Bastian chuckled. “I promise you, it won’t. You can’t cast accidentally. It requires concentration and focus.”
Francis didn’t look convinced. Still, he waited patiently for Bastian’s instructions.
“Artemis says you need to make a gesture, do something with your hand. You don’t remember what your fingers were doing last time?” Bastian asked.
“Nope.”
Swallowing down frustration, Bastian tried another route. “Ok, we’ll start with meditation. Instead of the calm, though, I want you to hold out your hand and imagine a flame.”
Francis lifted his arm. Bastian waited. After a few minutes, Francis dropped his arm.
“Sorry. I can’t hold it up no more.” He looked defeated and they had barely begun.
“Look, Francis, I know this is hard. You’re trying to do something that even I can’t comprehend. You can do it, though. I saw you. We just need to figure out how.”
Francis kicked at a clump of dirt. “If I don’t, those bastards will hurt our town again, won’t they.”
Bastian grabbed his arm. “You think I’d let that happen? That any of us would? Why do you think we’ve been riding you so hard, pushing you through all those mind-clearing exercises and flicking your shields with imaginary stones until you’re ready to punch us?”
Francis yanked his arm back, face flushed. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know we can’t win, I know a few weeks of fucking about ain’t gonna do squat against those people. They’re not weak, or stupid. You don’t think they can just walk on in here and fuck us over again in a heartbeat?”
“Francis, you’ve come so far—”
“Not far enough!” Francis raised a clenched fist, holding it back with an effort. Then, he spat out a growl as he opened his hand and let it fall. “I’m sorry, Bastian. I know you’ve tried. It’s not that you failed, it’s that you never had a chance in the first place.” He turned to go.
“Francis, please. I—” Bastian paused. “What’s that smell?”
“What?” Francis glanced back, caught by the unexpected question. Then, he jumped, eyes wide. “Fire. FIRE!”
Bastian spun. The pile of dry grass he had tossed his coat onto was now burning, the flames already a foot high. “What in the hell?”
He ripped off his shirt and slapped it at the flame, Francis beside him trying to stomp out the embers. When the last flickers were gone and the ash had stopped smoking, they leaned against the wall, exhausted by the rush of activity.
“If that had reached the feed shed, we’d have been in some serious trouble,” Francis commented.
“Bloody stupid place to teach you to shoot fire,” Bastian said. “I take the blame.”
Francis laughed. “You think that was me?” His smile fell away as Bastian simply stood there. “It wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t do anything.”
“The hell you didn’t. You got angry, Francis.” Bastian kicked himself for not realizing sooner. The first time Francis had cast a fire spell, he had been burning up inside, thinking about the New Dawn and all they had taken from him. This time, he had been thinking about what they might do next.
“That thing I did with my fist,” Francis said. “You think that was the thing?”
Bastian shrugged. “It was a thing. The spell you cast this time wasn’t the same as the first one. Then, the fire was in your hand. This time it was like you threw it. Not a fireball, because we’d have seen that.”
“I guess I maybe did feel something. Like… a letting go. I was trying to let go of the anger, but it felt… different.” Francis lifted his hands and gazed at them in wonder. “I really did that.”
“Well, it didn’t start itself.” Bastian pinched when Francis flexed his hands. “Before you try again, maybe we should head somewhere a little less flammable. And maybe have some water buckets nearby, too.”
“There’s a pond in one of the fields at Ma’s. The wall, though—you mind if I go back and finish? Master Julianne asked me to make sure it got done.”
Bastian nodded, seeing lines of fatigue around Francis’s eyes. Though it was only a tiny fire, he was far from used to creating energy like that from nothing. He would need to tread carefully, lest he burn the man out. “That’s fine. I have to go see to some things anyway. We can try again at first light.”
Francis nodded, then reached out a hand. Trying not to show his nervousness, Bastian shook it firmly. Francis’s skin was cool and smooth, with no sign of the damage it had just done.
“Thank you, Bastian. I know we Tahn folk can be a bit ornery sometimes, but we do appreciate what you’ve done.”
“I know, Francis. I know.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Julianne and Marcus slowed as they approached the city, dismounting as soon as the gates were in sight. Unlike Tahn, the residents of Muir were wrapped inside the high stone walls, protected by heavy iron gates that were guarded by soldiers in sparkling armor.
Julianne picked off the last of the grass that clung to her clothes. They had spent the night sleeping under the stars, opting to leave the tent rolled up so they could enjoy the last of the warm weather, and make an early start in the morning.
“Well, it seems someone is certainly profiting from the nearby towns,” Marcus commented. “Not one bloody soldier seen in Tahn, and these bozos are prancing about in gear that looks like it hasn’t seen a day of battle.”
As much as Marcus hated Adrien, he at least had to admit that he had protected the smaller towns and estates around Arcadia well. Of course, they were mostly inhabited by Adrien’s elite class of nobles.
“Steady on,” Julianne said. “We don't want to get kicked out before we even get in.”
“Can’t you just waggle your eyebrows and hocus pocus them?” Marcus asked.
“I already have,” Julianne said calmly. He looked up to see her eyes shining white. “But it’ll be a lot more work with you making a ruckus. Just move slowly and quietly.”
Marcus did as she asked, carefully walking his horse past the gatekeepers. The soldiers didn’t show any sign of their approach and Marcus held his breath as they stepped inside.
The town was bustling with activity. Horses trod the roads, some decked out in shiny leather and brass, others ridden with worn saddles and old ropes for a harness. The ground was hard, the flop of hooves suggesting that underneath the veneer of dirt, the roads were cobbled.
“Marcus, you look like you’re about to pop,” Julianne giggled.
He let out a whoosh of air. “I was being quiet, like you said!" he protested. He nudged his horse down one of the wider roads through the city.
“Do you want to visit the brothel now, or later? We’ll have to find a place to stay, and I need a way to speak to George Senior on the quiet, too.”
“The… what?” Marcus asked, sure he had heard her wrong.
“The brothel.” She arched an eyebrow. “What, scared of a few girls?”
“I… just…”
Julianne burst out laughing, gripping her saddle so she wouldn’t fall off her horse. “Oh, Marcus. The look on your face is just priceless! I planted a suggestion in Little George’s head to tell his favorite prostitute everything he knows about the New Dawn, and any action he’s taken since he got back.”
Marcus sagged in relief. “I thought… never mind.” The pink in his cheeks made her laugh even more, causing a few passers-by to look over, frowning at the odd behavior.
“You… actually thought… I’d send you off to get serviced by some poor girl in a sex factory, while I wait… patiently outside?” Julianne heaved breaths in between her shaking words, dissolving back into laughter as soon as she was done.
“No! I mean… Hell, Jules, give me a break.” The pink was now purple and Marcus tugged at the neck of his shirt, trying desperately to cool his face.
Coughing, Julianne desperately gathered her senses and slipped into a meditation. She broke it twice, unable to suppress her mirth. Finally, she was calm.
Still
, she couldn’t resist one more jab. “Anyway, it’s not like we’ve never spent time in a prostitute’s room together before.”
When she had been outed as a spy, posing as Stellan, a trap was laid at the local Arcadian brothel. Julianne had been frequenting it to keep up appearances, lulling the girl to sleep once she was in the room and planting false memories in her head.
“I hate you,” Marcus mumbled. The color in his face hadn’t subsided. “And I need a drink. I bloody well deserve one, putting up with you. I’ll find the inn and you can find the bloody hooker. Don’t wake me up when you come in.”
Julianne pressed her lips together tightly, holding back another jab at Marcus about “waking him up when she came in.” Though their relationship hadn’t passed beyond a few kisses and some flirting, the tensions sometimes lay thick enough to cut with a sword.
Resolving to behave herself in case she dug a deeper hole than she was ready for, Julianne caught Marcus by the arm. He watched as her eyes flicked white for a bare moment, then cleared as she disguised them.
She stared vacantly, occasionally tipping her head a little in one direction, then another. Finally, she blinked and smiled. “Take that road. Don’t stop at the first place, keep going. It’s not too far.”
“Bloody woman,” was all Marcus said before he kicked his horse into a trot and disappeared into the throng of people and horses in the street.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Julianne regarded the clean, white building in front of her. The front door was small and unassuming, with no signage to signal what lay inside.
Not for the first time, Julianne shook her head. She wanted Marcus there with her, and wasn’t happy at the idea of him running about town alone. He had never come up against the New Dawn directly, and although his innate gift for mental shields should protect him, she preferred to play it safe.
Julianne took a slow breath, slipping into a meditative state. She lowered her eyelids to hide the whiteness and centered herself. She felt the connection with the world around her.
The sun warmed her hands and face. The cobbled stones under her feet pushed hard lumps through the soft soles of her shoes. Her nose filled with the scent of horse, sweat, and sex, while her ears vaguely noted the chatter of the townspeople, the clang of a distant metal worker, hoofbeats, singing, and a loud crow.
Opening her eyes, Julianne muttered a quiet word. She stepped forwards, crossed the road and knocked loudly on the door. To anyone in the street, however, she was no longer the white-robed woman who led the mystics of the Heights.
Instead, anyone watching would see a young man with dark hair and green eyes, one who had a smug twist to his mouth and an arrogant posture.
A small peephole slid open. Brown eyes peered out, regarding the well-dressed man in fine silks and dropping to the fat purse hanging from his belt. Julianne gave the pouch a tap, and the coins inside clinked loudly.
The peephole snapped shut. A moment later, the narrow door swung open.
“Welcome to the House of Friendship, sir.” The woman batted her eyelids and twitched the sheer cloth of her dress.
Julianne cocked an eyebrow, acting unimpressed. “I’m not here for friendship,” she growled in a man’s voice.
The girl smiled seductively. “Whatever you’re here for, we can provide. That is, of course, if you can afford it.”
“Oh, I can afford it.” Julianne looked around the room.
Incense burned on the walls, making the room hazy. Silks hung from the ceiling, tied so that they billowed and undulated in the breeze from an upper window. The floor was green with pillows, and couches were scattered haphazardly about.
Across from her, one man lay on an ornate daybed, passed out. Another sat nearby, limply hanging onto a brass cup that leaned dangerously to one side. As Julianne turned away, it tipped just a little too far. Dark wine patterned on the carpet below.
“We’re quiet at this time of day,” the girl whispered. “You’ve got the pick of all the ladies. There are a few men out back, too, if that’s what you prefer?”
Julianne quickly brought to mind the image of George’s favorite girl. “Are they all as old as you?" she asked, trying not to show her distaste at the comment. She could just brainwash her way through, but acting the part instead would allow her to conserve her mental energy.
Her companion didn’t seem offended. “We have plenty to choose from, my lord.”
“I like the pale ones. Skin like milk, hair like fine sand.” Julianne stopped short of asking for anything too specific. She didn't want to draw attention to herself.
Julianne waited patiently while the girl disappeared behind a curtain, trying to ignore the men in the room with her. A moment later, George’s girl sauntered out. “Greetings, my lord.”
Julianne regarded her a moment, then nodded. “You’ll do.”
“This way.” The girl gestured to one of the curtains and Julianne followed her out, paying no attention to her swaying hips.
They went down a short hallway, past several doors. Each one had something hanging from the doorknob—a necklace, or scarf, or in one case, a shoe.
When they came to an unmarked door, the prostitute—Polly, Julianne read from her mind—pushed it open and ushered Julianne through. She peeked down the hallway before closing it, and draped a ribbon on the knob before shutting it behind them.
Polly turned around and gasped to see a small woman toe to toe with her, where the tall man should have stood. Unlike her wealthy client, this girl looked alert and dangerous. Her eyes glowed with the white heat of an over-baked coal.
Polly opened her mouth to scream. Before she could make a sound, her muscles sagged and her mouth dropped shut. Julianne led her to the bed and sat her down.
“Polly, when did Lord George last visit?” Julianne laced the words with light compulsion.
The girl wasn’t particularly resistant, just a little afraid. Julianne drained a little of the fear to make her comfortable, not that she would remember a single thing when they parted ways.
“Last night,” she murmured in a flat voice.
“What did he tell you about his trip to Tahn?” Julianne demanded.
She knew from experience not to ask for ‘everything he said’. That would leave the poor girl compelled to repeat everything that slipped through his lips, and could take hours.
“He’d come from a mission for his father’s advisor. Something about insurgents taking over the town, he wasn’t really sure what had happened. He was asked to go there, and find out what happened to the people the advisor had stationed there.”
So, he’s referring to us as insurgents? Not surprising, Julianne thought.
Polly kept talking. “Tobias lost a horseshoe. It slowed them, and George was getting angry. He told the men to leave him behind, and they refused because of the bandits. George couldn’t do anything about it. It made him so angry.”
Wide eyes turned up to Julianne, devoid of empathy. “It made him feel impotent. He told me that, before he hit me.” A hand drifted to her jaw and looking more closely, Julianne saw the makeup Polly had used to hide the bruise.
“He got to Tahn. Lied about his reason for being there. He thought if the townspeople paid him to go away, he could keep a cut of the money. They made him angry, though. A girl—” Understanding dawned on Polly’s face, and Julianne made sure to note that this prostitute was anything but stupid.
“The girl and her friends made a fool of him. He’s going to tell the advisor that the town is riddled with insurgents, that they have to lead an army there to destroy them. He has to keep it from his father, because his plan will fall apart.”
“Then what?” Julianne leaned closer, urgency in her voice.
“Then he fucked me. While he did it, he talked. He told me about the advisor—he’s been here for months, but George still doesn’t know his name. That makes him angry, too. The patches in his memory make him wonder if he’s going insane. He just kept talking and talking.”
>
Polly told Julianne that the advisor had been playing tricks on his father, but that George Senior hadn’t fallen for all of them. He couldn’t say what the tricks were, just that it had happened. He told her about the new faces, slowly taking positions in the town.
Julianne dove into her head. She watched as Polly connected dots all over the place—the talk about the new advisor brought a flash of memory, a well-dressed man Polly had seen more than once. Julianne recognized him immediately.
How like a power-hungry dictator to wipe only the minds he thought mattered. George the Third and all his soldiers had all had every trace of Rogan’s face removed from their memory. Not Polly. As a lowly commoner, she would have been beneath his notice.
It was Rogan. A thrill of fear and excitement went through Julianne at the thought of taking him down at last. Polly kept on with her story, telling about a red-haired woman and a sleazy little man. The first she had seen—that was Donna, of course. The second she hadn’t, but Julianne guessed it was August.
Under the words, Polly was thinking about the recent absence of Lord George Senior, and how the city was slowly falling into disorder and disrepair. Their normally bright, clean city was now hit with higher taxes and fewer services, leading residents to start grumbling.
The city guard had increased. Lord George had given them directions to stamp out violence and unrest, using ruthless tactics that even some of the guards employed with reluctance.
More jobs meant not only relief for the poorer families, but more men with free coin to spend at the brothel. Polly and the other workers for Madam Rosa could barely keep up.
The problem with that was in recent weeks, rumors were flying that Lord George no longer approved of the practice. Plans were already in place to move the business to another town if the crackdown became reality.
Polly was still rattling off her story. She mentioned George had attended to his business a lot faster than usual—not that he ever took long—and left.
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