The Midnight Bargain

by C. L. Polk

:You are weaker. You will diminish first, little luck spirit. And then the other. And then I will take the man’s shell as my own,: Hilviathras said, its voice booming inside Beatrice’s skull. :Or you can surrender to me, little witchling, and I will spare them both.:

  “They will destroy you,” Beatrice said. She twisted her fingers into sign after sign, battering her will against Hilviathras, but it barely left a dent. “They will never allow you to walk free in my flesh. Never.”

  :Beatrice,: Nadi said. :I don’t have enough. I can’t do it alone.:

  The knowledge shook her down to her bones. Nadi didn’t have enough. Fandari probably didn’t either. They were going to lose. Hilviathras would don Ianthe’s body like a suit and wreak havoc until it was captured. Destroyed. And she? She would already be dead.

  Beatrice spied the rose dagger on the floor. She could do what was needed. She could be as strong for Ianthe as he was for her. She could do no less.

  :Nadi. I’m getting the knife. When I say now, you run. Run, do you understand?:

  :I don’t mean that,: Nadi said. :We can still fight.:

  :How? You don’t have enough.:

  :We have enough,: Nadi said. :All of us. Together.:

  Hilviathras wound itself around Ianthe, who struggled to cast something, anything to drive it away. It was distracted. They could ambush it if they acted together.

  :What do we do?:

  :Let me in.:

  :But you’re already inside me.:

  :I’m inside your body. Let me in your soul.:

  How was she supposed to do that? She sought for something inside herself, something soul-shaped, but found only herself and Nadi under her skin. Closer to her than anyone or anything had ever been. How could they get closer still?

  “Ianthe!” she shouted. “Trust Fandari! Let it in!”

  :You have all the power I need,: Nadi said. It was smaller now, but it fought to distract Hilviathras from digging deeper in Ianthe’s body. Ianthe had lost all his words to terrified screaming as the spirit shoved its way inside his flesh.

  If she didn’t find the way into her soul, Ianthe would be gone. She couldn’t allow that. She had to let Nadi in. She had to!

  Desperately, she tried to push Nadi inside her heart. That was where the soul dwelled, wasn’t it?

  :Not like that.:

  “How?” she shouted.

  :Let me. Let go. Let me.:

  Ysbeta, whimpering, moved toward the knife. What was she going to do with it? She stretched out one hand, straining for a blade scarcely an inch away from her fingertips. What did she mean to do with it? What did she mean to do?

  :Hurry,: Nadi said. :You have the key. You know the way. Let me in.:

  Beatrice screamed in frustration. She didn’t know how! She didn’t know what to do! She stretched her hand up into the pillar of dark light that was Nadi’s form, the way she would put her hand out for Nadi to slip inside her flesh. But she needed to go deeper. She had to let it in.

  She had to let Nadi get in. All she had to do was open the way.

  She breathed. Deep. Slow. Filling her stays with light, with power, deep into the core of herself. Imagined a flower opening to the sun, every petal unfolding. She focused, not on her center, but at the edges of herself.

  Ysbeta batted the handle with her fingers and the dagger spun around, presenting itself point first.

  Ianthe had stopped screaming. Stopped fighting. Surrendered—not to Hilviathras.

  To Fandari.

  Beatrice exhaled, blanked her mind, rose above the struggle. She twined with Nadi, her soul touching, opening to the spirit like an outstretched hand.

  Nadi rushed in. :You must let go. Let go. Let me. I have enough. Trust.:

  Beatrice’s fingertips went cold. Her throbbing, bruised feet went chilly. Her power, her life poured from her and into Nadi, who swelled to great height, the violet-white starlight of Beatrice’s power shining between the black sparkle of Nadi’s might.

  “Ianthe!” Beatrice cried. “We have to work together.”

  Ianthe lifted his hand. “Together,” he shouted. “Ysbeta, get back.”

  “No.” Ysbeta scrabbled forward and grabbed the blade. Blood dripped as she dragged it close. Her palm stained red as she found her grip on the handle. “Together.”

  Inside her, Nadi gathered up their strength so tightly her arms and legs trembled, weakening. They had one chance. Only one.

  “On three!” Beatrice yelled. “One, two—”

  Ysbeta bounced to her feet, thrusting the rose dagger high over her head. Golden light shot from the spirit blade’s point, piercing Hilviathras. Ianthe rose on his knees, Fandari a shining dark column filled with his power. Together, Nadi and Fandari struck.

  They leapt on Hilviathras. They tore at its form, biting, siphoning, feasting, their forms larger, darker, and more powerful with the bond. Beatrice watched through dizzy eyes as Nadi gorged itself on the screaming, struggling spirit, no longer enormous, no longer overpowering.

  The spirit recoiled. It screamed, the sound like a bow drawn sharp and hard across the strings of a violon, a shriek like a human voice.

  Nadi and Fandari fed and grew strong. Ianthe pitched forward, landing on his hands. Ysbeta lunged and stabbed the greater spirit’s form, smaller now, tattered, weakened.

  Beatrice’s vision went gray. She fought to hold on, dizzy and nauseous as Nadi broke off from consuming Hilviathras.

  Huge now, if not so large as Hilviathras had been. Powerful, filled with the energies of its foe and Beatrice’s own, drained from her to lend her spirit strength.

  :Nadi?: Beatrice asked. :It’s getting dark.:

  Dark, and distant. Beatrice was cold, cold and half out of her body, watching as the light faded all around her. It felt like the final gray rush that came just before fainting, but she never quite fell. She kept her eyes open, fighting against the dark. :Nadi?:

  :I am here.: Nadi touched her brow, and strength seeped back into her flesh. Its voice was different. More resonant, less childlike. :You have given me the best fruits, the sweetest wine, fine cheese aged in the darkest of caves. You have given me cake and dancing and starlight, and the first kiss of the man you love.:

  Ysbeta dropped the knife and reached for the pathetic remains of Hilviathras. Ianthe lifted his head, reaching for Fandari. Beatrice stretched out her hand in echo. :You saved us.:

  :When I thirsted, you gave me drink. When I craved, you fed my spirit. You gave me sunlight and sea-surf and sand between our toes. You gave me friendship and dreaming. You have kept faith with me, and made me grow strong, and now we are forever.:

  Nadi’s form twined around Beatrice’s hand. The power filled her senses, filled her with an exhilaration that awed her. :What happened?:

  :The great bargain is complete. You are my ally, and I am yours. I am Nadidamarus, Greater Spirit of Fortune, and I will always be by your side.:

  “Nadidamarus,” Beatrice said. “Are you still . . . are you still Nadi? Do you remember?”

  :I remember, Beatrice Amara Clayborn. I am still your friend Nadi, though I am more. And we will win and win and win.:

  Beatrice laughed. She bounded to her feet. Ianthe glowed with elation and joy and boundless power.

  “We did it,” Ianthe said. “We’re magi.”

  Ysbeta made a cry of distress, and Beatrice was beside her in a heartbeat.

  “Help me,” Ysbeta said. “It’s fading, I have to save it.”

  “That spirit nearly killed us,” Ianthe said.

  “It’s begging me,” Ysbeta cried. “It hurts. I feel it hurting. Help me save it.”

  “You have to let it in,” Beatrice said.

  Ianthe gasped. “Don’t!”

  “She needs that spirit,” Beatrice said. “She needs to become a mage. Her life depends on it.”

  “Not just that,” Ysbeta said. “I have to. I have to get the answer—”

  “Let it inside your body, like you let Elamin in.”

  The ragge
d, black-lit thing seeped under Ysbeta’s skin, lending its feeble dark starlight to her own aura.

  “Good,” Beatrice said. “Now you have to trust it.”

  “You can’t,” Ianthe said. “It tried to destroy you.”

  “I must,” Ysbeta said. “You need this as much as I do. Now let me do it.”

  “Trust it,” Beatrice said. “Open yourself to it. Let it have the center of yourself. You are a flower. It’s the sun. Trust it.”

  They stayed silent. Ysbeta frowned in concentration.

  “Don’t try to force it,” Beatrice said. “Just let it—”

  “It misses Jonathan,” Ysbeta said. “Jonathan was its mage until he died and left it alone. Then it was summoned, ordered around, commanded, forced to obey—”

  “You will be its friend,” Beatrice said. “You will be its mage. Promise it.”

  Ianthe kept quiet, his lips thin, and then spoke. “You can let it go—”

  “No. Hilviathras is the key. If we don’t have it, if it perishes because of what we did—Hilviathras. I have a mystery,” Ysbeta said. “A puzzle that might never have been solved. Knowledge that might never have been found. You can help me find it. You can help me find them all. Bind with me, and we will travel the world.”

  Ysbeta closed her eyes. Beatrice went quiet. She couldn’t bind Hilviathras for her. Ysbeta had to do this. She waited, and together, she and Nadidamarus nudged chance to favor Ysbeta’s bargain.

  Ysbeta let out a deep breath. “We will,” she said. “We will find mysteries forever.”

  Peace stole over her face. “There. It’s mine now.”

  “Is this the best idea?” Ianthe asked. “It tried to kill you.”

  “I made a mistake,” Ysbeta said. “We will learn. Together. And now Lord Powles will never ask me to marry him. It’s done. I’m free.”

  :She let it in,: Nadidamarus said. :She is a mage now, even if her bond spirit is weak. It is done.:

  It was done. And as they picked themselves up and tried to dust off their clothes, Beatrice gazed at Ianthe, understanding at last what he had sacrificed.

  “You gave everything for me,” she said. “You brought me here so I could be free. Even though that meant I could never marry you.”

  “I love you,” Ianthe said. “And that meant I couldn’t leave you to a life of misery.”

  “Oh, Skyborn. Hold on, before you finish your farewells,” Ysbeta said. “You certainly won’t forget. You don’t have to stay apart.”

  Beatrice blinked. “But we’re magi. We can’t ever be together.”

  “I’m a mage too. But unlike you, the inveterate gambler, and unlike Ianthe, who chose brute force over subtlety of wit, I bound a spirit of knowledge.”

  Ianthe cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  Ysbeta smiled, wide enough to show her crooked lower teeth. “I had the name of the spirit when I first called on Beatrice. She read it aloud from a grimoire in my possession, and it seemed most valuable to me. Later, I considered that such a spirit could help your predicament—but I had to go first. Just in case it mattered.”

  “You could have said that.” Ianthe bent and retrieved his rose dagger. “You nearly died. You are so stubborn—”

  “I tried to explain, but you wouldn’t listen. I did what I had to do,” Ysbeta said. “And when Hilviathras was an inch from dissolution, drained too far to reconstitute itself, I gave it what it needed to fight for life.”

  “And that was your soul-bond?” Ianthe asked.

  “No. It was the mystery. I asked Hilviathras to help me solve the mystery.”

  “What mystery?” Beatrice tugged off her ruined, footless stocking, balling it up to stow in her pocket. “What is the mystery?”

  “I asked it how a sorceress might protect her unborn child from possession,” Ysbeta said.

  “Did it know?” Ianthe asked. “Ysy. Does it know how to do this?”

  “It remembers a nation of uncollared women, lost to legend and time. They knew how to protect their children. And I will get that answer.” Ysbeta smiled and pointed at Ianthe. “It said your sacrifice was the key, but I don’t know more. We have to find the details ourselves. Are you willing to sacrifice for your family?”

  “Yes,” Ianthe said. “Yes. Absolutely. As many times as you want. Let’s have children, Beatrice. Let’s have ten children.”

  “Let’s start with one,” Beatrice said, but she laughed, opening her arms for Ianthe. “We can get married.”

  He laughed and lifted her around the waist, spinning them both in delight. “We’re going to get married.”

  “How?”

  “We make all haste to Meryton,” Ysbeta said. “We need to get on the Pelican. Now.”

  Meryton sped by in a blur. Ianthe drove the fiacre, demonstrating an ability to shout at traffic delays in Chasand, Llanandari, Sanchan, Valserran, and Makilan. Ysbeta fought laughter at some of the particularly ribald jokes in Sanchan. They lurched and paused and crawled through streets dense with wagons, carts, and people bearing loads on their backs, moving goods between seller and buyer. It was noisy and stank of cooking food, horses, and decaying scraps. When the wind shifted and swept away the odors with the salt and sea–wracked scent of the ocean, Beatrice breathed more freely.

  Ianthe halted the ponies. “Ysy, you’re Kalinda Damind. You’re Ysbeta Lavan’s new manager of affairs, and you’ve come to inspect the Pelican and report on his condition to your employer.”

  Ysbeta was dressed rather too well to pass as a working woman—the cut of her walking suit bore the standing collar and deep buttoned cuffs of high fashion, and her jabot ruffle was of fifty-thread lace rather than simply trim. But she stripped off her embroidered gloves and stuffed them in a pocket. “How do we explain Beatrice?”

  Beatrice patted her hair, now released from its pins and smoothed into a simple braid. “I don’t have stockings.”

  “No one will be looking at your feet.”

  “Another woman will notice in an instant,” Beatrice said.

  “We’re not likely to run into another woman. You’re Miss Damind’s clerk. Paulina Fisher. There’s a writing board under the seat. Scribble down anything, it’s just a prop.”

  They moved through a town of warehouses and cargo guards, frowning and alert at the sight of a lady and her well-dressed attendant, driven through the streets by a hired fiacre and a gentleman driver. Some of them stepped into the street to challenge them. Ianthe handled it with swift, polite words and the flash of rings—one, the linked circles of a chapterhouse magician, the other, the heavily carved signet used to legally seal documents on behalf of Lavan International Trade and Exploration. Sometimes it was hard to tell which mark left the most impact.

  They crossed a street that felt like slipping into another country. Warehouses, shining clean and white, braced by sturdy timbers, lined grid-straight streets. Llanandari workers, clerks, and warehouse guards moved around with purpose, and many of them took one look at Ysbeta and bowed, doffing their hats.

  “Nearly there,” Ysbeta said, as the scent of seawater and a warehouse that wafted the rich scent of tanned leather overwhelmed the odors of horse and humanity.

  “Which warehouse does your family lease?” Beatrice asked, and Ysbeta grinned, waving her arm to take in their surroundings.

  “These are the warehouses for cleared goods. We keep it sharply organized.”

  Beatrice looked around again, taking in the sight. “You mean these buildings are all yours?”

  “Beatrice, my dear, I’m going to have such fun watching you goggle at the scope of Lavan International,” Ysbeta said. “Now wait . . .”

  Ysbeta lifted one hand, waiting for Ianthe to cross yet another street and stop at a manned gate. The attendants raced to let them through, and Ysbeta dropped her hand.

  “Welcome to Llanandras,” she said. “Technically you are on foreign soil. Legally, your father has no right to extradite you from our country. You have asylum.”

 
Beatrice knelt on the carriage floor to retrieve the wooden writing board that held a sheaf of paper, an expensive metal pen, and a portable inkwell. “What?”

  “You’re safe here,” Ysbeta explained. “Even if they find you, so long as you’re on this side of the gate, they can’t touch you. If we take a ship and sail three miles out, you’re in common waters, living under the rule of the sea. You can marry out there, and no one can do a thing.”

  Free. Safe. And after a very short voyage, married. But it wasn’t quite enough. It was only her safety.

  “But . . . it matters more if you’re safe here,” Beatrice said. “Your parents can touch you here—and when they do, they’ll drag you back to Lord Powles.”

  Ysbeta pursed her lips and nodded. “That’s why Ianthe was in such a hurry to get here. I have to pursue some legal safety of my own.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “They can’t haul me off my own ship,” Ysbeta said. “I can even refuse them permission to board. The sooner I’m on the Pelican, the better.”

  Of course. Ysbeta and Ianthe had told her that Ysbeta owned a ship, and she knew that the captain of a ship was king on the water, enjoying absolute rule so long as he—she—stood on his decks.

  “All we have to do is board, and that’s us settled. Happy ever after.” She sniffed the air. “Someone’s steaming cockles.”

  They drove inside a warehouse whose windows boxed the long rays of sunset. A young man moved between support timbers, changing lanterns fueled with beeswax. A worker took charge of the fiacre, and Ianthe led the way to the dock. Beatrice winced at every step she took on bruised feet. Cats jumped down from their perches atop crates and followed them, spotting someone who might believe that they were starving to death and needed to be fed this instant. A silver tabby marched into the empty cargomaster’s office as if she owned it.

  :Why don’t you have a cat?:

  :Do you want a cat?:

  :They are splendid,: Nadidamarus said. :Pet that one.:

  A man standing at a writing desk glanced up, and when he smiled, it stuttered across his face. He watched Ysbeta and Beatrice, his mouth pursing shut. He put down his wooden pen and circled around it, standing in front of the door.