The Lost Magic, page 1
The Lost Magic
Katie Cross
THE LOST MAGIC
YA Fantasy
Text copyright © 2021 by Katie Cross
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, or incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places, is entirely coincidental.
Cover designed by Jenny Zemanek.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author. For information regarding permission, send a query to the author at katie@kcrosswriting.com.
Published by KC Writing. Visit www.kcrosswriting.com for more information about the author, updates, or new books.
Contents
List Of Gods And Goddesses
Introductory Note
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
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Author’s Note
The Lamplighter’s Daughter
Acknowledgments
Also by Katie Cross
About the Author
To my sisterwife.
It will never be as easy without you.
List Of Gods And Goddesses
THE GODS
Ventis, god of wind
Ignis, god of fire
Tontes, god of thunder
Gelas, god of ice
* * *
THE GODDESSES
Deasylva, goddess of the forest
Prana, goddess of the sea
Sarena, goddess of the desert
Selsay, goddess of the mountains
Introductory Note
The Lost Magic takes place three years after The Network Series. If you haven't read all four books in The Network Series, I highly recommend reading all four books there before starting The Lost Magic.
* * *
Technically, this is the first book in the Network Saga, but I like to think of it as Bianca Book Five. Having read the other books will give you the needed context to enjoy this one.
1
The crunch of splintering wood broke the air like a strike to my eardrums. A pained cry followed a second later. I winced, unable to help myself, as a nearby Guardian recruit dropped to one knee.
Ouch.
My grandfather, Marten, sighed happily next to me.
“There’s nothing like blood and swords in the morning,” he murmured. “I love working with the new recruits.”
My lips twitched with a hidden smile. “There shouldn’t be blood,” I drawled. “At least, not after our second class. Those are wooden swords.”
“Ah, but then it’s no fun.”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder and turned his gaze to peer at the top of the Wall. A group of broad-shouldered witches stood there, silhouetted by the rising sun. Cool air filled the lower bailey below them, where the new recruits trained at my command.
“Enjoy such bloodshed on my behalf,” Marten said. “I must check on the delegation from the Eastern Network. They are supposed to arrive at any moment.”
“Good luck.”
He slipped away. Two other Guardian recruits attempted to parry in the lower bailey nearby. They caught my eye with their lazy stance.
“Straighten your hips!” I called. “You’re turned too far to the side. You need to face your opponent with your hips. Not just your chest.”
The recruit on the left—not all that much younger than my twenty-one years—looked down to his hips. The recruit on the right took his opportunity and slashed, slamming the edge of his wooden sword into the shoulder of the inattentive Guardian. He howled. His sword clattered to the ground, and he dropped with it.
I sighed.
Recruits were so dramatic.
Around me, other Guardian recruits worked in ten small circles where they parried, lunged, and attacked each other. The basic sword movements we’d practiced yesterday played out now, but with more bruises and less certainty. As Sword Trainer of New Recruits, I assigned them small group work to provide confidence before they had to perform in front of each other. So far, this rag-tag group had failed even the most basic sword movements.
Three years had passed since the War of the Networks had ended. The bloodthirsty desperation that the Guardians from those days fought with had faded. The recruits that came through my classes now had already started to forget the havoc of war. Thankfully, peace had a way of calming fear.
I grabbed the uninjured arm of the fallen Guardian and hauled him to his feet. The boy had startling dark eyes and shaggy hair. How could someone only a few years younger than me look so young?
“You’ll recover this time because it’s just a practice,” I said firmly, “but you would have died the moment you gave up your sword in a battle. Pick it up. Swallow the pain. Try again.”
His head dipped in a quick nod.
“Yes, Miss Monroe.”
The sounds of sword practice continued. My naked feet were almost silent on the flagstones as I circled each pair and watched. A few showed promise. Most were already fatigued after a grueling day of sword work with me yesterday. While I slipped around the bailey with a watchful eye, sunlight glowed from behind Letum Wood. The magical forest cast long, dark shadows over the lower bailey. My heart stirred at the thought of the trees, and I heard a quiet, distant singsong.
You belong to us.
The peal of a single, dainty bell rang through the air. I glanced back to the top of the Wall, where Marten now stood. Guardians lined the outer Wall in polished half-armor that winked in the rising sun. They stood in lines twice as thick as usual in anticipation of the Eastern Network’s arrival. High Priest Niko Aldana and his cohort would be the last Network leadership delegation to arrive for the two-week annual Celebration.
Papa initiated the yearly event at the end of the war three years ago.
To bring us together, he said. To maintain peace through mutual understanding and cooperation. Not more isolationism. Now, we communicate.
Every midsummer, each of the five Networks in Alkarra gathered their High Priestesses, High Priests, and Ambassadors in a collection of Esbats—or political meetings—meant to draw the Networks together. The Esbats allowed each Network to create lasting peace, communication, and avoid the toll of war.
As with all political machinations, drama abounded. Punctuating the Esbat schedule were dances, luncheons, lavish dinners, several elegant balls, and other opportunities to mingle with the cultures, languages, context, and food of each Network. After a hundred years of isolation, no amount of time across borders felt like enough. These social delights became breeding grounds for the gossip that raged through each Celebration.
Now, Papa, the High Priest of the Central Network, stood in the middle of the outer Bailey Wall. He leaned forward, palms planted on the waist-high stone wall. His gaze was directed toward the road that led to the castle from neighboring Chatham City. Most witches wouldn’t see past his easygoing manner, but I could feel his tension.
Two male witches flanked him. Baxter, Papa’s Assistant, on his left. A witch a few years older than me, bright-eyed, and quick to smile. And Marten, the Ambassador of the Central Network, on his right. Next to Marten stood Scarlett, the High Priestess, appointed after Stella died in the War of the Networks three years ago.
The exact same formation had been in that spot when the Northern Network arrived two days ago. Only that time I hid, like a coward. My heart clenched as I remembered catching a glimpse of my former sweetheart, Merrick, as he stood next to the Northern Network High Priestess, Geralyn. He’d been stony-faced and quiet, but his gaze had roved around. He’d looked for me, subtly, but he hadn’t found me.
Because Merrick hadn’t been mine for almost three years.
A voice rippled across the lower bailey to snag my attention. Heartbroken thoughts of Merrick shoved aside easily enough these days. I’d certainly had practice.
“Miss Monroe!”
I hustled through the half-heartedly fighting bodies and toward the call. Curious eyes followed me. This group of recruits had only worked with me a few days, so they still watched me out of the corners of their eyes. My movement distracted them now. One bonked another on the head with his wooden sword. Another struck empty air as I passed him.
All of the recruits were annoyingly curious at first. Not just because I was the only female teacher in the Guardian ranks, but because of my reputation after War of the Networks. My former teacher, Mabel, had kidnapped me and whisked me to the West in an attempt to destroy the Central Network. Not only had I managed to escape her clutches, but I’d helped Papa defeat her in the final battle against dark Almorran magic.
Now, the recruits watched me with curious uncertainty. Eventually, they will learn I was just another teacher. Their advocate. In some ways, their friend. The weird looks would stop when they forgot to be intimidated by a years-old reputation. Their admiration turned to a son-like loyalty by the time they graduated into the next level of sword work with Marten.
Just as I approached another pair of frustrated recruits, the sound of a horn rippled from the closest turret. The recruits snapped to attention. I swung toward Papa and held my breath. Several recruits whipped around in the middle of an attack sequence, their backs and arms absorbing blows.
A distinct, answering bugle from farther away came next.
“Great,” I muttered.
Niko, High Priest to the Eastern Network had finally arrived. Now the Celebration would officially begin.
And so would Network-wide tension.
A recruit turned to me, clearly confused by the sudden onset of somber air on the castle. For the last two years, the Celebration had been an exciting event. A pall had already fallen over this year, however, with Niko’s continued attempts to circumvent Papa’s efforts to protect the Southern Network.
“Will High Priest Aldana challenge your father?” the gangly-armed boy asked.
“He will.”
“Won’t win,” he immediately said, with a fierce confidence I’d seen in other recruits that idolized Papa. “Niko will die if he tries.”
A stone sank into my stomach. The truth wasn’t that easy, or that simple. In politics, it never was.
“Maybe,” I murmured.
My thoughts ran to the unstable Council attempting to rule without Papa, and then to the Southern Network. They had lost their ability to do magic in the war and struggled to remain safe in a world of witches now. The security issues in the South couldn’t be ignored, but Niko had been trying. This Celebration was Papa’s chance to dissolve those problems once and for all.
“Form ranks,” I called, but more quietly this time. The stillness that had fallen over the bailey sent a shiver through me. Once the recruits stood in two lopsided rectangles, I waved an arm. “Put your swords away and return to your rooms until you’re called for. In the meantime, run fifty drills with your training sword. Tomorrow, we’ll be chopping wood for the kitchen and running for an hour, so come prepared.”
With a chorus of groans, the recruits shuffled to obey. They moved just fast enough that I couldn’t snap at them for taking their time, but slow enough to delay their departure because they wanted to see what would happen when the East arrived.
Would Niko and Papa snarl like hissing cats?
Would the Eastern Network be as pompous as most believed them to be and insult Central Network hospitality?
Unlikely on both counts, but curious all the same. Within moments, the bailey cleared of all sounds, swords, and bodies. The moment the last recruit slipped back into the Wall where they lived, I issued a transportation spell.
As High Priest, it was Papa’s job to entertain other Network leadership and further diplomacy.
Not mine.
2
That evening, the forest unfurled around me.
Lungs burning, legs flying, I soared down a verdant foot trail through lush undergrowth. Only a few steps away, a stream fifteen paces across cut through the rich earth. I leapt into the air and used a quick transportation spell. It skipped me over the muddy stream in a breath, and I landed without breaking stride on the other side. In the distance, the chatter of the trees filled my head with gentle words.
She has returned.
You belong to us.
You care for us.
We are yours.
Heady with the euphoria of freedom, I sped past low bracken and leapt over a root as tall as my knees. Bushes bent out of my way. Leaves skittered through the air, brushing past my cheek as the trees whispered their usual refrain.
She always comes back.
Letum Wood surrounded me with mossy trunks. Too far overhead to see clearly, leaves as large as my body blocked the sunlight. They hung off branches thicker than houses that extended into never-ending lengths. Only a magical forest could support trees of this size. Undoubtedly, Letum Wood existed because of magic. Or did the magic exist because of the forest?
Whether the magical system created Letum Wood or gave it life, I had no idea.
The heat of midsummer felt damp and heavy in the air. Sweat collected over my spine and trickled down my back, soaking my linen dress. A spell, one I’d used countless times, bunched my skirt around my mid-thighs in a scandalous show that would have drawn several outraged gasps. I’d ditched my sandals to run barefoot after this morning’s training class. The start of the Celebration gave me an unusual afternoon off. Naturally, I filled it with my forest.
My heart hammered in my chest, and my mind picked up a familiar refrain. I’m sorry, it beat with each step, as if the ghosts of all those I’d lost still chased me. I’m sorry it was you. I’m sorry Mabel orchestrated such evil and I survived. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Behind me, the stalwart, sentinel trees of Letum Wood soared overhead. Here, the forest was younger and not so imposing. Age and weight and magic didn’t burden the air here. In the depths of the wood, the trees grew taller than Chatham Castle and wider than several turrets put together.
After I left the recruits, the trees led me to a new growth of strickenine moss I had to neutralize, in addition to a jammed stream that used to feed new saplings. Uplifted by all the running, I returned to my cottage in the woods.
Hints of Isadora lingered in the old cottage that I’d inherited shortly after the war settled down. The floor creaked, but the windows streamed sunlight. A wide hearth allowed bright, warm fires. This part of Letum Wood had more space between trees, so occasional beams of sunlight warmed my porch. Footpaths led from my front and back door to all different places.
Letum Wood surrounded me on every side, but no danger found me here. I suspected that Isadora had some form of protective incantations on the house that still survived.
When I stepped inside, the fire had died. I didn’t bother stoking it with a spell when my stomach grumbled. I settled on a quick, cool bath and a change of clothes. A few biscuits and salad greens remained from last night, so I washed them down with goat milk, then slipped into my favorite summer dress. Leda hated the slit in the bottom that went just above my knee.
A pang for my old sword Viveet hit my chest when I passed various weaponry that dotted the wall, right next to a poorly embroidered sign that said The Wits. In place of my sword, I’d attempted all manner of weapons. Cudgels, bows, axes, anything I could get my hands on. Mama’s house sword was too light, clumsy, and unbalanced. Papa’s and Marten’s swords were too heavy.
Nothing felt as good as Viveet. Merrick and I had attempted to find Viveet’s forger, Andrei the swordmaker in the South, to have her fixed. He had disappeared during the war, and no one knew where to find him. After two weeks, we gave up. Viveet lay buried beneath my favorite tree, near the roots.
“You know,” drawled an unexpected voice. “I really hate what you’ve done with the place.”
A lithe figure filled my doorway. Wild, brown curls framed a dusky face and eyes the color of mint. Baxter, Papa’s Assistant.
I scoffed. “You have no great decorating ability yourself.”
Baxter twirled a finger. “Reeves could change this place, you know. Maybe the teacups will stop disappearing if he had a hand in things. I think they don’t like your style.”
I laughed.
Teacups filled a ledge above the fireplace, placed there by Isadora, and left to collect dust after her death. Every now and then, a teacup would just . . . disappear, like little pieces of the Watcher disappearing with time. Ten remained, their delicate flowers and leaves hand-painted. Some of them had a more masculine feel. Bolder strokes. Firmer colors. Not for the first time, I wondered about Isadora’s past. Did she have a husband? She died at over 120 years old, so if she had, she’d long outlasted him.
