The Magic Council (The Herezoth Trilogy) (4 page)

Rexson’s
voice took on a steely edge. “I’ve kept to policy that would not foment unrest.
I’ve tried to prevent magic blood being spilt in the street. If that is not
enough for you, I sincerely regret your sentiments.”

“You’re
a coward,” said Vane. “A bloody coward. You’re just making excuses!”

“I
inherited a firestorm. A veritable firestorm. I’ve been struggling since I took
the throne just to contain the blaze, and you want me to light candles?”

The
youth was undeterred. Those very fires had spread to his soul. “With all due
respect, Your Majesty, you need to hear something that happened to me when I
was ten.”

Queen
Gracia had returned to her armchair, morose, exhausted, and defeated; she used
her fist to prop up her head. Zacry was transfixed by the argument. The king
motioned for Vane to speak.

“I
was ten,” the boy repeated. “My friend Francie and I were walking along the
river, talking about what a cad her older brother was, when we reached a place
where the current’s been dammed off so people can swim. It was summer. Francie
wanted to jump in, I guess, because that’s what she did. She pulled me after
her, pulled my shirt right over my head without meaning to, and she couldn’t
help but see the sorcerer’s mark behind my right shoulder.” A triangular-shaped
birthmark. All sorcerers had one, though its location varied. “Well, Francie
was frightened. Horrified. She looked at me like I was some kind of stranger
before she scrambled out the water and ran home without a word to me.
Naturally, she told her mother. The woman wouldn’t let her see me after that.
They told other people, and the local thugs threatened us.

“That’s
why my aunt and I moved from Fontferry. I don’t know what excuse she gave you,
but that’s why. We had no other choice. Things like that happen all the time to
people like me, to people like
you
,
and you’ve never given an address to plead for coexistence? For cooperation?
Not a simple address?”

There
was nothing steely about the king now. His brow had unfurrowed and his tone was
accommodating, without condescension. He never did speak down to Vane.

“What
you fail to understand is that my position in no way compares to Zacry’s. He
can write as many essays about magic and society as he wishes. Those who stand
against him simply ignore him. They can afford to do that, as he’s no power
over them or anyone else. He doesn’t even live here, which is something they
delight in and are quick to use against him when they mention him at all.

“My
voice does hold sway in Herezoth. I started my reign by banishing a sorceress
for little other cause than the sin of being a sorceress. That’s how it
appeared. Luckily, the magic community didn’t have the numbers to protest or
oppose me, not with the kingdom as baited as it had been by Zalski. The very
townsfolk would have torn them limb from limb. Those same townsfolk felt they
had found an ally against magic in me. Passions, of course, have cooled to an
extent since then, but the extremists are still there, armed with kindling,
just waiting to stoke the fires back to their old strength.

“Suppose,
Vane, I were to do as you suggest. Suppose I gave an address pleading for
coexistence. For tolerance. Before you could blink, those extremists would
organize to remind the nation how I exiled Kora Porteg before Zalski’s body was
cold. They would claim that, after such an act, to change my views completely
is inexplicable. Clearly, clearly, the sorcerers have sunk their claws into me.
Enchanted me, made me their puppet.”

“But
that’s impossible,” said Vane. “Human will….”

“I
know just as well as you that human will is inviolable. That no magic can touch
it. Do you think the average farmer, or carpenter, understands that? Some would
call for my abdication, a small number at first, but the movement would grow.
Others would defend me. Confrontations would turn violent.”

An
apologetic note entered the king’s voice as he continued. “You’re correct,
Vane, it’s unjust that your aunt had to move you. Perhaps I’m wrong for not
publicly condemning that necessity. Maybe I
am
weak for keeping silent. The fact is, I would rather you have to move than have
extremists burn your roof down on top of you because I involved myself. If I
must err, I’ll err on the side of caution. If you don’t agree with me, I ask
that you recognize I’ve no ill intent and that my stance has some reasoning behind
it. I ask because I honestly respect you, and hold your good opinion to be of
value.”

As
the king hit on the crux of his self-defense—soon after Vane had
interrupted him—the young sorcerer’s cheeks began to burn. Bit by bit
Vane’s eyes lowered, then his head began to droop, until his chin sat on his
chest and he was staring at his feet as though the appendages were an unknown
part of him he had only just discovered, along with the hole in his spirit
where a newly missing innocence had been.

Vane
felt, sincerely, that he had given up his innocence in his verbal assault, or a
part of it, and that a grisly truth had occupied the crevice where it used to
reside. The boy had learned he was capable of jabbing a knife in the chest of a
friend already bleeding, and that he could not do so without feeling some pain
himself. All Vane could do now was withdraw the blade. He could try to staunch
the king’s wound, as well; it took a concerted effort to look Rexson in the eye
and say, “Forgive me. You’re no coward, sir, and your good opinion matters to
me as well. It matters a great deal.”

Rexson
smiled, and held a hand briefly on Vane’s shoulder. “I appreciate your coming,
especially when I didn’t ask it. And Zacry, I’m eternally indebted, eternally.”

“Let
me help,” Vane pleaded. “I’ll go back if you order me to, but I want to help.
You know I can be of use.”

The
queen rose and embraced the boy as she had when he first entered. “You’re very
like your parents,” she told him. “I can think of no higher praise.”

Zacry
was growing impatient now. He kept it from showing in his face, but he
prompted, “Arbora?”

“Arbora,”
said the king, “was not alone with me in my study when I revealed my magic. Had
she been, my children would be home right now. Her second and third in command
were with her, though she had asked them to let her do the speaking, as a
concession to me, so as not to have three against one. They’re both young,
twenty-five, and they were the ones at the root of the abductions.

“One’s
a sorcerer. He’s fond of ice and water spells. Where Arbora can be reasonable,
he’s adamant that nothing less than giving sorcerers free rein again, like
under Zalski, is acceptable. He believes that the magicked should police
themselves. Any other restriction is oppressive and immoral, a crime against
nature. Nature, he says, gave him power to use as he sees fit.”

“Not
the Giver?” asked Vane. The Giver was Herezoth’s deity, one who blessed through
the toil and generosity of his devotees, called his Instruments. He performed a
miracle only on rare occasions. Despite what his name implied, he had no
trouble taking as often as he granted something, and ancient spiritual writings
held those who spurned his call to service would suffer for the decision in the
afterlife, in his hell. Many often referred to him with a simple “God,” for
while some chose to deny his existence, Herezoth had no other deity to offer an
alternative for religious devotion.

The
king said, “Dorane Polve’s not a believer. That would mean assuming the role of
the Giver’s Instrument, you see. Serving others in the divine name. The man
neither calls for nor defends the subjugation of the masses to the empowered,
as Zalski did, but he’s willfully blind. He refuses to admit the obvious truth
that if you don’t hold the magicked responsible like everybody else for their
actions….”

“And
the other?” asked Zacry.

“The
other’s a woman born and raised in the fishing villages. She made her family
rich by routinely forcing trout to jump in her father’s boat. She’s not a
sorceress, but she controls animals.”

“Animals?”
said Vane.

The
king said, “She can make any creature do whatever she wills, but only one at a
time. She keeps a bear as a pet.” Rexson scowled. “Once paraded the thing
through the streets of Carphead to make a statement, when she and the mayor had
a disagreement about the legality of her caring for it.”

“Her
name’s Ursa Hincken,” said the queen. “I don’t want to her call her uncouth,
but she tends to be rustic. Uncultured. Dorane, on the other hand, enjoys
trying to discredit everything you write, Zacry. He doesn’t get far, or he
didn’t the one time he spoke to me, a year ago, in an attempt to sway me to
influence Rexson on his behalf. Your thinking’s more methodical, more
consistent from point to point.”

The
king said, “The two nearly had seizures when they realized I had powers. If
only they had, if only they’d dropped dead right there….”

“People
would have accused you of murder,” said Zacry. “That group would have for sure:
the Enchanted Fist, are they called? I imagine the pair representing them fell
back to the standard accusations.”

“I
was a traitor, a selfish cad and coward.” Vane flushed red again. “Dorane and
Ursa could hardly stomach me when I fell in line with the opposition, but I
made sense to them then. To be one of them, with an army at my back, and
nonetheless choose not to exploit the situation, that was beyond their comprehension.”

Gracia
let out a sad little sigh, almost inaudible, as her husband went on, “I didn’t
fear they might expose me. A council of magicians to advise the crown, that
would hardly cause the same backlash as revealing I have powers. People would
protest to prevent that council, but aim for nothing more. My secret revealed,
with the authority I wield and Zalski’s abuses still raw in the kingdom’s
memory…. With my exposure, the public would turn on all the magicked,
politically inclined or not, in a blind panic, and while Ursa would seemingly
want to see me come crashing down, she’s not quite prepared to take that fall
herself. Dorane, well….

“Dorane
understands what could happen if my telekinesis became known. While my children
are apparently disposable, the blackguard has a son himself he’s not willing to
sacrifice, and his son’s death would be conceivable were civil war to break,
that he does see. So I knew he and Ursa would not expose me, but I could tell
they sensed an opportunity, the both of them. Arbora with them, perhaps. I
thought it was the chance to reshape their approach, to present new arguments
to tempt me to concede to them. Arbora requested to return in a week’s time,
and I consented. My sons disappeared three days later.”

“Do
we know where they’re being held?” Zacry asked. “What exactly are you hoping I
can do? And how do you know so much about these people?”

Gracia
said, “Those questions can best be answered in the morning, over breakfast with
Miss Esper.”

Zacry’s
languor fell away. “Bennie’s here.”

“I
didn’t want to involve her,” said the king. “I involved Hayden, that was my mistake—or
so I thought. He went behind my back. There’ll be more than spells keeping the
children at bay, that’s how he justified himself.”

Zacry
nodded. “So Bennie’s cleaned the rust off Ranler’s old lockpicks, has she?”

“We
wouldn’t have a chance of getting the boys back without her.”

CHAPTER THREE

The
Brothers

Arbora
Anders had been twenty years old and more tender than most her age when Zalski
Forzythe executed his coup d’état. She had grown up in Partsvale, quite distant
from the sorcerer’s native Podrar and the royal court to which his birth gave
him access. Indeed, Arbora still made her home in that large northwestern
village known for its shrine to Herezoth’s god and its pool that worked, upon
occasion, some small miracle of healing due to the Giver’s mercy. It was
beneath the light of a pale Partsvale moon streaming through her open window
that Arbora tossed in bed, unable for the fourth night in a row to clear her
mind. Not even the summer breeze blew out her worries.

Arbora
had lived a quarter-century before setting foot in the capital. She had never
heard Zalski’s name before he assumed power, let alone made his acquaintance,
but she wished desperately, and daily—sometimes nightly as
well—that she had met the man before his three year reign. Familiar with
his aims and character, she would have had some basis on which to choose a
course of action. Whether to throw her support behind him or to stand against
him would have been clear. Even now, Arbora wished she had traveled to the
Crystal Palace in the early days of Zalski’s regime. The man had been flawed,
but he had also revered magic’s majesty as few before him. He would have
respected Arbora’s abilities, would have yearned for her backing, even to the
point of—the years had convinced her of this—sacrificing the
cruelty of his justice system to gain her goodwill. Due to Arbora’s influence,
or Zalski’s fear of losing her support, which would have amounted to the same
thing, the sorcerer would have moderated the worst in himself, allowing his
belief that the magicked should not and must not hide to burgeon in the hearts
of Herezoth’s youth. What the Giver could have accomplished with Arbora as his
Instrument!

Reflecting
on those days inevitably brought Arbora to dwell on her hatred of two
individuals, the first of whom was she herself. Arbora’s sin of inaction, of
indolence and indecision, was a sin unpardonable. One could justify wavering
for a day, or a week, but for three full years…. Her constitution could not
have been weaker, and the guilt of her missed opportunity was one she could
never expiate. She did not want her guilt expiated. Arbora deserved no peace,
for one thing, and for another, her inner turmoil had become for her what a
rudder is to a ship. Her shame directed her, kept her not merely in motion but
covering real distance. Without it, she feared she would roam in circles again,
stupidly, fruitlessly. To choose a destination and push full-speed toward it no
matter rough waters, that was what life called for. That was what Arbora had
been doing for eleven years now, ever since she had founded the Enchanted Fist.
She did not believe she had darted off in the wrong direction, and had held her
course, had never veered away. Some of those she tried to guide might have turned,
but not Arbora. If by chance she had chosen the wrong bearings, well, the error
was preferable, a million times preferable, to going nowhere and suffering
vertigo from those sickening circles.

The
second human being Arbora hated was Kora Porteg. She loathed Porteg with an
infantile intensity out of nothing but pure envy. While Arbora recognized the
seed of her invented rivalry, she was powerless, despite her magic, to uproot
the noxious bloom that sprouted from it. (She had never been able to do a thing
with gardens.) Porteg was everything, and yet nothing, that Arbora should have
been. Choosing the wrong side—that was reason enough to hate the
woman—Porteg had stood firm, had done more than that, had advanced
unfalteringly, slowly at moments but unfalteringly, dragging the royalist
movement behind her. She pulled them even to victory, despite slandering
tongues and vicious printed lies.

Then
there was the matter of Porteg’s exile. The king used the sentence he had
levied as a crutch to prop his arguments; he talked about extremists who railed
and rallied against the very idea of magic and who thought he was on their side
because he had turned on his supporter. He claimed these people were dangerous.
Whenever he said this Arbora wanted to yell that the lunatics couldn’t possibly
be as numerous as the king feared, and that Rexson couldn’t let a few crazed
individuals prevent him from making real progress, from reaching out to heal
the magic community, which did need healing—but she never did. She would
be a hypocrite to chastise Rexson for acting exactly as she: rather, for
choosing
not
to act. Arbora could
hardly stand the thought of Kora Porteg in exile, because Porteg had not
deserved banishment, and the life sentence under which she toiled tempted her fellow
sorceress to sympathize with her.

However,
Kora Porteg was not the person who prevented Arbora’s slumber, who filled her
heart with dread, her mind with premonitions that she had directed her ship to
collide with a hurricane that had only just organized in the open waters ahead.
No, Ursa and Dorane were the party responsible for that. But what was there to
do? The two had kidnapped three royals without consulting her. They refused
with vehemence to release the boys or to turn themselves in. There could be no
turning back; the pair’s crimes were far too drastic for reparation. Arbora
must support them. Perhaps Rexson might sanction a Magic Council in the end, on
behalf of his sons and their liberty. Yes…. Yes, he would have to kowtow. The
king had no powers to rival the Fist and its magicians, and no one to call to
his aid. Who would help him? Kora Porteg? Rexson had banished her, betrayed her
in a fit of spinelessness. Her brother Zacry? Zacry was a second-rate academic,
more interested in arguments than incantations, and rumor held the younger
Porteg was none too fond of the king after what he had done to Kora. Besides,
Zacry was in Traigland, tucked away near Triflag with the sister the king had
sent away.

What
was to be, Arbora told herself, would be. Why waste the wee hours panicking?
She had set her course eleven years ago, and had only to continue the route she
had always traveled.

* * *

The
basement of Ursa Hincken’s mansion was sprawling, particularly in its state of
near barrenness. Twisting shadows, caused by moonlight that filtered through a
handful of narrow, barred windows set high in one of the stone walls, danced
with the stiffness of a crab and the passion of a pouncing lion. No actual
crabs or lions, of course, could call the basement home, but a friendly mouse
lived in one of four or five empty barrels that some spiders used to support
their webs; they strung their silk between them in a feeble attempt at some
kind of decoration, the only decoration in the room, which also housed three human
inhabitants. These were three brothers who had named the mouse Twit. They
shared their food with him, which was no heroic gesture, as they always had
food enough.

Huddled
beneath thin blankets on mattresses of straw, the boys lay with closed eyes where
they were farthest from the massive omnivore that prowled outside: the wall
opposite the windows.

Ursa’s
bear frightened the youngest brother in particular, the one with the darkest
hair, chestnut like his mother’s. Hune’s fear upset him greatly. He was only
eight years old, but had never met an animal he did not like before now. At the
Palace, while Valkin longed to explore Podrar and marked the days off a
calendar until his fourteenth birthday, still years away, when his parents had
promised he could visit the even more exciting city of Yangerton; while Neslan
expanded the stone collection he used to build replicas of castles, or
cottages, or statues, or begged his nurse to tell him stories; while his
brothers did these things, Hune liked to go down to the stables and keep his
pony company with the stable hand’s son. Animals liked Hune as a matter of
course. Even Twit preferred him to the other boys, and Hune had been the one to
give the mouse its name.

Ursa’s
bear swatted the bars on one of the windows and let out a deep growl. Hune
whimpered, and opened his eyes in time to see the animal pull back a paw the
size of Hune’s own head. The bear had never acted like it wanted to get in
before; the boy clutched his blanket tight, and his voice shook.

“Valkin?”

Hune’s
oldest brother, who was eleven, extended his arm, feeling for the spectacles he
had laid aside. He found them and sat up. “That thing can’t hurt us,” he said.

“Even
if it ripped the bars off,” mumbled ten-year-old Neslan, sleepy, his eyes
squeezed tight. “I know it hasn’t acted this vicious before tonight, but even
if the bars come loose, the windows are too small for it to squeeze through.
Even you couldn’t fit through them.”

“A
shame, that,” said Valkin. “If they were a proper size, and the blasted beast
weren’t there, and we could somehow pry those bars off, we could get Hune out.”
Valkin and Neslan were both blond and telekinetic, like their father. Though
the windows were almost in the ceiling, they could easily have lifted Hune up
and out. Hune himself took after the queen. He had no magic at all.

Neslan
rubbed his eyes and sat up with an exasperated look that just broke through his
grogginess. “And what would happen then?” he asked. “What would happen to the
two of us? Do you think Hune would find someone to help us fight these people
before Ursa saw he was missing? Dorane’s staying in the mansion. He said
everything would be all right as long as we behave, but he has a cruel look.
He’d hurt us if we tried to escape. Since he’s a sorcerer, we’ll need a
sorcerer to get us out of here. It was you that got us into this, Valkin. Don’t
make it worse than it is already! You just had to find out where those
squirrels were going, didn’t you? What they were up to.”

Valkin
jumped to his own defense, as he had been doing for the past month straight
every time this argument started. “Did you ever see squirrels act that way?
Walk one by one, in a line, spaced exactly a minute apart?”

“No,”
retorted Neslan. “Because it was that animal woman making them do it! Mother
always told us not to go past the birches.”

“I
wanted to follow the squirrels too,” Hune piped from the floor. “And you came
with us. It wasn’t Valkin’s fault. Those people tricked us. Neslan, why do you
think they did it?”

Valkin
answered. “They want something from Father, I suppose.”

Neslan
nodded, and the moonlight glinted off his fair head, throwing the concern on
his face into relief. Every time Valkin proposed that motive, Neslan grew solemn.
“It’s about Father,” he said. “It has to be. But what if they want something he
doesn’t have? Something he can’t give them? What do you think will become of
us? We’ve been here for weeks already.”

“Forty-one
nights,” announced Valkin. “This is the forty-first. I’m counting every one.”

The
uncertainty that had parted Neslan’s lips and dulled his eyes turned to dread.
He knew his brother’s restlessness, and grabbed Valkin by the arm. “Father will
get us out of here,” he said. “Father will. Don’t do anything foolish. You’ll
only make things harder, or get yourself hurt. We’re uncomfortable enough. Do
you want them to tie us up?”

Valkin
cried, “Of course I don’t!”

Neslan
prompted, “What are you thinking to do? I know you’ve been thinking.”

The
crown prince glanced at the sturdy wooden staircase against the eastern wall, a
staircase that lacked a banister. It led to a metal door, the basement’s sole
entrance. He said, “I’ve been thinking that one time when August brings us
food, you or I, or both together, could pull her legs out from under her and
send her down the stairs. Or maybe off the edge. Then we could take the key and
get out of here.

“I
figure,” Valkin continued, “that it’s not a good idea. I don’t know how to get
out the mansion, for one thing, or past the bear, if we did reach an exit. And
then there’s August. She’s not like her sister. August has been kind to us. She
says she had no idea Ursa was planning to kidnap us, and I believe her. She
says she has no magic. I believe that too. Those things can happen, look at
Hune…. Well, if August has no magic, then she can’t defend herself against us,
can she? Attacking her seems awfully cruel after all the time she’s spent
trying to cheer us up, and the little cakes she brings, and the stories she’s
read.”

Hune
was thoroughly alarmed. “We can’t hurt August,” he said. “Of course we can’t
hurt her.”

“We
could warn her, though,” said Valkin. “We could tell her to halt when she comes
in. That if she doesn’t hand over the key, we’ll make her fall.”

Neslan
said, “But we wouldn’t. Don’t you think she knows that? And if she does hand us
the key, what’ll happen to her after? I don’t like Ursa one bit. I know they’re
sisters, but Ursa might harm her. They don’t get on like we do. Valkin, I’m
sure Ursa would harm her, or the sorcerer would. So even if we do nothing more
than threaten her, August gets hurt, which is no good, while we would still
have to find a way out before Dorane stops us and avoid that bear to boot.”

Hune,
still lying on his mattress, opened his eyes wide. His blanket was pulled up to
his chin. “I don’t want to make Ursa angry with her sister. Neslan, I don’t
want that.”

“I
know you don’t,” Neslan assured him. “I don’t want that either. And neither
does Val. Right, Val?”