I’m sorry in the long term if it prevents you from making a too-easy decision.”

  “I won’t be argued out of my principles,” he warned.

  “Of course not. But surely the principles of Christianity are simple, and lead not to meditation only but to action. I suppose if I was trying to tell you anything about the Templars, it’s that their thoughts and practices haven’t changed greatly in the last three hundred years—longer, probably—without change being forced upon them. They work to ideas of good and evil that are perhaps fundamentally the same as yours, but they rarely challenge their application. You, on the other hand, just said it was unfair that so many unregistered magical Commoners were in the Tower of London. We’ve been talking for years about magical reform. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t miss those opportunities to change the world. Isn’t that why we entered the House of Commoners?”

  “The Templars do act as well,” Wilberforce pointed out. “They act against dark magic. And against—” He broke off, catching himself.

  “They do,” Pitt agreed. “And a lot of what they do is very admirable and necessary. I do wonder, though, if you’ve ever been to the Tower of London?”

  “No,” Wilberforce said. “No, I have not.”

  “You may want to pay it a visit.”

  The first thing that hit him was the smell. With his eyes effectively blind, it seemed a living thing rushing out at him from the darkness: a sour tang of sweat and vomit, a more pungent undertone of excrement. Wilberforce coughed involuntarily and felt bile rise in his throat.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “The Tower of London,” the Templar answered him. “Or rather, the prison wing.”

  There was always at least one Templar stationed at the Tower of London; it was usually a fairly strong magician, in case of emergencies. It was an unpleasant job, Wilberforce knew, so the position was shared and rotated as often as possible. Fortunately, the man on duty this month was a friend of Wilberforce’s from Cambridge. Frederick Holt had been a year above him, an Aristocrat reading magical theory and science, and had taken orders shortly after his graduation. He had grown more serious in the years since, but he was still the good-tempered, soft-faced young man who loved cats and had eaten enormous quantities of the Yorkshire pie Wilberforce had always had sent from home. When Wilberforce had written to him requesting a visit to the Tower, even if it wasn’t strictly aboveboard, Holt had been easy to persuade.