The Lost Magic, page 20
“Thank you,” he said to me, then to Leda. “I’m forever indebted to you.”
“We’ll be here when you get back,” I said.
Baxter nodded, and with a whisper like the wind, disappeared.
Sleep eluded me.
That night, I tossed on my bumpy, straw-stuffed mattress and tried to deal with the fact that I couldn’t use magic to shift the lumps around and make myself more comfortable. Alina had been right. Removal of the magic changed everything. It would change me forever. Particularly if I couldn’t get it back, which was an option I refused to entertain.
Baxter’s words whirled through my mind well past midnight.
Demigods
Ignis, god of fire.
Mission.
Christa.
Ava.
My thoughts shuttered to Ava. Only an hour ago, she’d tiptoed down the hallway and to my room. My door had creaked open a sliver before she slipped inside, then crept to my bedside and climbed in. I pretended to be asleep as she lay on top of the bed, curled into a ball, and proceeded to fall asleep. Once her breathing evened out, I covered her with a heavy blanket and stared at the ceiling.
Why had she come in here? Why not with Leda? She seemed to prefer burrowing in because the covers hid her face now. Her hair fanned out on the pillow beneath her head. Every now and then, she’d give a little murmur. After Baxter had left, she’d been brighter than I’d seen before. A weight of burden had clearly lifted off, and she smiled more.
Leda and I hadn’t said a word since Baxter left the apartment. She’d disappeared into her room and hadn’t come back out. Meanwhile, Ava and I looked through several books together, even if she couldn’t understand me, for an hour. My mind had been far away as I pointed to pictures and said their names. Reeves had thoughtfully supplied books with single words that I could point out and she’d repeat. Eventually, Ava had fallen asleep on the couch, and Reeves had carried her to bed with a levitation spell.
When the quiet, distant chime from a clock tower in nearby Chatham City announced two in the morning, I slipped out of bed. Ava didn’t stir as I pulled a blanket around me and stepped into the hallway. A fire crackled in the hearth as I slipped out, but seemed to issue no heat. For light, then? A white-blonde head of hair shone at the table near the fire. Scattered books, parchments, and moving quills littered the top. Leda had always been a late busybody when she had something on her mind, so I wasn’t entirely shocked to see her there. And, maybe, just a bit relieved.
“Hard time sleeping?” I murmured as I sat across from her, and reflexively sent out a spell for a warm cup of tea. When nothing returned, I stood to get it myself near the fire. Leda waved me back into the seat, then used silent magic to issue the spell for me. A teapot zipped over from where it hung near the fire, then poured itself into a cup that manifested just before the water would have spilled across the table.
“Thanks,” I murmured, irritated that I couldn’t do it myself. Leda glanced at me, sighed, and dropped her gaze back to her book.
“I’m trying to make notes on what I observed of their language when Baxter and Ava spoke to each other,” she said, but her voice had a high-pitched edge to it. “Like stepping back in time.”
“Jikes,” I murmured as I rubbed a hand over my bleary eyes, “but this is a mess.”
“A very big mess.”
“Do you need me to tel—”
“I think I figured it out,” she cut in before I could ask. “The pieces aren’t too difficult to puzzle together, given what Baxter said and the running commentary of Sanako in the back of my mind. Baxter is a demigod, son of a god that he didn’t mention in front of me, I presume. Ava, obviously his niece, brought an amulet she shouldn’t have, I’m also assuming, to here.”
A thousand other sentences lay behind that narrowed view, but I was too tired to say them tonight.
“That . . . sums it up.”
Her brow grew heavy. “Sanako will have a field day over this when it gets out. She’s spoken of demigods before, but I can’t remember all the details of what she said.”
The mention of the Librarian at the Great Library of Burke that ardently believed in the god and goddess paradigm came back to me with a cold little rush. Sweet Sanako, who so many witches had regarded as strange and bizarre, had been correct all this time. Good for her.
Not good for us.
“I heard back from Priscilla,” she said.
“Oh?”
“She’s with Michelle for now. Apparently, Niko’s Guardians found your house in Letum Wood.”
I froze.
“What?”
Leda held up a staying hand. “Calm down. Priscilla wasn’t in the house when they came. She was outside and thought she heard witches coming, so she hid. Said they knocked, then went inside. She left it unlocked so it didn’t appear suspicious or paranoid. When they didn’t find her, they left, but someone remained behind, hiding. She waited. Eventually, a dragon came over with Nicholas, whom Michelle sent to check on her. Nicholas stayed out of sight, but the dragon fought with the witch, and they barely escaped with their life. She said the East Guards are terrified of Letum Wood and she doesn’t think they’ll be back. She’s staying with Michelle, for now, to help with the baby. The dragons don’t seem to mind her, but they’re wary.”
I sank back in my seat.
“Good.”
Relief whispered through me. She was safe, at least. My house hadn’t been broken or destroyed. I gently blew on the top of the tea as steam roiled off of it. The billowing heat smelled like lemongrass and felt like silk against my skin. Leda regarded me with an assessing gaze.
“I’m assuming your father knows about Baxter and his demigod status?”
I nodded.
“Interesting,” she murmured, “because I’d wager the Council doesn’t?”
“I believe not.”
Her white-blonde eyebrows narrowed further. “That has some big implications,” she said in a low voice. “When the Council finds out your father has been harboring a demigod without telling them. They will not be happy.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me, and it sent a shiver through my spine. Technically, there had been no harboring. If the Council chose not to believe Baxter when he claimed his heritage as the son of a god every day, wasn’t that on them? But, no. That would never work as an excuse. Even I hadn’t liked it, because it still implied Papa hid Baxter, even if that was not entirely true.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said.
“Of course you haven’t,” she muttered. “It only gives the witches who are against the Highest Witch paradigm the power they need to sow distrust amongst the populace. With time, that could potentially overthrow our entire government structure. That’s all.”
Leda’s quick thoughts on these subjects and uncanny observations—despite not knowing all that much about this situation—turned my mind back to Hiddleston. I regarded her in a new light.
Leda had always been lovely, albeit rough around the edges. She kept herself subdued to stay out of the spotlight, but her thin frame, light hair, milk-pale skin, and differently-colored eyes were attractive. Quietly stated, but elegant when her scowl didn’t try to set a room on fire. It was easy to see why Hiddleston would be, presumably, attracted to her. Or, at least, desire her company even if he didn’t care for her romantically. Her brilliant mind was a power that helped her understand things that most witches would never, magic or not.
“I met a Defender yesterday,” I said. “That’s where this whole mess started.”
Leda cast me a sidelong glance at the change in subject, but she didn’t stop her gentle riffle through more pages of her book. The words were illegible to me.
“Congratulations,” she murmured.
My lips twitched off a smile. I’d almost hoped she’d ask what a Defender was, but of course, Leda knew about them already. She probably knew more about me than I knew about myself. She was insufferably correct about most things.
“His name is Hiddleston.”
Her entire body tightened so fast I thought her spine would break. Interesting, I thought, but kept going as if I hadn’t noticed.
“I believe that Papa has, or will, ask Hiddleston to look through history for . . . something. Perhaps an establishment of the goddess paradigm. I’m hoping Papa has him looking for a way to get my magic back, but Papa and I haven’t spoken since all of this broke. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Her nostrils flared so wide she reminded me of a horse.
“That’s . . . nice,” she ground out.
Ah, so there had to be some history here. Leda wouldn’t have responded like this unless she already had a reason to find Hiddleston contemptible. Ever since the disaster that was Rupert—an interested male witch that had annoyed her more than anything else—Leda’s general annoyance with eligible men happened often.
I had a long sip of cooled tea while she gathered her thoughts together. The crackle of the fire in the silence had a calming effect, and I enjoyed the heat that spread through my belly.
“I . . .” she said, then stopped. “That is . . .”
She frowned.
Perhaps I could save her.
“Hiddleston has expressed some interest in you,” I said. “He wanted me to arrange a way for you to meet directly. I told him I’d present the opportunity, but wouldn’t force you to do anything.”
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You can tell him to eat with the dogs the next time he says my name.”
Her voice turned shrill as she slammed her book shut, then commanded them together with a spell. Every scroll rolled itself back up, quill zoomed away from the page, and book shuffled to her arms. All of them lifted into the air around her like a flock of deranged library supplies.
“And tell him to stop looking so hard for the establishment of the goddess paradigm in history,” she snapped. “He only needs to go back as far as Isadora and Sanna. The precedent is there.”
With that, she disappeared into her room with the slam of a door. I blinked, looked at the near-empty table now, and sighed. What precedent of the goddess paradigm with Isadora and Sanna was she talking about?
I sank further into the chair and watched the flames curl around a charred log in flashes of orange and crimson. Their buttery, long arms were a mesmerizing force until the blessed reprieve of sleep stole over me, and I slipped into a quiet, easy doze.
I dreamed of gods and goddesses.
Hours later, the touch of something on my face woke me with a quick start.
Darkness had settled on the apartment, and with it came cooler air. Outside the windows, stars popped out of a velvet sky with white-hot tenacity. The fire had banked to a low bed of coals that glimmered. Their subtle light gave vague definition to shadows as I blinked awake and straightened, my neck stiff from sleeping at a kink.
Only when I felt a brush of something against my cheek again did I notice a small scroll hovering near my head. There was no ribbon or twine around it, which ruled out Scarlett or Priscilla or Michelle. Nothing but a spot of wax the size of my pinky nail, the color of slate gray. My stomach jumped.
Papa.
Late headlines in the Chatterer yesterday had proclaimed a stasis between negotiations in the Networks. The twenty-year plan to provide safety for the Southern Network had been submitted to the delegation by Papa and Igor last night. It called on all Networks to create a collective draw of resources for the South to use. Rotational Guardian assignments. Training. Greater weapons resources. The Southern Network couldn’t create standard magical swords without their magic, so now they had to figure out non-magical swords. The transition would take time and the plan remained under heavy scrutiny.
With that thought on my mind, I touched the scroll and it unfurled.
My office, please. You should be safe to walk yourself.
With a yawn, I stood up and pulled the blanket farther around me. It must be close to four in the morning. No one would be out, so I’d risk walking there wrapped in a blanket. My thin summer nightgown barely reached my calves. My sleep had been fast, but deep, and the cobwebs of my mind had cleared. Reeves had left several windows cracked open, allowing ribbons of air to whisper inside. Barefoot, I shuffled to the door and stepped into the hall of the castle.
Torches illuminated by magic led my way down the hall. Before now, I hadn’t ever considered who issued the spell that kept the magical torches bright. The maids, likely? What I’d give for even that small ability.
Papa’s office wasn’t far from his apartment or the throne room, but I felt tension all the same. Any witch could come along, cast a spell to harm me, and I could do nothing about it.
In the distance, I thought I heard the hum, clang, and hubbub of the kitchen rise from several floors below. The crash of pots and pans often wound its way through the turrets and up to the higher floors in a comforting sort of clatter.
I turned a corner and skidded to a stop.
Outside Papa’s office, three large chairs were available for witches to sit in. There, filling the far chair with his short body and tight eyes, sat Igor. He held a pipe in his hand and stared at the distant wall. When I appeared, his gaze flickered to mine, held it, then skittered away again.
Quickly, I recovered my surprise, approached the remaining two seats, and sat in the farthest one. An open chair remained between us.
Uncertainty streamed through my mind, along with a few curses. Of course, I wear my nightgown and a blanket the morning I encounter the Southern Network High Priest. Should I make small talk? Ask why he would be here at such an hour? Bright light issued into the hallway from beneath Papa’s office door, a sure indication that he hadn’t gone to bed yet. He probably called for me now because he’d been too busy before. I—
“You are up very early for a voman of your young age.”
Igor’s voice had the deep, tonal quality that I remembered from the former High Priest of the Southern Network, Mikhail. They all spoke with a sort of rasp, as if they collected their words before sending them out. I pulled in a breath and let it out before I turned to face him.
“My father summoned me.”
He stared at me with an appraising expression. His dark eyes angled more sharply than most, which indicated some tribal heritage. His dark hair lay thick and full on his head, giving way to a well-maintained, full beard. The decorative gems that Southern Network males often braided into their beards were missing this early in the morning. He seemed smaller without the oversize topaz he usually wore.
Igor was likely in his late forties, but I wasn’t sure. He had the stocky stature of most of the Southern Network, but he wasn’t fat like Mikhail had once been. Igor had a leanness about him that spoke more to muscle than brawn. I hadn’t witnessed him do much more than discuss things with other witches, but I had a feeling he could move fast if he needed to. The pipe had been replaced with an unlit cheroot, but the air still had the earthy smell of pipe tobacco.
“You alvays obey your father?” he asked.
The word yes sprang to my lips in response, but I pressed it back. That would not be any form of the truth. My beat of hesitation lasted only for a moment before Igor laughed, a fulsome sound that made his shoulders shake up and down.
“Very good daughter,” he murmured. “Very good. You only listen vhen you vant, yes? A true daughter of Derek Black.”
“Are you waiting to speak with my father?”
“Yes. Alvays,” he tacked on, then chuckled to himself.
Do it, said a voice in my head. Talk to him about the mortals. About his Network. About anything!
A thousand questions filtered through my mind, but they all spun away. In the silence, I could hear my chance ticking away. I had wanted to talk to Igor before I knew everything else about gods and witches and demigods. Now, all my questions seemed elementary at best.
Any demigods in your Network? I could ask, then shuddered at the implications. That’s all Papa needed—word to get out that another enemy could be on our shores.
Not could be . . . was.
“Losing magic is hard on a personal level,” I finally said, then hastily tacked on, “I would imagine. Dealing with it as a whole Network has likely been very challenging for you. You walked into a big mess when you became High Priest.”
Igor appraised me again, this time from the corner of his eye. I hadn’t noticed the fur-lined cloak on his shoulders at first, beneath which lay a linen shirt that stretched across a wide plane of chest. Dark chest hair sprouted at the top beneath his beard.
“Very hard,” he intoned. “But life is not vithout challenges, no? The important thing for the Southern Netvork is that ve pull together. Ve must be loyal to each other now, because other Netvorks . . . they have their problems too. Vould you agree?”
“Yes, for the most part.”
“There is something vith vhich you do not?”
I hesitated, recalling a few very short visits to the Southern Network before the war. Pulling together and teamwork had never been a strength for the Southern Network. Was now really the time to start creating that?
But then if not now, then when?
“It’s . . . it’s a big challenge,” I managed to say, “in a Network that has always been divided between the clans and the rest of the witches. The South has never been known for its ability to pull together.”
Igor waved a hand and a gaudy ring with an emerald gem on his thumb sparkled. “That sort of movement starts with the leader. They need to be loyal to me, then I can help them be loyal to each other. Once I can make them safe, they vill do so. You vill see.”
He slumped to the side of the wooden chair where he sat, propped his chin on one hand, and stared hard at a carving across the hallway. It was a representation of a tree from Letum Wood. It stretched overhead in a flat, marble version of the forest. Branches and leaves sprawled along the edges of door frames and snaked down the hall in white, chiseled beauty.
