by C. L. Polk
“Women don’t do the higher magics the chapterhouse teaches,” Ianthe said, and shrugged. “It takes years of study, and you have to start young. What woman knows that she has no wish for the most natural drives in the world at ten?”
Beatrice bridled the urge to snap. “I cannot answer that, as no one makes a habit of asking ten-year-old girls what they want. And even if someone did, there’s really only one acceptable answer.”
“All right,” Ianthe said, and made way for a faster carriage galloping for Bendleton. “When you were ten, what did you want?”
“Magic,” Beatrice said. “I wanted to answer the call of High Magic. I wanted to be an initiate in the chapterhouse, painstakingly copying passages from books in my own commonplace book. I wanted a sponsor. I wanted to learn Mizunh and all the signs and sigils to call spirits and—I wanted magic, and everyone told me that I couldn’t have it.”
Ianthe licked his lips and looked away. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“Then why?”
Ianthe’s shoulders went up. “I’m not really supposed to say.”
“More of your brotherhood’s secrets. But is there a real reason that women can’t learn the higher magics?”
“All right,” Ianthe said. “I’ll tell you as much as I can, since I have the privilege of your friendship. But this is all skirting very close to things I cannot tell you, because of my oaths of initiation.”
“I will not ask you to break your oath,” Beatrice said. “I know that you cannot. But what is the reason women cannot do the ordeal?”
“Because the moment you had to put on a warding collar, your connection to your greater spirit would be lost. And you would only be able to bond another if you were still younger than twenty-five.”
“Why is that?”
“Honestly, I don’t think anyone knows,” Ianthe said. “There’s a hypothesis that you cross the threshold from growing to aging then, but that’s just the prevailing best guess.”
“But if you have the means to allow a woman to control her own fertility and plan her family, why couldn’t she train, marry, have a child or two, and then bind a greater spirit before she’s too old for the ordeal?”
“Because you have to go into the final ordeal with a bound lesser spirit,” Ianthe said. “And you must have the pact of a lesser spirit to bear the weapons of the rose. If you lose the bond, the rank is stripped from you.”
“Does that happen?”
“It’s a severe punishment,” Ianthe said. “I personally have never witnessed it performed. But the punished must collar himself for a month to a year, and when he takes it off, he has to start the degree all over again. It’s a deep shame to have your degree stripped.”
Beatrice’s heart sank as a possibility, bright with promise, dimmed and went out. “So the device women have to wear for the safety of their children is an instrument of punishment to men in the chapterhouse. I could spend a very long time getting angry while thinking about that.”
“I don’t blame you at all, and I won’t quibble about the intent of each. It’s bothered me before too.”
“So a woman would lose her right to claim the rose if she bore children. What if binding the spirit was enough? If all I had to do was prove that I could?”
Ianthe shook his head. “You need the bound spirit for the ritual.”
“Why?”
“That’s a secret. I mean that I don’t know the answer, because I haven’t done that ritual yet,” Ianthe explained.
Beatrice slumped. “There’s no way a woman could answer both the demands of family and magic.”
“Few mages would take a woman as a student, regardless.” Ianthe said. “The study of High Magic is a legacy. Once I become a mage, I will take on novices whose progress and success in the mysteries reflect on my standing and reputation in the chapterhouse. Taking on a novice who doesn’t complete the Ordeal of the Rose soon enough—or even at all—”
“Would make the mentor lose respect.”
“Correct.” Ianthe clucked to his horses, nudging them into a trot. “So if a woman who studies High Magic changes her mind about what she wants once she’s old enough to put away childish desires and accept the path of womanhood—”
“Childish desires,” Beatrice repeated.
Ianthe went on, nodding to a cart driver who made way for him. “No mentor wants to see their initiate fail to live up to their true potential. They don’t want to wonder what caliber of mage their charge could have been, if she hadn’t given it up for a family—and it would be a rare girl who never grew up enough to become a woman.”
“You’re equating child-bearing to maturity,” Beatrice said. “That a woman who doesn’t want children isn’t actually an adult.”
“Adults, men and women alike, continue the legacy of their families. A man who never marries and has children hasn’t grown up either.”
The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of cherry blossoms on its back. “But we don’t call unmarried men thornbacks. We don’t mutter about how unhappy he must be to have never caught a spouse—”
“But an unmarried man can’t take on the ordeal of the order,” Ianthe said.
“Why not?”
“The oath,” Ianthe said. “I’m shaving very close to telling you what I should not.”
“The oath says you have to be married? Is there a magical reason for that?”
“If there is, I don’t know it.” Ianthe nudged the curricle around a slow-moving wagon. “But it’s in the oath. It doesn’t matter how quickly you learned or how strong your potential is. Magi are married men. So there is a social penalty.”
“Not much of one.”
“Perhaps not,” Ianthe said. “And as I said, no Llanandari husband would lock his wife into a warding collar day in and day out. Nor would he get so many children on his wife that she was buried under babies for most of her life. Llanandari wives have freedom. If you had met my mother, you would see how much.”
“I don’t wish to speak against your mother, but consider this,” Beatrice said. “Llanandari husbands allow their wives to use their magic—but those wives are only casting rhyming charms and cantrips. They’re not allowed to explore their potential as mages.”
“Yes, they are,” Ianthe said. “I just told you. Llanandari women don’t wear binding collars unless they’re pregnant, and we plan our children. Women go years without being warded long before their courses end. My mother took off the collar for good when I was ten.”
“But she was past the age of twenty-five. Does your mother have the bond of even a lesser spirit? Could she train in the chapterhouse, now that she’s done with bearing children?”
Ianthe went still. “That’s not the point.”
“I assure you that it is,” Beatrice said. “And marriage and fatherhood as a restriction to entrance to the higher orders of the chapterhouse isn’t much of a restriction for men.”
“But you cannot become a mage without it.”
“How many intentionally unmarried initiates with enough training to take the ordeal do you know? Ten?”
“Not so many as that.”
“Five?”
Ianthe sighed. “Two.”
“Do you expect they’ll never marry?”
“No. They’ll marry, earn their initiation, and ignore their wives as much as possible.”
“I have never met a married woman who had the luxury of ignoring her husband.”
“All right. It’s unfair,” Ianthe said. “But how can we change it? There is no way to protect a sorceress from bearing a spiritborn without the warding collar. That’s something you can’t deny.”
“But no one is looking for another way,” Beatrice said. “The current system lays all of the restriction, all the responsibility, and all of the burden on sorceresses. Men aren’t inconvenienced in any way. They may do whatever they like. For them, the system isn’t broken, so why look for a solution?”
Beatrice went silent, too late. She had gone
too far; she had said too much. Cherry trees nodded in the ocean breeze, heavy with buds still flushed pink and ignorant of what it meant to bloom lining the side of the street. The scent of the sea just behind the curving, pale stone fronts of the townhouses twined with the drowsy, nectar-sweet fragrance of the cherry boughs. There was no way to take it back. The silence in the curricle sat between them, crowding them to the edges of the bench. Ianthe busied himself with driving the horses up Triumph Street. When he wheeled the curricle around to stop in front of number seventeen, Beatrice’s fingers were laced together so tightly her knuckles ached. She’d ruined it. One of the doors beckoning her closer now swung slowly shut. She touched the hollow notch at the base of her neck and felt her throat go tight.
“Miss Clayborn,” Ianthe said, as she rose from the curricle’s bench. “You’ve given me much to think about.”
Beatrice tried for a smile. She’d said too much. Ianthe would never wish for her company again. She had pushed the boundaries and torn the threads that had wound between them. A movement at a third-floor window caught her eye, and Mother gazed down at her and Ianthe, her fingers resting at the collar on her throat.
Beatrice looked away. A better daughter would try to mend what she had torn. A better daughter wouldn’t have rent their friendship in the first place. “I apologize for that. It was ill-said.”
“Please don’t. I plan on thinking about it. You have a real, valid point about planning children before taking the ordeal. Maybe there’s a way to do it.”
Ianthe had brightened up again, optimistic and confident. Beatrice tried to smile for him. The world gave way to Ianthe Lavan, but he would want a son. And if Beatrice had the Clayborn luck, she would have daughter after daughter. If her twenty-fifth birthday drew near without bearing a son, would he be content without one? Would his family?
It was still the same problem. It relied on her husband’s permission, not her own freedom. But she had argued enough for one day. “Perhaps the next generation will benefit from it.”
“Perhaps. I will see you at Foxbridge Manor. I hope you’re as good at cards as you are at explaining injustice.” He touched the tip of his tricornered hat and smiled. “Until then.”
Beatrice stood on the promenade, a fresh wave of sickness washing over her. The card party. She’d forgotten all about it. She hurried inside, gathering up her skirts to dash up the stairs. She had a plan to enact, and there wasn’t much time.
CHAPTER VI
:Pretty,: Nadi crowed.
Nadi was correct. The front of Lord Powles’s manor boasted the symmetry that was so important in beautiful houses, and once inside, the oval-shaped entry hall rose to the second story where an enormous, dazzling chandelier gave warm light to the statue standing in the center of the room. Beatrice and Nadi gazed at a marble-carved maiden with one arm raised, her fingers folded elegantly in the sign that the initiated recognized as a welcome and promise of hospitality.
:She’s beautiful,: Nadi sighed. :Who turned her to stone?:
:No one did,: Beatrice thought. :She’s a sculpture.:
:Touch her.:
:I can’t. That’s rude.:
:Stupid rules,: Nadi pouted. :Touch her.:
:That wasn’t our bargain.: Beatrice smiled at the footman who guided her into a drawing room, leaving the marble maiden behind. She swayed in a polite greeting to the company gathered there—elders, mostly.
Ysbeta Lavan lounged in deep blue and lace, her arms bare to the elbow according to the etiquette of card playing. She cradled a cup of soft pink punch in one hand, and her attention diverted from Lord Powles to focus on Beatrice. “Here she is.”
“Miss Clayborn! What excellent timing. A table’s about to open,” Lord Powles said. “As I’m sure you’ve already gathered, Ianthe won the chase around the oblong, and therefore is your partner tonight.”
Ianthe bowed. Beatrice steadied her breath. She was going to partner him at cards, and be expected to converse, and every time she looked at him, she would remember how she had sneered at his pride in his culture’s permissiveness toward sorceresses and declared it insufficient.
This was going to be a terribly awkward evening. She smiled at him and died inside at the hot flush that raced up her cheeks. “Congratulations, Mr. Lavan.”
“The honor is mine.” Ianthe was by her side in a breath, smelling deliciously of sweetwood and spring blossoms. “Do you play cards often?”
“With family, on rainy days. For buttons.”
Ianthe nodded as if he expected no less. “A button a point?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent! It’s the same thing here. Though we’re not playing for buttons,” Ianthe laughed. “The stake is ten crowns a point.”
Beatrice tried not to choke. Father had given her fifty crowns. She could lose that in a single slate—she could lose that in a single hand. “Oh. I only brought—”
“Don’t worry,” Ianthe said. “We don’t actually put cash on the table. That’s for card hells. We use chits and pay the cost the next day. Would you like some punch?”
:Yes!: cried Nadi. :And two more.:
“Thank you. Punch would be lovely,” Beatrice said.
She sipped, as a lady should, and the nectar blended with the scent of elderflower and clean-distilled herbal gin with a quinine tinge. It was cold and refreshing, and Beatrice caught a small pebble of ice between her teeth.
:You need to drink three,: Nadi said. :That’s the bargain. You didn’t say pretty Ianthe would be here. Kiss him again.:
Nadi would have forced the matter too, if Beatrice had let it. :Three cups of punch,: she reminded Nadi. :The sight of the sunrise. The beach on bare feet. That is our bargain.:
Lord Powles offered his arm to Ysbeta and led the way into a spacious ballroom, nearly as large as the assembly hall. Elders gathered on one side of the room, and young people the other. The young men had shed their jackets and wore their sleeves rolled to the elbows, their hands scrupulously above the table, laying down cards to be collected as tricks. Conversation hummed as players kept up chatter that carefully skirted around the subjects forbidden at cards. One table stood empty, and Beatrice passed by players with stacks of paper chits beside their punch cups. Every one of those chits represented at least ten crowns.
Oh, Heaven. How was she going to escape the tables unscathed?
Ianthe helped her seat herself. Ysbeta, on her left hand, leaned over to murmur, “I am so sorry about this,” as Ianthe and Lord Powles took their seats. “You’re in for a drubbing.”
Beatrice glanced at her, but Ysbeta was already shuffling the cards, the waxed cardboard riffling musically. She held out the pack to her brother.
“Cut.”
Inside, Nadi shivered. Beatrice’s skin went cool and shuddering as the spirit’s magic washed over her.
“Eager, are we?” Ianthe cut the cards and soon Beatrice held her hand, astonished at the painted faces of court cards filling her hand. She counted a singleton rose. What was honors?
“Sheldon’s West,” Ianthe announced as Bard lit a scented cheroot. Beatrice reckoned. Honors suit was staves, and Beatrice held ace, queen, and four pips, with offsuit court cards. She could slaughter the table with this hand.
She arranged her hand and smiled at Ysbeta. “I adore that color. You are beautiful in it.”
Powles led with the rose king. Oh, poor Sheldon. She discarded her seven and glanced at Ianthe, who ignored the card to smile at Beatrice.
“It’s a secret formula,” he said. “People have attempted to infiltrate our dyers to learn the secret of its vividness.”
:It’s magic,: Nadi said. :I can smell it.:
:Alchemy?:
:Yes.:
Ianthe wore that same deep, clear blue, hand-dotted with golden thread and lavished at the button-fronts with golden scrolls.
“I think the color would be lovely on you, Beatrice,” Ysbeta said.
“Indeed,” Ianthe agreed, as he aced the trick and laid the capt
ured cards facedown at his elbow. “I would like to see you in it.”
With that remarkable statement, Ianthe led with the king of staves.
:He likes you.:
He did. He still did, even after she’d unleashed her polemic. He ought to have been icily polite at best, but he watched her with a half-hidden smile and it widened every time their eyes met. They met now, and Ianthe’s eyes sparkled like starlight on night-dark water. It made her skin glow with warmth.
Beatrice smiled and dropped her lowest honor on the trick. “I think it might be a difficult shade. Is the technique alchemical?”
Ysbeta smiled and laid a finger on her lips. “Secret.”
“I enjoyed alchemy,” Bard said. “It was the best course at school. It contains wonders that match any summoning. I shouldn’t let Gadaran hear me say that.”
Ysbeta glanced at the cards, and carefully bit her lip. Beatrice and Ianthe racked four points on their victory. Split between them, Beatrice had won twenty crowns on the first hand.
“Who is Gadaran?” Ysbeta asked.
“A lesser spirit of knowledge, befitting a minister’s son,” Bard said through a cloud of smoke. “I was the studious one. Unlike your brother, whose best marks are on the hazards field. But if they gave out evaluations for pranks, Ianthe would be a legend.”
A bouquet of rose suit cards greeted Beatrice on her next hand. She arranged them and asked, “You were a prankster?”
“He’d set the whole class on their heels,” Bard said. “Ianthe once made everyone’s pens dance in the air at final examinations, and then he scrambled them up so no original owner had his pen.”
“That sounds like a benign prank,” Ysbeta said, frowning as Beatrice led with the ace of swords.
“It wasn’t so benign for the people who had magically engraved their pens with answers to the test.” Ianthe caught her intention, and led swords again, clearing honors cards out of play. “Someone I didn’t like was cheating, and I enjoy justice.”
