Mage's End Game, page 20
“I am here at the direction of Lord Rowan to ensure the safety of the king. Get that thing out of my way.” He pushed the lance aside with one hand, and under his touch, it turned into a python that slithered to the floor of the entrance hall.
The guard gasped in alarm and jumped backwards. The other flung his ceremonial weapon to the tiled floor in case it also turned into a reptile.
As they moved through the palace, no one tried to stop them again. Courtiers and ladies moved to the edge of the hall to get out of Lord Pendlebury’s way. No one wanted to stop a mage who walked with determination and a fiery look in his eye. Clearly, the court believed they were all in league with Lord Rowan.
At the entrance to the king’s chamber, Lord Pendlebury halted and looked down his nose at the courtier standing by the guards. The man stared back but didn’t move.
“Well, open the doors. Or do you wish me to blast them off their hinges?” the mage said.
The guards exchanged looks and then one wrenched the door open and bowed as they passed inside.
Today, it seemed to Hugh that the king was more agitated than usual. He paced erratically, as though he followed an invisible chicken around the furniture. The courtiers clustered to one side with the attending physicians. Lord Tomlin stood by the expansive window, staring at the king. He narrowed his eyes on seeing Lord Pendlebury and Hugh.
“Ah, Tomlin. Lord Rowan wants you back at the mage tower. Some private matter he wants to discuss,” Lord Pendlebury said after he had bowed to the king, who didn’t seem to notice him.
The younger mage didn’t move from his spot in a shaft of sunlight. “He made no mention of wishing to see me this morning. What sort of private matter?”
Lord Pendlebury huffed. “If he had told me, it wouldn’t be private, now, would it?”
Lord Tomlin crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze flicking sideways to Hugh. Hugh walked towards the attending physicians, ignoring the two mages. It seemed they might have to change their plan. With the king’s frenetic movements, they couldn’t afford a magical battle. There was a risk one of them might inadvertently blast him with a thunderbolt.
As Hugh neared the physicians who stood by the food set out on the sideboard, Lord Tomlin turned to face the older mage. As he did so, he presented his back to Hugh. Taking the opportunity it offered him, Hugh darted forwards and grabbed Lord Tomlin from behind. With his forearm locked around the mage’s neck, he cut off his oxygen supply.
Before Lord Tomlin could strike out with magic, Lord Pendlebury cast an enchantment over the younger mage. He threw a magical noose around Lord Tomlin’s hands and snapped them together at the wrists, which prevented him from clawing at Hugh. Nor could he utter a spell, as his brain was rapidly being deprived of oxygen.
Lord Tomlin’s body went limp in the surgeon’s grasp as he lost consciousness. Hugh lowered him to the ground and placed two fingers against his neck. He didn’t like the man, but he also didn’t want to kill him.
“What do you think you are doing, Mr Miles?” An old physician strode towards them.
Lord Pendlebury cast a swirling orb of lightning that hovered between his palms. “I think everyone can stay exactly where they are. Unless anybody else would like to take a wee nap?”
The courtiers busied themselves pouring tea and slicing cake and steadfastly ignoring what went on behind them. The physician spluttered, then thought better of intervening. He plonked himself in a chair and glowered at Hugh. “Lord Viner will hear of this.”
“I shall tell his lordship myself what transpires here this morning,” Hugh replied.
With everyone behaving themselves and under Lord Pendlebury’s control, Hugh turned his attention to the task at hand. He reached into his pocket and produced the small vial containing the precious tears of the Nereus. When he held the container to the light, the silvery liquid glinted as though Sera had captured the moon within its glass confines.
“I will need help with the king,” he said to Lord Pendlebury.
Unaware of events in the room, King George muttered to himself as he stalked the confines of the room and climbed over chairs, rather than going around the furniture.
“Your Majesty, you must be tired after your walk this morning. Perhaps you would like to sit for a while?” Lord Pendlebury said in a quiet tone. He held out one hand to the king, while with the other, he gestured to the velvet-covered chair like a small throne.
Hugh wondered what magic he laced around the king as the monarch stilled, then yawned. “I am tired,” King George said.
He walked to the chair and slumped into the seat. The king heaved a sigh, then his head rolled back against the deep-red velvet. He seemed to be asleep, yet his eyes were open and unstaring. The once-vibrant monarch was now a mere shell, ensnared by Lord Rowan’s entropy curse.
Hugh knelt at the king’s side, the vial curled within his hand. “Your Majesty, do you remember the tea I brewed that calmed the storm in your mind for a little while? I have another such potion that I hope has a more lasting effect.” Hugh spoke in a low tone, not wanting the other physicians to hear the conversation.
King George uttered a noise that could have been agreement or a snore. Hugh reached out and pulled aside the king’s robes. There, only partly visible under his shirt, lay the entropy stone—the source of the curse that had claimed his mind. Its surface seemed to writhe with shadows.
Hugh drew a deep breath to steady his nerves, such as he did before performing surgery. Then he uncorked the vial and angled it over the amulet so that a single droplet of the Nereus’s tears fell onto the stone.
The moment the tear made contact with the polished surface, there was a sharp hiss, followed by an ethereal glow that radiated from the stone. It pulsed in a steady beat as a wave of light clashed with the darkness of the curse.
“By the old gods, it seems to be working,” Lord Pendlebury uttered from Hugh’s side.
Hugh carefully let two more drops land on the stone. The green veins glowed brightly as the remorse of the Nereus dissolved the object created in its moment of defeat. As the last remnants of the curse were neutralised, the stone emitted a single puff of dark smoke, then the surface became dull, the veins drained and grey.
“Now is the time to remove it,” Lord Pendlebury urged.
Hugh reached for the chain that held the entropy stone around the king’s neck and unclasped it. The stone was heavy in his hands, as if it contained the weight of all the suffering it had caused. Lord Pendlebury emptied a nearby pouch of the dice it contained and held it open. Hugh deposited the ordinary-looking stone inside, the chain slithering in on top. Then the mage cinched the bag shut and murmured a spell that raised the hairs along Hugh’s arms.
At his curious look, Lord Pendlebury placed the pouch in his coat pocket. “A temporary seal until it can be properly disposed of. We don’t know if it will resurrect itself or if the tears have neutralised it entirely.”
Hugh turned his attention to the monarch, who seemed oblivious to the amulet being removed from around his neck. That in itself was encouraging, as in his last moment of lucidity he had said the chain wouldn’t allow itself to be undone. “There is one more thing to do.”
He dipped his finger into the vial, allowing a single tear to cling to his fingertip before anointing the king’s forehead with the iridescent liquid. As the droplet touched King George’s skin, a soft glow radiated from the point of contact and spread across his brow like a ripple in a pond. His once-pallid complexion took on a healthier hue as the magic worked its way through his beleaguered body, revitalising him from within. And, Hugh hoped, restoring peace to the king’s mind.
Twenty-Two
Seraphina
Elliot and Kitty left the pub on Hugh’s heels. Sera stood in the doorway until her friends disappeared around a corner. Then she scrubbed her hands over her face and told her hammering heart to calm down.
“I can do this,” she whispered.
That morning, she had donned her Nyx outfit. The long-split skirt flared around her legs. The silver buttons on the double-breasted front were done up over a black shirt underneath. Her favourite long boots were laced up to her knees. All she needed were a few final touches for the performance she was about to put on for Lord Rowan and all of London.
She had left her hair loose, the curls tumbling down her back. Using a simple enchantment, Sera changed the dark brown to a colour bordering on midnight, with a smattering of stars. Straightening her spine, she stepped out of the pub and walked down the cobbled street. With each step, silver stars swirled loose from her hems. Winking and glinting, they trailed behind her like a comet’s tail. It was as if Nyx herself, the goddess of the night, had descended from the heavens to walk amongst mortals.
People stopped to stare—some pointed, some waved in greeting. Others hurried along the road and refused to meet her gaze in case she cursed them. As she turned onto a busier street, two soldiers in bright red approached from the other direction. They stopped, jaws hanging slack for a moment. Then their grips tightened on their rifles. They aimed the weapons at her as people cried out and dived for shelter.
“Stop there!” one yelled.
She halted and let her lips curve in a slight smile.
“What do we do now?” the soldier loudly whispered to his companion.
“She has to come with us,” the man answered.
“You are to come with us,” the first soldier called.
“Actually, no. I won’t. You may follow me, however,” Sera replied.
The soldiers seemed confused by her refusal, and the quieter one gestured with his rifle. “You will follow us…traitor.”
Sera held out her hands, palms upwards. From each burst forth a dark flame, dancing in shades of purple and inky blue. “Or what? Do you really think the two of you can command a mage?” She let her flames flare higher until she held two swords forged of midnight.
The men exchanged uneasy glances, the fear in their eyes betraying their bravado. Soldiers hadn’t turned on one of England’s mages since the turbulent Wars of the Roses. And even then, it took far more than two to have any impact.
“Lord Rowan said you didn’t have magic anymore,” said the quieter of the two with an uncertain quaver in his voice.
“Do I look powerless to you?” She crossed the flaming swords, and blue sparks jumped onto the road.
The soldiers made a decision. “You are to stay right there while we fetch reinforcements.” With that, they turned tail and hurried down the road.
Sera spun the midnight blades and then let them dissolve into smoky mist as she shook her hands free. A few people laughed as the soldiers retreated, and Sera bowed to them. Then she continued on her way. She had a destination in mind and expected to draw quite the crowd before she reached it.
As she continued her path through London, people emerged from their homes and businesses, drawn to her like moths to a flame. The homeless rose from where they had sheltered overnight and followed in her star-strewn wake.
She also attracted more soldiers. Still, no man dared lay a hand on her. Instead, they surrounded her. Red uniforms made a barrier between her and the people she had helped when the other mages turned their faces away.
“It’s Nyx!” People cheered, raising their fists in defiance of the soldiers who tried in vain to hold them back.
“We’re with you!” cried an elderly woman, her eyes gleaming with the fire of rebellion that had been ignited within her by Sera’s actions.
With each step, her confidence grew. She strode on, her chin held high and her gait steady despite the growing number of soldiers forming a wall around her. The throng of supporters grew larger and more boisterous, their voices rising in a deafening chorus of encouragement.
“Stay strong, Nyx! None of us are alone!” shouted a young man, his face flushed with excitement and hope.
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Their support meant more to her than she could ever express, and it gave her the strength to keep going.
She had a distance of about four miles to walk through London. Ample time for the soldiers to send up the alert, for Lord Rowan to be notified of her appearance, and hopefully, for the old mage to climb into a carriage.
Finally, Sera reached Charing Cross, the official centre of London. The bronze statue of Charles I astride his horse towered above her on its tall, ornate plinth. She touched the base as she passed. On the other side of the monument lay the Golden Cross inn. She hoped its patrons would stay safely inside.
Sera walked to the centre of the square. Then she brushed out her skirts and knelt gracefully, sitting on her heels. Placing her hands flat on her thighs, she bowed her head. The soldiers poured into the square and set up a perimeter around her. A hush fell over the crowd as they watched her, their breaths held in anticipation of what was to come.
“Keep back!” soldiers barked, brandishing their rifles to keep people from breaking through their ranks.
Surrounded by soldiers, Sera remained composed and resolute. She appeared to do nothing, but that was only on the outside. Unseen, she sent tendrils of her magic deep into the ground, like the roots of a sturdy oak. She sought the earth goddess, and when Gaia reached up to her daughter, their magic entwined. Sera became anchored to earth, her magic reinforced by the power of nature.
All she had to do now…was wait. And craft her revenge.
From the moment she’d awakened in the Repository, magic-less and alone, Sera had considered the sort of revenge to exact on Lord Rowan. She decided to stick with the Bible and its Old Testament eye for an eye. Or, as she’d learned playing games with Kitty as a child, tit-for-tat.
She would strip Lord Rowan of his magic. But unlike his spell, which left the seed deep inside her soul, she would make his recovery far more difficult and time-consuming. Since magic couldn’t be destroyed, even by death, Sera intended to pluck his magic free of his very essence and cast it onto a beach, where it would form one grain of sand among millions. Or a pebble thrown into the Thames, where it would settle to the bottom with thousands of others just like it. The old mage would have to find the seed of his magic before he could even begin the process of nurturing it back into life.
Next, she had turned her mind to how to cast and then activate her spell. Lord Rowan had had her drink it in a tea brewed by Abigail, and her song triggered the magical trap. Sera chose a different method. Lord Rowan would, quite literally, walk into her trap.
While to those observing, she appeared to be at prayer, Sera was busy inscribing sigils into the ground under the cobbles. With the help of Gaia, she moved tiny pebbles to form the ancient signs. With care, she created each symbol and merged it with her unique shadow magic. It had to be perfect. She would only have one chance.
She remained a pillar of quiet composure, her head bowed as she knelt in the middle of the square. Around her, soldiers shuffled from foot to foot. Their uncertainty was palpable in the air. They had expected her to fight and to resist capture with every ounce of her strength. But she refused to engage.
Before long, approaching hooves rang out on the cobbles. The soldiers broke ranks to admit a glossy black carriage with the ornate purple-and-gold crest of the Mage Council. A footman jumped down to open the door and swing down the steps.
Lord Rowan emerged first, dressed like a nobleman out for a stroll on his country estate. Next emerged the stout and glaring figure of Lord Ormsby, the Speaker of the Council. Then Lord Gresham, dressed all in black, as was his custom. The colour made him appear gloomy and unwelcoming, like a puddle in the shadows. Lord Dench hopped to the ground last in his spangled blue robe and matching cloak. Apparently, he had found some way to make it to London from his estate in Yorkshire. Somehow Sera doubted he had skipped through the fairy rings.
She was to face four mages and hundreds of soldiers. That hardly seemed a fair fight.
Normally, Lord Ormsby would push himself forwards, but he deferred to Lord Rowan, who walked across the cobbles towards her. She noted his uneven gait and that he leaned heavily on his staff. Age consumed him, fuelling his abhorrent plan to make himself young again.
He stopped about ten feet away from her, the other three mages behind him. She needed him to come closer.
“At last, the traitor kneels before us,” Lord Rowan called, speaking to his audience, not her.
Sera drew a breath and spoke quietly but used a waft of magic to project her voice to all those listening. “You call me traitor, but I am not the one who seized power from our king and who now commands England’s soldiers.”
A murmur of agreement went around the assembled crowd.
“You are a traitor because you refuse to perform your duty to this country.” Lord Rowan adopted the tone of the patient teacher.
“Ah.” Sera tilted her head and regarded him. “You mean I refused to let Lord Tomlin rape me so that I could birth a creature of extraordinary power? A babe you then intended to enslave so you could syphon off its magic to become young once more and establish yourself as the magical ruler of your own empire?”
Silence fell as her words filtered into the minds of those present. Some gasped. Others muttered, That isn’t right.
Lord Ormsby let out a startled, “What?” He glared at the former Speaker. “You meant to create another Nereus?”
Sera swallowed a smile. It seemed Lord Rowan hadn’t shared his plans with the others. Lords Gresham and Dench merely looked confused, as though they did not know what the other two were discussing.
“Dewlap’s line was poured into your form for a reason. It is your duty to serve this country by birthing a powerful child. The Fates give us magic because we are meant to rule, not to be used like tools.” Lord Rowan flung open his arms, and the orb on top of his staff pulsed a watery green.
More people flowed into Charing Cross, drawn by the gossip that flew around the city faster than any raven. People lined the balconies of the surrounding buildings or hung out of windows. Some even climbed higher, to sit atop roofs.
