by Rabia Gale
Atwater unbent enough to bestow a small smile on Trey. “Of course,” he said with a heartiness that rang false. “Your service to Vaeland is exemplary.”
“Seems an unlikely connection, but I suppose I’ll have to prod the accident victim, then,” mused Trey, half to himself. “We’ll have to bring in a better spirit seer.”
Atwater’s smile froze in place. For an instant, something flickered in his eyes. Then the expression was gone, and Atwater said, “You must do what you must. If you’ll excuse me.” He stalked off.
Trey watched Atwater leave the room, his back stiff. His spell fluttered after the politician and landed on his coat. There, it sank into the fibers and dimmed.
He’d use the aether to keep track of Atwater’s movements. Trey was sure the man knew more than he’d been telling. He had not misread the fleeting emotion in the other’s eyes.
It was fear.
The Duchess’s message found Trey at the foot of the servants’ stairway leading up to the private rooms. He’d already been accosted by Charlotte Blake, demanding to know what he was doing to help her friend, and a distant relative who’d strongly hinted that he should dance with her daughter. Trey managed to fob both women off and escaped through the servants’ corridors.
A robin, built out of intricate, interlocking runes, flew onto his shoulder. Hues of red misted into his face and the Duchess’s voice rang out in his ears.
“I’m sorry, Trevelyan. I cannot unlock your friend’s memories. But she may find a way to unlock them herself. I sense that this is but a ripple from something greater and more dangerous, though. Be careful.”
And that was it. Trey frowned, not liking to be reminded of the Duchess’s age and failing health. She’d been one of the most powerful Truth-tellers in Vaeland for decades, making her a fitting Guardian, one of the twelve magicians charged with keeping watch on the country’s magical borders. Now she held her position only because they could find no one to replace her.
Due to her age, the Duchess hadn’t been expected to make it to Lumen for the Vernal Rites. Trey hadn’t been surprised, though, when she had put in an appearance. The Duchess had an iron will, something he’d realized when she’d been his advisor at Holyrood.
With a wry smile, Trey went in search of Arabella.
He found her outside the assembly rooms, in a small courtyard of paved stone, a quiet pond, and winter-hardy plants. The decorations here were sparse—the magic-made lights in the two stunted trees were already dying out.
She stood in one corner, head tilted up to a night sky faintly washed with stars. To his sight, she glowed with a pearly light that showed her features in fine detail—the dark arch of her eyebrows, the even white teeth biting down on her lower lip, the blush-tint of her fingernails as she clasped her hands in front of her chest.
“I never knew until now how much I missed the stars,” she said as he joined her. “At night, back in Umbrax, you can see them so clearly. Here, the light and the smoke interfere with the sight.”
Trey glanced at the sky. “At Whitecross Abbey, which is only twenty miles from Lumen, the view is very fine. Although I was too interested in realms other than the celestial to pay it much heed.”
“Hmm. The cycles of nature rule life in Umbrax more completely than they do here,” Arabella said thoughtfully. “The dance of constellations through the seasons, the waxing and waning of the moon, the rise and fall of tides. I don’t even remember when the moon was last full. I used to be mindful of such things, not so long ago.”
He was much more interested in her than in the moon. Had she lost substance? There was a more airy quality about her, all light and cold and aether. He felt the Shadow Lands breathing nearby, almost-doorways lurking in the dark corners of the courtyard, rippling on the pond’s surface, tangled in the thin twigs of a scraggly bush.
“What are you doing out here, Arabella?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended. In her bare feet and shapeless dress, she looked different, almost fey.
“Trying to remember,” she said, whisper-soft. “She said I could fish them out myself, you know. So I came here, to where it’s quiet, to see what came up from the depths of memory. If there was a full moon… and if I had rosemary… that would help.”
Arabella’s shimmering substance spun out from the hem of her dress and from her hair hanging in a braid down her back. She was diminishing faster than he had expected, as if bringing her here had only hastened the process.
The only things he could do to stop her decline were all against the rules—not Winter’s fussy regulations, but the laws set down by others like him throughout Vaeland’s history.
He had been a thoughtless idiot and flouted them once. He knew better now.
But still. Trey looked into Arabella’s distant eyes and pale face and couldn’t let her go without a fight.
Music drifted through the long glass windows—a waltz just striking up.
“Shall we dance?” He held out his hand to her.
Arabella’s smile was slight, but the amusement kindling in her eyes made her look more like her old self. “I’m not as gauche as all that, sir. I haven’t been given permission to dance the waltz by the patronesses.”
“They’ll never know.” Still, he held out his hand, and she laid her own on it. Her fingers were cold and fragile in his clasp, as if they would dissolve to mist at the merest pressure. He guided her out to a clear space in the courtyard. Her dress changed as he did so, becoming something more in fashion, but in the hues of the night sky, blues and silvers bleeding into each other across the folds. The bodice was sprinkled with a thousand points of light, like miniature stars. Some burned white, others tinted blue and red.
She had no idea, he thought, that she was doing this. What had the Duchess said? Arabella Trent could unlock her own memories. She must have some sort of gift or fey blood in her, if even half the stories he’d heard about Umbrax were true.
“You will look very odd, dancing by yourself, if someone should chance to come onto the balcony and look down,” Arabella remarked as they faced each other, his arm around her waist, her midnight-gloved hand in his. He was heartened by the laughter in her face. Even her voice, with that edge of teasing, sounded like the Arabella he knew.
But then, was the Arabella he knew the real one?
“I shall risk it,” said Trey, pushing his fancies away. “If nothing else, it will add to my reputation for eccentricity, which is to my advantage. I could do with fewer invitations to supper parties.”
“And fewer chances of being cornered by determined misses ready to extract your guineas for worthy causes.” She dimpled at him, following his lead with an easy grace.
“Exactly.” He grinned at her. Arabella seemed embarrassed, for she dropped her gaze to stare studiously at his cravat which, he knew, was well-tied for once. “You dance very well,” he said to the top of her dark head, her hair now coiled up and threaded through with a silvery headpiece, delicately formed into the shape of some creeping plant.
Again that flash of a pleased smile. “Oh, no. I’ve had lessons for months with Charlotte, and I’m convinced the dancing master thinks I’m as clumsy as an ox in a buttercup field.”
“Man has no idea what he’s talking about.” Trey twirled her around with expert ease. She followed his lead, her face aglow. “I expect he’s old and crotchety and bandy-legged.”
“With a wrinkled neck like a chicken’s,” Arabella confided. “I’m persuaded that only the crossest and ugliest men are deemed suitable dancing masters for young ladies.”
“But, of course. You can’t have the daughters of peers running off with their dashing dancing masters. Something about the music and the movement tends to addle the brain and makes one more susceptible to attachment.”
Her feet faltered for a moment, but Arabella recovered quickly. “How absurd, sir. I imagine that hundreds of ladies and gentlemen dance together without the least danger of falling in love.”
“Indeed. That ha
s been my personal experience,” said Trey. He felt her shift away from him and berated himself for leading them into this perilous conversational thread. She had so few friends at the moment; she didn’t need to worry if he had designs on her. The notion was ridiculous. “You, I’m sure, are far too sensible to do so.”
She inclined her head in gracious acceptance, but she had gone remote again, her gaze beyond his shoulder and her head tilted as if listening to distant music.
Music.
Saints!
Realization struck him with the force of a blow.
He’d been so focused on putting Arabella at ease, at striving to be pleasant and sociable, that he’d missed the Shadow Lands creeping into the scene. The music had changed from the sprightly waltz to something slower, melancholy, haunting. A pipe, carved from the thigh bone of a murdered child, raised its voice in lament, while strings twisted from the hair of drowned maidens carried on a sobbing counterpoint.
And he himself had slowed, matching his steps to the otherworldly tune, drawing himself and Arabella into the web spun by that eerie place. Already it gathered around her, changing the angle of the light and casting odd shadows that shouldn’t have been there.
Without thinking, he tightened his grip and pulled her closer. She felt light and delicate as a sparrow, as if at any moment she would fly away—or snap.
Trey forced himself to think of an earthly tune, repeating the melody in his own head, drowning out the phantasmal song with his own voice. Ta da da da. Ta da da da da dum. His feet seemed to be stuck in mud, they were so slow to follow his lead. Trey looked down at Arabella, at her dark hair like shadows in a midnight forest, her substance thin and translucent like porcelain.
Her entire body strained to follow that other music. She lagged, resisting his hold. “Arabella,” he said, through teeth gritted with the effort of keeping them back from that hungry maw, “I’m leading, not you.”
Awareness dawned on her face, mingled with horror. She started to turn her head—he had no idea what she saw—but he said roughly, “No! Don’t give it your attention. Keep your eyes on me.” Obediently, she stared up at him, her expression fixed and scared and intent. He saw the flicker of her eyes as her look strayed to the sides, saw her struggle to keep her gaze on him.
“Good girl. Now, mind, follow me. Focus on my face, my voice, my steps.” Trey hummed the melody, moving out of the pattern, dragging Arabella with him. He felt her tension; she wanted both to stay and to go. He thought, Its call grows stronger.
But, grim and determined, Trey took them both back out, retracing the careless path that had brought them into peril. The other realm’s hold loosened. Another step, a final effort, a last jolt. With a pop, the Shadow Lands let them go.
They were back in the courtyard of Merrimack’s, the waltz washing over them as if a soap bubble of silence had burst. The lights from the windows were at a full cheerful blaze, and the shrubbery was just as meager and sad as before. Trey was out of breath, as if he’d run a mile, and there was a quivering ache in his muscles. He gripped Arabella by the shoulders; she was pressed up to his chest.
“Hey.” He gave her a little shake. “Are you all right?”
Arabella gave a little sigh and snuggled closer. She said, voice small and muffled, “It’s so cold, Trey. So cold. I feel the wind blowing right through me. I’m so cold, and you’re so warm.”
A frisson ran like fire through his nerves. Memories flashed through his mind.
Celeste’s lovely voice, throbbing and broken-hearted, saying, “Warm me up, my love”… Damien pulling her close… Her shudder of relief, and then her head turning, fangs flashing, teeth sinking into his brother’s neck… Damien’s warm red blood spurting…
Trey pushed Arabella away from him, his fingers clenching on her shoulders. His wards buzzed, and Arabella flinched. “Ow!”
The hurt look she turned on him was completely human. Her eyes didn’t turn red, her mouth didn’t split open into a maw, she didn’t wail or attack him with suddenly-extended claws.
“Sorry,” said Trey. “But remember you’re a ghost and your substance yearns for a body. And you can’t have mine.”
“I have a perfectly nice one of my own, thank you,” said Arabella indignantly. “I don’t want yours.”
He grinned at her. “That sounds naughty, Miss Trent.”
It still amused him that a ghost could flush, and in spectacular fashion. Her cheeks flooded with pink. “It’s only naughty if you take it that way,” she told him, trying for frostiness but failing.
“I’ve been told before that I’m an indelicate boor,” said Trey. “You won’t have to put up with it too much longer.”
The color in her cheeks subsided. “I have to thank you once more.” She started to look over her shoulder, then checked herself. “The… the other realm was very near.”
“It was my fault. I should’ve been more careful.”
“Who was she?” Her expression was solemn.
“What?”
“The woman in your memory just now,” said Arabella. “The one who turned.”
His jaw tightened. So she had seen that, had she? The boundaries—between worlds, between bodies—were indeed blurring for her.
That wasn’t good.
Never you mind. He opened his mouth to say just those words. But what came out, slightly hoarse and stumbling, was, “Her name was Celeste. She was my brother’s wife.”
“So the man was…?”
“Damien, yes. My brother.” His hands clenched by his sides, the old wound aching once more. It would never completely heal; there would always be the scar and the occasional flash of pain to remind him it was there.
“I’m sorry.” Her compassion was deep and sincere. And she didn’t follow up with prying questions. She stood there, accepting the burden of his loss, offering nothing but sympathy, asking for nothing more than he was ready to give.
Trey went on, the words tumbling over themselves. “She wasn’t gifted… no, that’s all wrong, to talk of Celeste as if she were merely ordinary. She was gifted, but not with magic. She had the voice of an angel and a beauty that was hard to grasp.” He shook his head, unable to express with mere words what Celeste had been like. “And she carried within her a well of deep joy and warmth. My brother loved her and she him. He was a Shield and a darn good elementalist, so everyone thought she’d be safe. But they got to her during the Incursion, regardless, and through her to him. And so it ended, the way you saw.”
It was the first time he had spoken of this. The first time he’d told this sad tale to anyone in full.
Arabella made a gesture with her cupped hands, as if accepting the words. Accepting his trust.
“It’s not a mistake I care to repeat,” said Trey, kicking a pebble. It skittered across the courtyard.
“Do you really think,” she asked, “that your brother’s marriage was a mistake?”
He thought about it, really thought about it. After the Incursion, the shocked and sorrowful gifted had whispered words to the effect. She wasn’t strong and was thus targeted. Magic and mundane should not mix. Back then, he might’ve agreed. But now?
“No. They were happy together. Who am I to begrudge them that?”
Damien hadn’t. He had died with his wife in his arms, smiling as her tears mingled with his blood.
“You loved her.” It was not a question.
“She was my sister.”
“Not quite like that.” Arabella’s smile was knowing, but gentle. Perceptive once again, she’d seen something no else had ever known.
He found that he didn’t mind much at all. If someone had to glean it, he’d rather it was Arabella. “Maybe not. But I loved my brother far more and would never hurt him.” Trey folded his arms. “Any more questions, Miss Curious?”
The heavy sarcasm in his voice didn’t faze her one bit. “One more.” She blithely ignored his frown. “What incursion? Despite the troubles on the continent, Vaeland hasn’t been invaded s
ince before I was born.”
Trey considered her expression of friendly curiosity. Then he sighed. She’d already experienced more of the Shadow Lands that most people, gifted or not, did. He’d let slip the word, so he might as well tell her, before she went ferreting out the information on her own and got all the wrong ideas.
“You know the Shadow Lands attempt to break into the mortal realms. Sometimes they succeed.”
Arabella shivered. “I thought the Guardians and the Regalia and the Vernal Rites prevented that.”
“They do. Mostly. But sometimes it’s not enough. Like the Great Incursion last year.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “What did you call it?”
“The Great Incursion. It’s a silly name, but—” He stopped.
Arabella wasn’t listening. Her eyes had gone wide. “I’ve heard the name before,” she breathed. “In Mr. Gibbs’s shop. When I went in, he was talking to someone in the back room and I heard them say the name. And-” She squeaked. “Trey!”
The portal snapped open so suddenly that Trey had no warning. It glared like a dragon’s eye and inhaled like a dragon’s maw. Tendrils of flame grabbed Arabella around the waist and arms. She cried out as they dragged her back, her hands reaching desperately out for him.
“Arabella!” He leapt forward, hands outstretched. Her ghostly fingers brushed his as the portal closed around her. The last thing he saw was her white face and her lips moving, saying, “Trey, it was miasma!” as the rent snapped shut.
Damn it! Trey could still feel her, on the other side of the boundary. He’d summon Sorrow and cut his way through to her—
He couldn’t lift his arm. His feet were frozen to the ground. Startled, Trey looked down. Chains of silver runes, each one precise and elegant and strong as iron, bound him fast.
Winter’s spellwork.
He couldn’t materialize Sorrow properly with the runes interfering. She misted into his hand, her edges blurred. He slashed down at the spell, runes crumpling under his blade, Sorrow gaining definition with every stroke. Yet still more chains spiraled around him, tethering him to the mortal plane.
