Dead Magic (5 page)

He couldn't blame her. Not after all she'd been through. But he still wished she'd let him in completely.

His attention caught on the sketch and he paused. "Those aren't your measurements."

"No," she said, sounding almost amused. "This is for Valeda Quinlan."

"You're making a dress for the Tormey reporter?"

Elsie looked at the sketch too. "She's Fated."

"But she's Untalented."

"I know," Elsie shifted back into her chair. "Which makes me doubly curious to know why she's here."

After an awkward half an hour at tea with Monty, Vicaress Leona had come to collect Valeda. The economy with which the Vicaress managed to arrange the cleanup, the necessary accommodations for the Ambassador, and Valeda's own needs, left Valeda dizzy. She had never seen a woman so perfectly suited to their profession before. Leona was gracious and kind in a bubbly way that made complaining impossible. Which was why Valeda found herself chin deep in fluffy, light-weight sheets, her body held snugly in a luxurious mattress that made her wish she really was a dignitary.

When she'd tried to say that she had lodging in town, Leona had reiterated that the Witch insisted Valeda remain as a guest. Servants were parked right outside her door, giving Valeda no need to depart. She needed night garments-they were provided. She needed toothpaste-it was already stocked in the room. Messages had already been sent to Miss Margaretta Orianne explaining where Valeda would be staying, which made her nervous. She couldn't remember using Margaretta's last name at any point during tea, which begged the question of how they'd known.

From start to finish, Vicaress Leona would have had no more than one hour to discover who Valeda was and where she was staying. Delgora House lands were relatively small compared to the Houses on the Mainland of Magnellum, but there were still a significant number of people who lived here. Surely there were more than a dozen Margarettas who called Delgora home.

Troubled, Valeda turned on her side, snuggled her pillow, and tried to replay the day's events.

The touch of moonlight set the walls in a soft glow. There were shadows under the table at the far wall, outlining the painting that hung above it, but for the most part it was bright in her room. Bright enough that she could make out the twists and curves of the banyan tree in the painting, and the copper glint of basin and pitcher on the table. A matching copper bath tub was set into a niche in the western corner, its pipes ran the height of the wall and disappeared into the ceiling.

She knows,
Valeda thought.
The House Witch knows why I'm here. Why else would she put me in a gilded cage and pamper me?

Elsie Delgora's golden eyes burned through her memory and Valeda shuddered. If the cursed room wasn't guarded by servants, she'd have tried to run for it. The thought crossed her mind that she could lie, make up a false story as to why she'd travelled to Delgora, but Valeda imagined the Witch would see through something like that.

When dealing with her fellow Untalented, Valeda was known as a stubborn sort and prided herself on that. But having direct contact with a Witch-Born was something else. They were relatively similar to the Untalented by way of physical traits, needs and temper tantrums, if a tad more refined than the common man. Not that they would deliberately harm someone without due cause, just that they could.

Remembering clearly the precise manner in which the tea had set itself that afternoon, Valeda decided that the terrifying thing about the Witch-Born was the choices they made. Or rather, the choices they could make if they wanted to. It was a matter of walking or flying for Elsie Delgora, with both being just as easy as the other. Valeda imagined that the Witch could silence her forever with a wave of that imperial, gloved hand.

The light suddenly altered in her room, from pleasant silver to a deep crimson and back again.

Blinking, Valeda sat up.

It came again-silver to red-and she got out of bed. Barefoot, she padded across the sturdy wooden floor to her open window and peeked out. Three flights up in Delgora Manor, Valeda could easily see the town proper. Sprawling in chaotic, curling lines, the town blended in with the jungle. Here and there she could see the flint of brass or copper in the moonlight, rooftops peeking out above the tree line. The marketplace was easier to spot, all of its tents and little shops closed up for the night, leaving an abandoned circle of pale cobblestone in the landscape.

The light came again, illuminating a tall structure high up on the ridgeline of mountains in the south. Valeda gripped the window frame and leaned forward, squinting to try and make out the particulars through the distance. The ruby glow dimmed and faded out, only to build up again in a slow, constant pulse.

"What in Fates is that?"

Her voice sounded small and unfamiliar in her lonely room, but she was too overcome with curiosity to feel self-conscious. She could only make out the framework of something massive, with one giant spire at the center. The spire's peak was the source of the cynosure, and she had the sense that it was turning.

A few moments later the slow blinking stopped and the ridgeline fell into shadow. She could still vaguely make out the structure, but it blurred in with the natural curve of the mountains.

The ark,
Valeda thought.

Fear slid down her spine as she continued to stare. A sticky breeze rustled the skirt of her borrowed nightgown, brushing it up against her ankles. She thought she should probably move. Someone down below might spot her in the thin, barely modest material. It would be her luck that the person to spot her was some prude of a courtier, too. But she couldn't move because her mind was racing instead.

Elsie Delgora really was building an ark.

No Witch-Born had been blessed by Magic, the man-god, in eight years. If he didn't bestow the Talent on anyone else, the Witches would die off one by one until there was no one left to keep the Warding Pillars in place.

And if the Warding Pillars came down, then the Wild would come in.

Valeda turned from the window. Staggering to the bed, she sat down and tried to catch her breath. She'd broken out into a fine sweat. Nursery rhymes drifted through her memory, old warnings given about what lay beyond the Pillars, traditions rooted so deep that no one could specify where they had come from.

It has been and ever shall be

The plight of the Witches to live for thee

The Pillars stand tall

For one and for all

And the Wild has no place to flee.

Beyond the vale

Where the Wild prevails

Lies death for you and for me

Her mind conjured childhood horrors; beasts twice as tall as a man, with teeth flashing deadly sharp in a snarl, claws raking through the air with great whooshing sounds. Unnamed animosity was focused on every Untalented in Magnellum, insatiable and unstoppable, held in check only by the Warding Pillars.

Valeda closed her eyes and tried to will the images away, but it only made them clearer. Thick, long vines rampaging through towns, swiping away buildings and homes and people like so much rubbish from a table. Feline and wolf-like beasts, she could make them out now, sleekly muscular but still snarling, hunting down every breathing member of their society.

With a strangled, distressed cry, Valeda opened her eyes and stood up. She was right. She knew she was right. Wherever he had gone, Magic, the man-god, was no longer in Magnellum and all of their lives were at risk.

People had to be warned.

***

Winslow knew when the woman woke up. He'd managed to repair the head injury, but no amount of magic could predict what lasting repercussions would come of it. He'd once seen his friend Bartholomew heal a man's hip, but the deterioration of the subject's bones had kept him limping.

Head trauma like the mother's could result in a lasting problem. She could wake and not remember who she was. She could forget how to eat or walk, or have any number of problems. For most of the day Winslow had feared she'd never wake at all. So he'd kept his Talent focused on her breathing while he and Mirabella had seen to the necessities of food and better lodging. Sleeping under the wreckage was unappealing on several fronts. For one, he was constantly afraid the thing would fall. For another, there was something morbid about the thought of Cosata Divenhurst-Lorlain's body being so close.

The thought of Cosata brought more issues to mind. He couldn't figure out how Mirabella and her mother had managed to survive the wreck at all. He knew the only reason he'd made it was because of his Talent, and even then it had been a close call. Mirabella's mother might have been in terrible shape and probably would have died without his help, but compared to everyone else on that train she was lucky.

Every instinct in him had screamed that something else was going on, he just couldn't figure out what. And he wanted to find out what it was before the rescue came. He estimated that the depot in Three Points would have figured out that they were missing by now and would have started to mount a search party. That gave him a day at best, maybe more, depending on whether they risked taking a train out to find them.

The late autumn air had the bite of encroaching winter to it, so he'd known they would need some sort of cover. He'd taken the walls and roof from the train car two sections down from theirs to make a small shanty. They'd positioned it a little ways from the wreck, under a cluster of trees for added cover. Mercifully, their train had been scarcely populated, so the casualties weren't quite so high. Not a lot of people wanted to catch the 4 a.m. nonstop from Drewhaven, Clenci, to Three Points, Broska. Winslow imagined that that had everything to do with the outrageous hour and nothing to do with the destination. Three Points was a hub of commerce, sitting on the borders between House lands Broska, Clenci and Tormey.

"Mirabella?" The woman's voice was raspy but clear, carrying easily through the make-shift building.

Winslow watched Mirabella dart into the structure and prayed the girl wouldn't hurl herself at her mother. Slowly, giving the two a moment for their reunion, he started for the domed shell. It wasn't perfect, but it was sturdy. If snow fell at night, they'd be covered. He'd bent the metal into long curves, allowing a hole in the center at the very top so that they could have a fire inside. Mirabella had torn up the padding from some of the seats for bedding.

"Mr. Winslow used his magic to get us out of the train," he heard Mirabella rushing through an explanation. "Then he healed you, but he said you were hurt so bad that you needed to rest. So we built this house until you woke up."

"Mr. Winslow?"

Taking his cue, he ducked into the iron dome. "Ahem," he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. "Winslow Agoston, Madam."

The mother was still lying down, but her eyes were open and she was holding Mirabella's hand.

"Lord Winslow Agoston, of Agoston House?" She kept her hazel gaze on him, something akin to fear passing her features.

He couldn't blame the woman. It was unlikely that she had any personal dealings with Witch-Born. "The one and same, Madam."

Mirabella settled down beside her mother. "He's not at all like a Witch-Born, mother. Not like Daddy says they should be. Mr. Winslow is very brave and very caring. He healed my hand while he was still sleeping!"

Embarrassed, Winslow rubbed the tip of his nose and cleared his throat. "We were just debating the matter of food, Madam. If you're feeling up to it, I wondered if you could keep Miss Mirabella company while I go out for a little hunt."

"How long have I slept?"

"Almost a full day, mother."

Winslow saw the distress in the mother's face as she processed this information. Because he couldn't think of a way to comfort her, he looked out through the folded doorway and took a deep breath. Ferns overran the landscape outside their make-shift lodging. If he had his bearings right, they were at least on the right side of the Dorshin mountain pass. They could follow the tracks all the way to Three Points. He could run there and back with help faster than they could walk it together, but his Talent recoiled at the idea of leaving the two of them alone.

He hadn't ventured far enough down the line to see what had caused the crash, but he had a sinking suspicion it wasn't natural. There was the occasional accident when one of the great, iron trains would jump its tracks, but this had felt different. Winslow had the unsettled sense of malice ebbing off the forests around them, the feeling of many unfriendly eyes watching him.

"I am indebted to you, sir," the mother said. "How can I ever repay you for what you've done?"

Winslow felt his cheeks burn with further embarrassment and sheepishly rubbed one shoulder. "We're not quite safe yet, Madam. We've a long walk to Three Points. It should take us a day and a half on foot."

"But why don't you just fly there and come back?" Mirabella asked.

Chuckling, Winslow looked to the girl and winked. "I'm a male Witch-Born, Mirabella. I'm afraid I can't fly."

"That doesn't seem fair." Mirabella's face scrunched up with displeasure.

"Yes, well, Magic had his reasons for favoring the females of our race." Winslow flinched involuntarily at his own words. His memory flashed to Delgora Manor at the mention of Magic, the man-god, to that moment he'd been forced to catch Bartholomew before his friend could hit the ground. There was a smear of movement in his memory, the sounds of combat drifting back to him with horrifying clarity.

"Surely you can run to Three Points faster." The mother sat up, grimacing as she did so. She touched the back of her head gingerly, blindly probing around the spot he'd healed. There was a bump there, he knew, a residual effect of the injury.

"I do not feel comfortable leaving the two of you." Winslow moved closer to the door. "It's safer for us all to travel together. But for right now, I will get us some food. I'll stay within hearing distance. Call for me if you need to."

He nodded to the mother and ducked outside, giving her no opportunity to argue. They would speak later, when Mirabella couldn't hear. There was no sense scaring the little girl, but her mother would need to know the danger they were in. She seemed a sturdy sort of woman, and by her actions on the train he knew he could count on her to keep Mirabella safe.