Wizard's Masquerade, page 63
She winced and shut her eyes. “About that much. A flask’s worth. But undiluted.”
“Ah, I see.” His eyebrows lifted high as drew a sharp breath. “That is indeed a high concentration. Well, let us hope for the best, shall we? And prepare for the worst…”
Her hand stilled on Finnigan’s arm, and she willed herself to feel the strength of his magic as she once had in the kitchens. Try as she might, she could not feel a thing.
“Is everything alright?” asked Master Emsworth.
“Actually, sir…” she hesitated, but saw no harm in sharing what she’d discovered about her mysterious new power. After everything that had happened, she was sick of secrets.
The headmaster listened thoughtfully as she explained the times she’d felt the connection to Finnigan: when he had cast a spell to save Seth, and in the kitchens when she’d rifled through his entire inventory of spells. “Oh, and I just remembered,” she added, “this may be unrelated, but the night I found the Demon Book, it spoke to me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Did it now?”
She nodded, hopeful that it could lead to her discovering how to use her power—if that is what it was. With Finnigan unconscious, she longed to connect to him, even if it was just to feel his magic. “Do you know what any of it means, sir?”
The headmaster seemed to consider this. “I’m afraid, Leyna, that my experience with what you are describing is limited. If I’m right, however, then it is a rather rare, subtle form of sensory magic. That’s not to say it does not have its value, and in fact, it can be rather useful if expanded upon…but at present, there isn’t even a classification system for it, so only a specialist in the field could say for sure…and there’s been so little documentation, with most of it anecdotal, so I’m unsure how accurate any of it would be for your situation.”
She did not quite understand, but nodded along, hoping to glean something useful.
“From what you’ve described, perhaps a relaxed mind is the key—which is a good starting point for any magic, as you know. And from what I gather, you could achieve a relaxed state on each of the occasions you described with the aid of a little spirit or similar.”
The confusion must have shown on her face, because he smiled and stroked his goatee in amusement. “Alcohol, Leyna. You were drinking, yes? I imagine that you either you drank a lot, or else you were relaxed enough that a little did the trick.”
“So…it’s a magic that only works with alcohol?”
The headmaster chuckled. “I never said that—nor would I condone performing magic while drinking. That being said, the alcohol might have assisted you in achieving a state of relaxation. Ideally, it is a feat you would achieve without the need to drink. Something for you to practice, perhaps? Now,” he said, shifting to a business-like tone, “I haven’t had a chance to heal your arms properly, hence the wrappings, as you can see. My focus has been almost solely on Cornelius, although there were many others injured, and Healer James and I had our work cut out for us.”
The healer’s name jogged her memory. “Jill Dobay, one of the prisoners—she’s innocent, and Healer James was meant to go down to heal her. Where is she now?”
“Jill’s gone, Leyna.”
Her heart lurched, but then the headmaster said: “Healer James attended her, and then someone came to take her home. I understand she has a son to take care of.”
She looked up at the ceiling, breathing out in relief. Thank goodness.
“What about Quinn?”
“Quinn Volak is fine, but he sustained significant burns, especially inside his mouth. He was in a tremendous amount of pain, although I’m relieved to say that most of the damage has been reversed—and time should take care of the rest. There is still significant ulceration, and his tongue is quite swollen, so it’s rather hard for him to speak.”
“Oh, that’s just Quinn,” she joked, unable to help herself as a weight lifted off her chest. “Because he’s not very talkative, you see,” she added hastily.
“Indeed.”
“Does that mean Quinn’s name has been cleared?”
The headmaster inclined his head, and she relaxed. Jill, Quinn, Finnigan…they were all alive and free.
She sat bolt upright, remembering Sophie, her momentary bliss shredded.
“What about my parents, and Grace? And what about Seth? And Amelia? And…” she rattled off a list of names, somehow including everyone from the steward and Professor Carlton, down to the butler and housekeeper, whose names she didn’t even know, but she surprised herself by how much they all mattered to her. She even asked after Sir Waldorf, who had overslept after the night of the feast and missed out on the king’s trip, which had inadvertently saved his life, and prompted him set out on a journey of his own to Kormend.
Master Emsworth laughed softly, and it reminded her of Finnigan’s laugh. “Yes, yes, they’re all fine. But I’m afraid there were others who were not so fortunate…”
She braced herself as he recounted the casualties. Maurice had died in the fray, while Firmin survived but sustained lasting injuries, and was under arrest in a separate part of the healing ward, where he could recover before being transferred to the dungeon for charges of perjury and other criminal offences. The chamberlain had paid off both men with money and promises of power, and they had altered their recount of the Court Massacre, distorting the details as it suited Percy’s needs. This had allowed him to eliminate Beatrice, whose trial had been anything but unbiased, with only a few council members sharing the panel with Percy, and Maurice and Firmin’s eyewitness testimony serving as the primary evidence.
By the time the headmaster finished recounting the aftermath of the battle, her brain felt foggy. Sleep beckoned, but she couldn’t waste this opportunity to ask questions. It struck her that the headmaster hadn’t mentioned Percy. “What about the lord chamberlain? Is he still alive?”
“Yes, although he’s lucky to be.” His lips pressed together tightly, and she realised he was angry. “And Percival O’Haire is not the lord chamberlain anymore. He regained consciousness near the end of the battle when Prince Seth arrived, and he used that opportunity to set the steward’s demon cat on Cornelius. I believe he had ‘gifted’ the demon to the steward to keep him in line, and to kill him one day, if the need ever became necessary. Percival gave himself the highest authority to control the demon cat, able to override even the prince’s commands.”
“But he didn’t use the demon cat to kill the steward,” she said, thinking out loud. “He set it on Cornelius instead. Why?”
The headmaster gave her a knowing look. “I think he was jealous of Cornelius’ relationship with you.”
“Jealous? But…” she was speechless. There had been nothing remotely romantic about her interactions with Percy.
“Perhaps not in the way you are thinking, Leyna. But certainly, he liked to control people, and I think he very much wanted to have a hold over you. I believe he resented Cornelius for ‘stealing’ you from him.”
“I was never Percy’s in the first place,” she grumbled, crossing her arms and looking out the window, hoping to see a glimpse of nature—only to find that it was shuttered. She sighed. “Was Percy really blackmailing the steward?”
“Yes, but not at first. In the beginning, he made himself invaluable to the steward, and as you’ve experienced, he can be quite persuasive.”
She recalled how fondly the steward had petted Ernie. He had trusted the chamberlain—but their interactions in the Great Hall proved he’d caught on to Percy’s manipulations.
“So who will rule Rosaria now?”
“Why, Marek Volak, of course. That isn’t changing. Our lord regent is more than capable, and considering our victorious battle, he has the full support of the courts now.”
Her eyes lit up, but she kept her voice low as she asked: “Does that mean the Brotherhood will support him as lord regent until the prince comes of age?”
The headmaster’s eyes flashed, and she realised she’d assumed that Master Emsworth was involved in the Brotherhood. Her chin dipped, but deep down, she was sure enough to ask him directly: “You are the leader of the Brotherhood, aren’t you, sir?”
A moment later, he inclined his head.
“What about Professor Fry?” she pressed, hungry for answers. “Was she a member of the Brotherhood?”
He made a noncommittal sound. “Technically, yes, she was a member of the Brotherhood. When she was young, her training brought her in contact with Finnigan. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Maisy Fry has a tragic family history. She’s the only of nine siblings to still be alive. All her brothers and sisters perished, some from the wars.”
“That’s horrible.” The new knowledge helped shed light on Fry’s character. “She must have carried so much pain with her.”
“Everyone deals with loss differently. She struggled, as I think you are aware, and her family’s tragedy made her fierce, but unstable—the latter only became apparent as she grew older, and especially when she lost the two sisters who were close to her in age. Still, she completed her training for the Brotherhood, but I never quite knew what to do with her. I couldn’t trust her with sensitive information or important missions, but she never stopped trying to become involved. I think she imagined herself achieving great things.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps it was a mistake, but I kept her at the Guild as a professor, where I could monitor her.”
“And then you sent her here.”
“Indeed. The steward requested I send wizards to reinforce the castle’s security, and it seemed like a blessing in disguise. Maisy was driven, and it was a calling that would satisfy her, at least temporarily, and she would truly be of value to Rosaria. It is easy, knowing how things ended, to question past decisions…”
The headmaster trailed off, cupping his mouth as if grieving.
“Her death wasn’t an accident,” she said. “Percy pushed her into the Demon Door.”
He nodded. “Yes, I’m aware. Percy has been quite…forthcoming.”
Leyna’s hands clenched into fists at the thought of the chamberlain bragging, but the sharp pain of the burn made them spring open again “Do you know why Fry was following me? The chamberlain was with her outside the Demon Door, waiting for Grace and I to deliver Quinn to him. Who was she working for?”
“I dare not speculate. Either she was watching over you for the Brotherhood, as per her orders, or she had switched sides, and was serving the Renegátok and Percy.” He paused. “Given her ambition, I could see her being tempted to join a man like Percy. But it doesn’t matter now.”
“Yes, it does,” she insisted. The headmaster raised an eyebrow at her, but she continued: “I think her legacy is important. If she died serving the Brotherhood, then she deserves to be remembered that way.”
Master Emsworth’s eyes softened. “Yes, very true.” Suddenly, he clapped his hands together. “Now. You need your rest. Back to bed, now.”
Leyna didn’t have the energy to protest, but as she wriggled under the covers, she thought of a new question.
“Sir, the chamberlain said he donated money to the Guild in exchange for you letting Quinn graduate.” She avoided the word ‘bribe’.
Master Emsworth tilted his head like an owl. “Mm, what about it?”
“What did you do with the money?” The question was blunt, but she needed to know.
The headmaster shrugged. “I redecorated my office and purchased a rather lovely new armchair.”
Her jaw dropped, and it took her several moments to realise he was joking.
“Scholarships, Leyna,” he said kindly, his moustache twitching. “The money went to establishing scholarship funds for prospective students experiencing financial hardship. It will allow for more young people to pursue a career in wizardry.”
She was speechless. Did that make accepting a bribe alright? Did how the money was used make a difference? And who decided whether it was a bribe or a donation, anyway?
“Breaking principles isn’t always a sign of hypocrisy,” Master Emsworth said quietly. “Our core beliefs don’t always apply to every situation. They are more of a guideline, and we may need to break them now and then. In fact, our principles may change with time—and that goes for our life goals as well.”
She bowed her head. “I can’t change my goals. That would mean I’ve failed.”
“Leyna, look at me.” Their eyes met. “It’s important to adapt to the world we live in. You need to accept that the dreams you had seven years ago might not be the same dreams you have now.”
Leyna bit her lip, mulling over his words. Was the headmaster right? Could she reimagine herself and her beliefs? Because if she could, it was like the opening of a metal portcullis, the lowering of a drawbridge, and there, beyond the rigid walls she’d built for herself, a world of possibility awaited. It was liberating to realise that her past self’s convictions did not have to dictate her future.
“Now, it’s best you get some shut eye,” smiled the headmaster.
“Sir, just one more thing.” She frowned down at her bandaged hands. “The scholarships, sir. Was that your idea? Or was it the chamberlain’s?”
His smile widened. “You know, truth be told, I really did want a new armchair.”
This time, she couldn’t tell if he was joking.
The headmaster gestured to his nephew. “I’ll let him sleep for a few more days before waking him. He’ll need several more rounds of healing, and I don’t have the heart to see him suffer. Not to mention, I don’t think I could make him stay in bed once he was awake.”
She snorted, remembering how Cornelius had made her stay in bed after he healed her leg.
An idea struck her. “Sir, may I have a drink? Brandy, if you've got it?"
The headmaster looked at her as if affronted. “Absolutely not.” But he pulled a flask from his cloak and balanced it on her bedpost before leaving the room.
Her meeting with the chamberlain was short. The nerves she felt descending the dungeon steps disappeared when she stood before his cell door. There were guards on either side, and the faint shimmer indicated the door was sealed with magic as well.
The chamberlain’s voice was sweet and pleasant, as if he hadn’t tried to stab her with a knife, or kill the man she loved. His preamble was long, and as she waited for him to finish, she realised he expected their discussion to last a long time.
But she only had a few questions. Polite as can be and using his former title, she asked:
“Lord Chamberlain, sir, you spoke of making Rosaria a prosperous kingdom. But was it not already in a much better state than when the wars ended? Wasn’t King Rutherford a good ruler?”
Percy clucked his tongue. “Sometimes, there is a price to pay for one’s actions. And our dear King Rutherford wasn’t always the praiseworthy ruler you might think him to be. His greed and negligence ruined my family.”
Leyna frowned. “But I thought he made you the chamberlain. Didn’t you say your family were cattle ranchers?”
“They were…once. But not anymore. My family once owned vast lands in the mountain foothills, lands that had been in our family for generations. The Maidstone river made our lands rich and fertile, and the diversion of some of its lower branches helped Royad increase its trade and recover from the wars.” He sniffed derisively, adding: “although the wars were unnecessary to begin with. They were wars his father started, and he continued. So our kingdom picked itself back up. But King Rutherford was not satisfied, oh no. He wanted more, and he ordered the diversion of the entire Maidstone River, with no consultation with any of the farmers who would be affected. Back then, my father was an influential man—a peasant, yes, but proudly so, and well respected in the community. But that held little sway with the king, and the courtiers laughed him out of the hall.”
She had never heard the story of the river’s diversion told like this. It had always been painted in a positive light, with frequent mention of the prosperity it had brought Rosarians.
“What happened?” she asked reluctantly, glancing down the passage. There was only a short stretch leading back to the dungeon’s main chamber, and a distant orange glow.
Finnigan. He had to be there. He had to be alive. She was so close.
Percy grew more emotional with every word, scrunching his hair so it stood up at wild angles, an effect made more unsettling by the deranged bulge of his eyes.
“Despite my father’s protests, the river was diverted. Another dam was built, canals were placed, and in less than a season, our lands became bone dry. My father had to let go of his men, and though I was a young boy, he relied on me.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It was devastating. We lost everything. Our cattle grew underfed and prone to disease. My father returned to the castle and made multiple appeals, but it fell on deaf ears—the king would not even see him. The chamberlain of the time could do nothing, and that’s if he cared at all. There were no provisions made to compensate the landowners who had worked those fields for generations. My father refused to sell his cattle, and by the time he realised the hopelessness of our situation, it was too late. Leyna, our cattle died before the river had even dried completely. And while my family fell into poverty, the rest of the kingdom grew fat and prosperous.” He spat the last word, and she cringed as spittle flew through the bars and filled the air.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, resisting the urge to wipe her face. She was sorry, at least in that moment. She pitied Percy, his family’s broken legacy, and the herds of gentle creatures that had died on the barren mountain slopes. She’d seen those parts of the mountain herself with its dry gullies, rocky slopes and abandoned houses.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened to my parents?” Percy asked.
“What happened to your parents?”
“Nothing—at first. A king’s scout arrived, offering me a position at the castle. To this day, I do not know why. Had my father written to the castle and begged for help? Or did someone feel guilty of the wrongs wrought on us? Either way, it was a small consolation.”
