True Magics (8 page)

“The Church would disagree,” said the king. He cast a speculative eye at Thomas. “So if your powers don’t come from the Banished, where do they come from?”

“I was born with it, I think,” said Thomas. “I mean, I was born with the ability to see magic, which I didn’t realize until I saw Bishop Malloy using it. The other things—lightning, fire—I learned how to do those. And the power I took from Bishop Malloy when we stopped him from murdering the children but…”

“Enough,” said the king.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Show me.”

Thomas hesitated. “I don’t think lightning would be wise here, your Majesty. It’s loud, and last time I did it indoors I nearly started a fire.”

The king’s eyebrows went up, “Can you do other things?”

“Yes, your majesty.”
I just can’t think of any right now…

It wasn’t as though Thomas knew a lot of magic. He’d really not been practicing or searching magic out since he’d come home from Frostmire. He’d been too busy studying and planning for Eileen’s entry into the Academy.
I need to do something, though…

Light the candles?
He looked around and saw no candelabras.

Thomas’s mind flashed back to the first time he’d shown his friends magic. Then, he’d only been able to fill a cup. Now, though…

Thomas took a deep breath and concentrated, reaching out to the water in the air.
Good thing we’re in a seaport and not the desert.

A thought brought the water together. Another lowered the temperature of the room enough that the water became vapour, then…

“By the Four,” said the king, looking at the thick, swirling white fog rising off the throne room floor. “Are you doing this?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” said Thomas, though he kept his concentration on the fog. The cloud grew larger and thicker, until the entire room was full and no one could see more than a foot or two in any direction.

“I think that’s enough, your Majesty” said Sir Walter.

“Yes,” said the king. “I can’t see a thing. I assume everyone is still here?”

“Light up the room,” whispered Henry to Thomas. “With your ball of light.”

Or I could have just used the ball of light in the first place.
Thomas fought down the urge to smack himself in the head. He raised his hand and brought a small, swirling ball of blue and yellow light into being. It barely penetrated the fog at all.

“What’s that?” asked Sir Walter. “What are you doing?”

“Light,” said Thomas. He focused on it and it grew brighter and brighter until it pierced through the fog like a beacon. Thomas heard boot steps, and the king appeared out of the fog. Sir Walter was only a step behind him. The king stared at the ball of light, his jaw hanging open. “That is… it’s…”

“Magic,” said Sir Walter.

“Amazing,” said the king. “Can all magicians do this sort of thing?”

“They can learn,” said Thomas. “But I have a lot more power than most.”

“Power you took from Bishop Malloy?” asked the king.

“Yes, your Majesty. He’d taken it from others and I took it from him.”

“When you killed him?”

“No,” said Thomas carefully. “I took the power first. Then I killed him.”

“Why?” asked Sir Walter.

“He said he was going to have us all hanged,” said Thomas. “I couldn’t let him do that to my friends.”

The king shook himself, like a dog shedding water from a light rain. “I think that’s enough, Thomas. Put out the light and get rid of the fog.”

Thomas doused the light, then looked around, uncertain.

“Is there a problem?” asked Sir Walter.

“I never actually learned how to get rid of fog,” said Thomas. “I could try to summon some wind, maybe…”

The king snorted. “No, thank you.”

“It’s already starting to lighten a bit,” said Henry. “If you opened the windows, maybe?”

“I think we will leave it,” said the king. “Come with me, please.”

The king disappeared into the fog in the direction of the small side door. Thomas hurried after, as much to keep from getting lost as anything else. The two guards snapped to attention the moment the door opened, and the king walked through. If either of them had an opinion about the fog that rolled out of the throne room, they didn’t give it.

“We are hungry,” said the king. “We’ll need breakfast for four in the private library, please.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” said the guard. He saluted and left at a fast pace.

“Excellent,” said the king. “This way, please.”

The king led them through two hallways, up a staircase and down a third hallway to a small, plain door. The king opened it and the musty scent of old paper and dust hit Thomas’s nose immediately. The room was filled with shelves of scrolls and books, with several comfortable chairs and a table in their midst. The king took one of the chairs and said, “Please, sit.”

The other three did, and no one said anything more. The king seemed contemplative, Sir Walter inquisitive, Henry calm and Thomas hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. The room stayed silent until servants arrived at the door with mulled wine and trays full of fruits, cheese and bread. The king helped himself and gestured for the others to do the same. The smell of the food made Thomas realize he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. He filled his plate and wolfed half of it down almost at once.

“Better, I take it?” asked the king, once all the plates were empty.

“Yes, your Majesty,” said Thomas. “And thank you. It’s been a long night.”

“I usually don’t bring food in here,” the king said. “Too likely to spill it onto the books.”

“It’s a very nice collection,” said Thomas.

“Thank you,” said the king. “I keep this one mostly closed. All the books in it are on the Church’s forbidden list.”

Thomas’s eyes went wide and he looked closer at the volumes. Henry whistled appreciatively. “Impressive. Does the Archbishop know?”

“One suspects he does,” said the king, “though he never mentions it.”

The king stepped over to one of the shelves and pulled down a thick book with a worn leather cover. There had been gold filigree on it once, but it had faded to near-invisibility. He held it out to Thomas. “What do you think of this?”

Thomas took the book and gently opened it. The script was old-fashioned and hand-written, and on the first page were the words, “Spells of divine guidance and learning, for the worship and service of She who protects us all.”

Interesting.
Thomas turned to the first spell inside. It was prettily written, and very poetically described how one could make contact with the Mother and ask her for her protection and guidance. Unfortunately, it was not magic. Thomas turned the page, then the next, and the next. Finally he leafed through the book front to back.

“It’s beautifully written, your Majesty,” said Thomas. “But there’s no real magic in it.”

Sir Walter peered over Thomas’s shoulder. “Really? They looked like spells to me.”

“They look like spells,” agreed Thomas. “But they’re just words.”

“And you’re certain how, Thomas?” asked the king.

I will have no secrets left, when he is done.
“Spells glow. Blue ones are beneficial. Red are harmful. This book has nothing.”

The king’s eyebrows went up. “Where did you first learn that?”

“In the library beneath the Theology building,” said Thomas.

“Law students aren’t allowed in that library,” said the king.

“No, your Majesty.”

“Should I ask what you were doing there?” The king raised his hand while Thomas struggled to find an answer. “Don’t worry, I won’t. What sort of spells did you find?”

“Everything from straight cutting of wood to warding off vermin, your Majesty. And I have one book with the sort of magic that you hear about in stories.”

“I see,” said the king. He looked around at his library. “And how long would it take you to go through these books and tell me which ones have magic?”

Thomas looked over the room. The books ranged from beautiful to tattered, from thick tomes to slim volumes. He suspected he could pleasantly spend a week there. But to find magic? “A few hours, maybe. I’d have to look through each one.”

“Not today, then, I think.” The king sat down in another chair and rubbed his chin with one hand. “Tell me, Thomas, can you tell when someone has magic?”

“Not to look at them,” said Thomas. “People with magic look the same as everyone else.”

“Then how did you know who had it?” asked Sir Walter. “In Frostmire, I mean.”

“I saw them using it,” said Thomas. “Or felt them using it, when they had me in the caves.”

“And was Frostmire the first place you noticed the magic, Thomas?”

“No, your Majesty. I saw it first back in Elmvale,” said Thomas, “when I went home for Fire Night last spring. A juggler made a ball of light appear in his hand.”

“I think I should like to meet this juggler,” said the king.

Thomas remembered watching the life fleeing from Timothy’s eyes as he bled to death under his own overturned wagon. “He’s dead, your Majesty. Bishop Malloy killed him to take his magic.”

“Is that why you went after Bishop Malloy?” asked Sir Walter. “Revenge for the juggler?”

“No, sir. The Bishop was after my family, sir.”

The king cocked his head to one side. “For magic?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“I see.” The king sat forward in his chair, leaning his elbow on the arm and his chin upon his hand, the very picture of studious thought. “How many others with magic are there?”

“I…” Thomas had never thought about it. “I have no idea, your Majesty.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve never looked,” said Thomas. “I was too busy hiding my own from the Church.”

“Look now,” said the king. “I want to know how many there are with magic in my city.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Thomas said. After a moment he added, “May I ask why?”

“The Church of the High Father is not happy,” said Sir Walter. “They have not been happy since last summer, and they are less happy now that stories are going around of how a…
magician
… managed to defeat the enemies of the kingdom where the Church’s soldiers failed.”

“And given their current fear-mongering about witchcraft,” said the king, “it would be very unfortunate if anyone who can actually use magic were to fall into their hands.”

“Whereas if the king knows who they are he can extend his protection over them, should it become necessary,” said Sir Walter.

“I suggest you start tonight,” the king said. “There are feasts this evening throughout the city. If your juggler was a magician, maybe there are other troubadours who disguise their magic as part of their performance.”

Thomas, who’d been hoping to spend the evening with Eileen, managed not to sigh when he said, “Yes, your Majesty.”

“Do not trust anyone in this, Thomas,” said the king. “Show no one any magic. Not until you have proof of theirs. Consider that a command.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Thomas.

“And take Henry with you,” said the king. “He can consider it part of his punishment for not telling me of this earlier.”

5

It was well after lunch when Thomas and Henry reached the Street of Smiths. They’d stopped at home for dry clothes and their rapiers, and to raid whatever food they had left in their cupboard. It yielded some stale bread that they broke in half and crunched on as they walked through the streets. The wind had risen since the morning, and the day had not warmed up at all. The shops were all closed for the holiday and the few folks they saw were walking briskly from one house to another.

Thomas walked fast, both from the cold, and because he was sure Eileen and George were desperate to hear that they were all right.

Or at least Eileen,
Thomas thought as they reached the house. George he wasn’t too sure of any more. The man had seemed more irritated than anything else when the whole mess had happened.

Thomas hammered on the door of the smithy and called up, “It’s us!”

He heard Eileen shout, “They’re back!” and then her footsteps pounding down the stairs. The bolt inside was shot back loud enough to hear, and Eileen swung the door open. She wore a plain brown dress and sweater and her hair was a mess. She looked wonderful to Thomas. “You’re back!” Eileen wrapped her arms around Thomas’s neck. “Thank the Four!” She pushed him back. “What happened? What did the king want?”

“Nothing we can talk about here,” said Henry. “Glad to see you, too, by the way.”

“Don’t be stupid, Henry,” Eileen said, rolling her eyes. She gave him a quick hug anyway. “Get in here and tell me what happened.” She led them upstairs to the kitchen. “George is just getting changed. He’s been invited to the Master Smith’s house for dinner.”

“
We’ve
been invited,” corrected George, coming down the stairs in a clean shirt and breeches. “And
we
should both be there.” He looked over Henry and Thomas. “You’re all right?”