Heir of Uncertain Magic (Whimbrel House), page 1
PRAISE FOR CHARLIE N. HOLMBERG
STAR MOTHER
“Readers will find entertainment and hope in this sweeping, mythic tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“In this stunning example of amazing worldbuilding, Holmberg (Spellbreaker) features incredible creatures, a love story, and twists no one could see coming. This beautiful novel will be enjoyed by fantasy and romance readers alike.”
—Library Journal
“Gods and men mingle in this fantasy tale of celestial beings, battling gods, and time travel. Fans of Neil Gaiman’s Stardust (2008) will appreciate the unique characters in this fantasy adventure.”
—Booklist
THE SPELLBREAKER SERIES
“Romantic and electrifying . . . the fast-paced plot and fully realized world will have readers eager for the next installment. Fans of Victorian-influenced fantasy won’t want to put this down.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Those who enjoy gentle romance, cozy mysteries, or Victorian fantasy will love this first half of a duology. The cliff-hanger ending will keep readers breathless waiting for the second half.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Powerful magic, indulgent Victoriana, and a slow-burn romance make this genre-bending romp utterly delightful.”
—Kirkus Reviews
THE NUMINA SERIES
“[An] enthralling fantasy . . . The story is gripping from the start, with a surprising plot and a lush, beautifully realized setting. Holmberg knows just how to please fantasy fans.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With scads of action, clear explanations of how supernatural elements function, and appealing characters with smart backstories, this first in a series will draw in fans of Cassandra Clare, Leigh Bardugo, or Brandon Sanderson.”
—Library Journal
“Holmberg is a genius at world building; she provides just enough information to set the scene without overwhelming the reader. She also creates captivating characters worth rooting for and puts them in unique situations. Readers will be eager for the second installment in the Numina series.”
—Booklist
THE PAPER MAGICIAN SERIES
“Charlie is a vibrant writer with an excellent voice and great world building. I thoroughly enjoyed The Paper Magician.”
—Brandon Sanderson, author of Mistborn and The Way of Kings
“Harry Potter fans will likely enjoy this story for its glimpses of another structured magical world, and fans of Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus will enjoy the whimsical romance element . . . So if you’re looking for a story with some unique magic, romantic gestures, and the inherent darkness that accompanies power all steeped in a yet to be fully explored magical world, then this could be your next read.”
—Amanda Lowery, Thinking Out Loud
THE WILL AND THE WILDS
“An immersive, dangerous fantasy world. Holmberg draws readers in with a fast-moving plot, rich details, and a surprisingly sweet human-monster romance. This is a lovely, memorable fairy tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Holmberg ably builds her latest fantasy world, and her brisk narrative and the romance at its heart will please fans of her previous magical tales.”
—Booklist
THE FIFTH DOLL
Winner of the 2017 Whitney Award for Speculative Fiction
“The Fifth Doll is told in a charming, folklore-ish voice that’s reminiscent of a good old-fashioned tale spun in front of the fireplace on a cold winter night. I particularly enjoyed the contrast of the small-town village atmosphere—full of simple townspeople with simple dreams and worries—set against the complex and eerie backdrop of the village that’s not what it seems. The fact that there are motivations and forces shaping the lives of the villagers on a daily basis that they’re completely unaware of adds layers and textures to the story and makes it a very interesting read.”
—San Francisco Book Review
ALSO BY CHARLIE N. HOLMBERG
The Whimbrel House Series
Keeper of Enchanted Rooms
The Star Mother Series
Star Mother
Star Father
The Spellbreaker Series
Spellbreaker
Spellmaker
The Numina Series
Smoke and Summons
Myths and Mortals
Siege and Sacrifice
The Paper Magician Series
The Paper Magician
The Glass Magician
The Master Magician
The Plastic Magician
Other Novels
The Fifth Doll
Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet
Followed by Frost
Veins of Gold
The Will and the Wilds
You’re My IT
Two-Damage My Heart
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2023 by Charlie N. Holmberg
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662508691 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781662508684 (digital)
Cover design by Marina Drukman
Cover illustration by Christina Chung
To Brandon Sanderson.
Thank you for holding the torch and lighting the way.
CONTENTS
MAP
DOCTRINES OF MAGIC
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DOCTRINES OF MAGIC
Augury • Soothsaying, fortune-telling, divination, luck
Repercussion: forgetfulness
Associated mineral: amethyst
Psychometry • Mind reading, hallucination, empathy, intuition
Repercussion: dulling of senses
Associated mineral: azurite
Conjury • Creation, summoning of natural components
Repercussion: loss of equal worth to summoned object
Associated mineral: pyrite
Necromancy • Death/life magic, life force, disease/healing
Repercussion: nausea
Associated mineral: turquoise
Wardship • Shielding, protection, spell-turning
Repercussion: weakening of physical body
Associated mineral: tourmaline
Element • Manipulation of fire, water, earth, or air
Repercussion: fire, chill; water, dryness; earth, vertigo; air, shortness of breath
Associated mineral: clear quartz
Alteration • Shape-shifting, changing, metamorphosis
Repercussion: temporary physical mutation
Associated mineral: opal
Communion • Translation, communication with plants/animals
Repercussion: muteness, tinnitus
Associated mineral: selenite
Hysteria • Manipulation of emotions, pain
Repercussion: physical pain, apathy
Associated mineral: carnelian
Kinetic • Movement, force
Repercussion: stiffness, lack of mobility
Associated mineral: bloodstone
Chaocracy • Manipulation of chaos/order, destruction, restoration
Repercussion: confusion
Associated mineral: obsidian
Chapter 1
November 2, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Merritt had just slipped back into a state of dozing when the voice of a mouse jolted him to alertness. Hide hide. Hide. Hide hide. Hide. Food? Food? Hunt. Hunt. Hide.
Groaning, he pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Every night. Every night since escaping Silas Hogwood’s lair this had happened. Like that damnable man had cursed him. Like visiting the magicked haunt had jolted the ability he’d only had a trickle of previously. Merritt had lived thirty-one years of his life sleeping just fine, but the moment he formally met Silas Hogwood, the voices would not leave him be.
And why was he so hot?
Merritt ripped off his shirt and chucked it across the room, sighing as coolness prickled his skin.
Hide hide hide.
Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind.
“Not you again,” he croaked, scowling at the window. The gauzy curtains were drawn, but he could see the shadow of the red maple just outside, its boughs shifting gently in the breeze. That blasted tree pestered him more than anyone, Owein excluded.
He covered his ears, but of course, that didn’t help. Communion spells weren’t auditory—they went straight into his brain, and he hadn’t yet found a way to shut them out. It wasn’t a constant flow of plant and animal speech, thank the heavens, but it did increase at night. Perhaps because his guard was down. Or maybe everything on this blasted island was nocturnal.
Wiiiiiiiind, the tree whispered.
“Yes, I know.” Merritt whipped the blanket off, trudged to the window, and yanked back the curtains. The island was dark, save for the light of the moon and stars and the distant glow of a lighthouse. He couldn’t see much of anything, but he could hear all of it.
Streeeeetch, wheezed the grass.
Wiiiiiiiiiiiind, repeated the tree.
Coooooold, sang . . . a cricket? He wasn’t sure on that one.
The voices spun and banged in his head, awakening a familiar headache that no tonic could dull. Merritt pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window, trying to think about something else—his book, Hulda, the laundry, politics—but the voices pierced through, regardless.
For the love of heaven, shut up.
He pleaded. Prayed. He was so tired. Two and a half weeks of this, each night progressively worse than the last, and he was so, so tired. He banged his forehead against the glass. Once, twice, three times. Stopped counting and just banged, which worsened the headache, but if he could just shake the voices loose, maybe he could get a few hours of rest tonight. Just a few hours—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Merritt?”
The mental voices quieted as an auditory one pricked his ears. He pulled back from the window to see Hulda in the doorway, holding a candle, wrapped in a robe for modesty. Had he been so loud as to rouse her?
“Again?” she asked, sounding tired herself.
Merritt rubbed his eyes. It won’t stop, he tried to say, but his voice didn’t come. Muteness was a side effect of communion. An infuriating side effect.
He turned back to the window and punched the glass, hard enough to hurt his knuckles but not enough to break it.
He screamed a string of silent obscenities at the window and everything beyond it.
“Oh dear.” Hulda pushed the door all the way open and stepped in. Paused when her candle illuminated him. “Oh dear.”
Merritt met her eyes, which were trained on his chest. He looked down.
Right. Where had he thrown that shirt?
He couldn’t apologize, so he just waved a hand and tromped to his bed, flinging the blankets aside, scouring until he found the thing hanging off his trunk. He shrugged it back on. Snatched a notebook off his bedside table and perched on the trunk, writing with a pencil. Hulda came closer to better see.
I guess we’re even now.
She swatted him with her free hand. “At least your deplorable sense of humor is still intact.”
A smile tugged on his lips, making him feel a little better. It just so happened that Merritt had—by accident—caught Hulda in her underthings on two occasions. Once during a private dance lesson she’d given to Beth, his maid, and again in that basement in Marshfield. Apparently dresses didn’t lend well to sneaking through canal drains.
He hadn’t minded in the slightest, but he did not tell Hulda that.
I’m going to cut down that tree, he wrote. He needn’t explain; this was not the first midnight—or midday—conversation they’d had via this notebook because he couldn’t speak. It took only a few spells for the island to rob him of his voice.
After setting down the pencil, he rubbed his eyes again.
“I’m sorry.” Hulda lowered herself onto the trunk and grasped his shoulder. “I thought that draft would help.”
He shook his head. The sleeping tincture she’d fed him before bed no longer worked. It only made his body feel heavy now.
Merritt flipped back a page and pointed at a dark passage written in capital letters from the night before. I’M NOT TRYING TO USE IT.
“I know.” She rubbed that same shoulder. She rolled her lips together. “Merritt.”
He shook his head. He knew what she was going to say.
“You need to go see him.”
Exhaling slowly, Merritt ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair, half-knotted from tossing and turning through the night.
“He may very well be a communionist, too. Or at least know one,” she pressed.
Nelson Sutcliffe, she meant. The man who was supposedly his biological father—an interesting fact Merritt had recently learned. A fun, jagged puzzle piece in the mess of his life. His secret parentage was the reason his father—Peter Fernsby, the man who had raised him—had hated him so much. Enough that he’d bribed Merritt’s sweetheart to fake a pregnancy, all so he’d have a reason to disinherit Merritt and throw him out of the house.
But Nelson Sutcliffe was in Cattlecorn, Merritt’s hometown. Merritt’s parents were also in Cattlecorn. And he hadn’t spoken to them—or any of his family—in thirteen years. Peter Fernsby had made sure of it.
Merritt was well aware that these new revelations needed to be confronted. That Sutcliffe and Peter needed to be confronted, too. He needed to—wanted to—take back the family that had been so unjustly ripped away from him. And yet the thought of stepping foot in that town made him sick to his stomach. Made his mind spin and stop working. He just . . . couldn’t.
Wiiiiiiind.
I know there’s blasted wind! Merritt shouted without sound at the tree, then chucked the notebook at it. It thumped hard against the window and fell to the floor.
“Merritt.” Hulda set down the candle and took his jaw in her hands, making him look at her. “Focus on me. Listen to my words. Try to shut the rest of it out.”
Easier said than done.
The retort must have been in his expression, because Hulda added, “I know it’s a monotonous exercise, but do try.”
Merritt withheld a sigh and looked into Hulda’s eyes, which were almost brown in the poor lighting. She recited a children’s poem, and Merritt loosely followed it, more interested in the movement of her soft, full lips than the actual words. There was no way on God’s verdurous earth Hulda would let him kiss her here and now. They weren’t properly dressed, it was the middle of the night, and they were in Merritt’s bedroom. She was far too prudent for that, which was truthfully for the better. But still. Right then, Merritt wanted nothing more than to be close to her. If he couldn’t kiss her, he’d settle for laying his head on her breast, shutting his eyes, and maybe, maybe, falling asleep.
She finished the poem. Searched his face. “Any better?”
“Minutely,” he wheezed.
She managed a small smile. “Let me make you some more tea. Maybe it’ll help this time.” There was doubt in her voice, but she was trying, and he appreciated her efforts. Taking up the candle, she stood, checking that the tie of her robe was secure. “And there is also the matter of—” She paused and looked over him, slouched on that trunk and rubbing his throat. “Never mind. We’ll address it in the morning.”
“Thanks,” he said, but it came out rough and unintelligible. The sound of paws outside the door announced Owein, but Hulda slipped off and sent him back to bed. He’d spent the first few nights in Merritt’s room, but his thoughts only added to the nighttime cacophony, so Hulda had moved him to the sitting room.
Twisting on the trunk, Merritt laid his head down on the mattress, sleep pulling his eyelids closed.
A moment later, the soft worrying of a mouse trickled into his mind.
“So I can only court you outside the walls of this house?”
Hulda rolled her eyes—Merritt wondered if she realized how often she did that, and how inconsistent it was with her otherwise meticulous and proper persona. She ran her hands over the surface of the dining room table before pulling them together. “It’s not my intention to put boundaries on our . . . courtship,” she said softly, like a young girl might. Like she still couldn’t believe that nine days ago she’d returned Merritt’s declaration and kissed him in the wilds of the island. Merritt tried to hide a smile, but he didn’t do a good job of it. “I’m simply stating,” Hulda went on, “that it’s inappropriate within the confines of our roles as master of the house and housekeeper.”
Merritt stifled a yawn—he had managed to get back to sleep last night, giving him a solid four hours of rest—and turned to the window, hoping the sunlight would keep him alert. A few snow flurries brushed by the dining room window, which had recently been repaired by a magic mutt with an absurd amount of chaocracy spells stitched to his spirit. It was midmorning, but the cloud-choked skies made it look much later—or perhaps much earlier. Winter was settling in on the East Coast, barely giving autumn much of a chance to show up to the party. Yet their little island still seemed apart from it all, its lingering leaves brighter shades of red and richer hues of yellow, the house somehow untouched by the weather despite its lack of mystical wizardry. Sometimes Merritt forgot it wasn’t enchanted anymore—a little tidbit only those within its walls knew, plus one—and sometimes he suspected that maybe it still was.
