by Rabia Gale
Fire and air lost.
Smoke rushed into the chamber, filling it up in moments. The fire extinguished immediately and fragile air elementals died in scores. Marius howled outrage, the sound quickly choked off.
The stench of grave dirt told Blake all he needed to know.
This wasn’t smoke.
It was miasma.
“Fall back, man,” he gasped out, pulling the hood over his face and drawing the cloak tighter around himself. Ember hissed and clung to his shoulder, pressed against his neck. Miasma brushed Blake’s hand, sending searing pain up his arm. He jerked his hand back into his sleeve.
“Don’t let it touch—” he yelled.
Marius screamed.
And kept on screaming.
Great Saints! Blake staggered through the miasma towards the aeromentalist. He didn’t dare look up, for fear the stuff would get in his eyes. All he could see in his truncated vision was roiling black smoke, dry in his nose, ashy against his lips, stinging against his face.
He banged painfully into something, nearly falling over it. Just in time he kept himself from stretching out his hands for support.
Miasma rolled up against Blake’s legs, turning the hem of his cloak black and shriveled. Blake stumbled around, yelling for Marius to put up his hood and tuck in his cloak. He cursed as he stumbled over chairs and footstools, one of which completely disintegrated into a foul-smelling ash.
Not good!
Marius’ scream dropped to a raw whisper, then a gurgle.
And then it stopped.
Blake stood, panting, sweating, ears strained. “Marius?”
No reply. He closed his eyes, stomach churning at the thought of what the miasma had done to the man.
And what it was going to do to him. The hem of the cloak had frayed and he was completely turned around in this chamber. Where was the doorway? Ember hummed her distress as fear spurted through him.
It’s all right, pet, he soothed, knowing how futile and empty the comfort was.
He had the sense of the room growing larger around him, becoming cavernous, filling up with darkness. The floor stretched for miles around him, and Blake stood rooted to the spot, unable to pick a direction.
He’d stand here until the miasma nibbled the wraith cloak to shreds, then did the same thing to his flesh. Panic swelled inside him; Blake clenched his hands hard, digging his fingernails into his palms. The small pain helped stemmed the tide of emotion somewhat, giving him time to gather his composure.
The room didn’t grow. It’s the miasma playing with my mind.
Blake focused on his breathing, his bond with Ember. Without the rasp of his panic in his ears and the drumbeat of his heart pounding against his ribs, he could push through the miasma’s illusion. The room wavered, two perceptions fighting each other.
Help, God-Father.
And then he heard it—the sound of a flute, sweet and high and piercing. It brought with it coolness and space and… rain?
It was raining in the chamber. Ropes of water fell, splattering and splashing the unseen floor. Miasma gave way before it, falling into a sludge, clearing the chamber. Blake blinked; he could see the walls and windows again, a glimpse of the scarred and blackened oak table.
A charred hulk on the floor that could only be Marius.
His gorge rose. Blake pressed his lips together tightly and turned back towards the waiting room. A waterfall covered the doorway, gushing ferociously, spraying back up from the floor in a mist. The undines churned through it as the flute played, fast, urgent, calling him.
Blake plunged through the water barrier. Instantly drenched to the skin, he emerged on the other side with all his clothes sticking to him. The incredibly costly wraith cloak was in rags hanging from his shoulders.
Swan stood in the middle of the waiting chamber, flute to her lips, her face sheened with sweat, her eyes wide with fear. The two Guardians hovered in the hallway to the solar, the bird man running his chains through his hands and muttering, Mr. Milton shaping and patting something invisible.
“Keep going, Swan,” Blake told her hoarsely. He could feel the spell taking shape as the Guardians wove it to protect the Mirror.
Protecting them, though? That was his and Swan’s job.
Get to it, Ember.
The salamander darted out, a ball of anger and determination, mirroring his own emotions. She shot in lines in front of the rippling waterfall, leaving scorch marks on stone and fiery ropes in the air.
Swan’s arms trembled; she couldn’t hold on much longer.
Blake uncapped the vial of gold flakes and threw the contents onto the barrier Ember had erected. The whole thing flared up into a wall of gold and red, floor to ceiling.
Swan’s hands dropped, the flute crashing to the floor. She doubled over, arms at her side, panting as if she’d run a mile.
Her undines stroked across the floor and clung to her legs in twin folds. Their fear was palpable.
Yet they’d held the line, as had Swan.
She deserves a commendation. Blake thought, as he raised his hands and fed more power to his barrier. There were three layers to it, and he tossed another vial, this one of silver flakes in lily-and-moonlight-steeped water.
Whitish flames rose between him and the gold ones. The last shield.
Swan straightened, still gasping. “What else can I do, sir?”
“Pray,” said Blake, intent on the fire.
What had happened to the other elementalists downstairs? Dead, most likely. But someone had to have noticed the miasma. The alarms had to be going off all over the Quadrangle.
“Help’s on the way,” he said out loud, for Swan’s benefit.
It had to be.
Because not even gold flames could hold back the miasma.
Beyond the fiery wall, something thudded and rolled, chinking like glass, heavy like a cannonball.
And then it exploded.
Miasma broke through the barriers an instant before Blake grabbed Swan’s arm and thrust her into the wall at the far side. He grabbed the edge of her hood and pulled it over her face.
“Keep covered!” he ordered, spinning around, flames in his hands.
Two men entered along with the miasma, wearing black oval masks with blank eyes of colored glass. Dressed in tight black, their masks looked too heavy for their necks.
One of them stooped and rolled a black glass ball towards the Guardians, still working their spell to protect the Mirror.
Not on my… Blake launched himself at it, knowing he would be too late.
The sphere burst open.
Trey sped along the boundary of the Shadow Lands, the mortal realm bunching and stretching on one side of him. Images flashed by, too fast to register more than impressions: a chamber maid with dirty bare feet making up a fire; a man carefully shaving in front of a small mirror; a stable boy curled in the straw with two sleeping hounds.
Tendrils of black vapor wafted towards him in a whiff of acid. The Keep rose up ahead of him, seen as though under water, stained with black ink.
Miasma. They had attacked, then.
Trey’s mouth set in a hard line. The air around him turned thick as he slowed. He teased phantasmia through his fingers, subduing it, winding it into a ball, working quickly. It was far better to prepare the stuff beforehand, rather than pull it raw from the Shadow Lands.
In an emergency, he’d rather have phantasmia. He’d gladly answer for it later, when everyone was safe.
Trey waited, though every instinct screamed at him to run in.
The others needed time, and miasma was nasty stuff even to a phantasmist.
Trey’s senses prickled. Denizens of the Shadow Lands had taken notice of the incident. They watched from a distance, waiting for an opening. None of them was a big threat on its own.
For now, Trey could ignore them.
Silver runes twinkled to life around the Keep, their gleam distorted and tarnished through the ever-moving boundary. Winter.
> It was time.
He moved through sludge. One more step and he was both still in the Shadow Lands and inside the Keep.
He saw the attackers in their protective armor, saw the miasma sphere roll across the room. Saw Blake move—heroic idiot! —to throw himself on top of it in a futile, desperate gesture.
Trey cut a long rip with Sorrow and stepped into the room.
Miasma roiled up into his face. He grimaced, catching it between phantasmia-gloved hands. The stuff writhed, fighting him, as he encased it in phantasmia. Splinters of emotion—anger, jealousy, fear—pricked him; Trey solidified his mental defenses against them.
These weapons were of a crude, brute-force type. They’d been made by men, not demons.
Once the phantasmia had taken hold, he whisked both substances back into the Shadow Lands.
One of the masked men uttered an inarticulate yell and tossed another globe in Trey’s direction. It crashed to the floor in a shower of glass shards.
Trey lunged with Sorrow, the sword an extension of his arm. The blade bit into the packed miasma, her power joining with Trey’s. The sensation was cool and familiar, tinged with regret, strengthened by duty.
The miasma stuck to the blade. Black thoughts crawled into his head: he never loved you… she should’ve been yours… what do these fools know?
Sorrow pulsed, and the miasma turned to vapor and vanished. Without missing a note, Trey made a number of small cuts in the air.
Narrow slits shimmered in the air around the room, drawing in the remaining miasma. It resisted; Trey made a sharp gesture, and the miasma was sucked back into the demonic realms it had come from.
The masked men turned and fled. Trey pinched the boundary between his fingers, slid into the Shadow Lands, and reappeared at the door, his wraith sword pointed at one’s neck.
“Stay where you are, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “I’ll have a few questions for you, momentarily.” He looked over their shoulders and flashed a grin at Blake still crouched on the floor. “Old fellow, you look rather worse for the wear.”
Blake rose shakily to his feet. Ember, pale and dim, clung to his shoulder. “About time you got here,” he muttered. “Sorry for taking you away from an assembly.”
Trey realized that he was still in tail coat and knee-breeches. “Never mind about that,” he said, as the other phantasmists ran into the chamber. First among them was Winter, runes flashing like blades all around him.
“Now, then,” said Trey softly, his attention back on the masked men. “Which one of you will talk first?”
“Twelve Saints!” Atwater halted at the top of the stairs into the outer chamber. The miasma was gone and the burned remains of the aeromentalist removed, but the wrecked furniture and acrid odor remained.
Atwater’s gaze was riveted to the scarred table top, upon which lay glass-eyed masks, leather pouches, and yards of wraith cloth. Spheres of black glass lay next to the pile. Atwater gave them a hard, suspicious stare.
Trey kept a bland expression on his own face. They’d disposed of the miasma within the globes, but Atwater didn’t need to know that yet.
“Have a seat, Reginald.” Winter indicated one of the great chairs pulled up to the table. They’d had to fetch it from another room. “I’m glad you could come. My apologies for calling you away from home so early this morning.”
Trey had to admire his supervisor’s composure. Winter betrayed no hint of his knowledge of Atwater’s clandestine meeting last night. Sutton had traced Trey’s spell on the man to a wharfside tavern whose keeper confessed to having rented out an outbuilding to a bunch of seedy characters. Morgan and Jem’s investigation of the place confirmed traces of miasma: eaten-away furniture, broken glass, and one shriveled, unidentifiable corpse.
Miasma was dangerous, as these plotters had discovered. Maybe the lesson would stick.
“We need to ensure the populace isn’t thrown into a panic over this incident,” Winter continued, tone measured.
Atwater relaxed a little. “Indeed,” he said smoothly, seating himself in a way that could only be described as regal. As a Member of Parliament he officially outranked the government functionaries in the room, never mind that Trey was a Viscount and Winter a Master in the Magisterium. “The damage could’ve been worse. I commend you gentlemen on your quick response.”
“Not quick enough,” said Trey. “An aeromentalist died in this very room.” A geomentalist and two other magicians had also perished below. He’d known none of them, but Blake had. Remembering the look on his friend’s face, he was coldly angry.
Atwater glanced at the pocked and blackened stones where Marius had met his unpleasant demise. “Most unfortunate.”
“And not something we need to spread abroad,” Winter broke in with a quelling frown at Trey. “As far as the public needs to know, the Mirror won’t arrive at the Keep until the Procession in about an hour.”
“Agreed,” said Atwater.
“What I don’t know is how the attackers learned the Mirror was already here.” Winter folded his arms.
Atwater shrugged. “I’m afraid in certain quarters it is more or less common knowledge. Far too many people know of the deception, and anyone paying close attention to the movements of known government magicians would soon put the pieces together. In your zeal to provide protection, August, you could’ve inadvertently shown your hand.”
Trey longed to punch the man’s smug face. Didn’t the windbag find his own posturing tiring?
“That is something to be careful of in the future.” Winter took this criticism with equanimity.
Atwater eyed the masks again. “What happened to the perpetrators?” he asked with a forced casualness.
“We detained them,” said Winter blandly. Atwater stiffened. Winter went on, “But, unfortunately, someone had planted a nasty death spell on them. They both died shortly after.”
Atwater made some commiserating noises that struck Trey as completely false, and rose to his feet. “If there’s nothing else to talk about, Winter, I’d best be off to reassure the prime minister and the Prince Regent before the Procession.” He rose to his feet.
Trey said, before he could take his leave, “You’ll be happy to know the young lady who suffered the accident from the runaway carriage will recover shortly.”
“Indeed, I’m happy to hear of Miss Trent’s recovery. Please convey my—” Atwater stopped as Winter’s eyes narrowed.
“Miss Trent?” said Winter in a soft voice so filled with ice and steel that Trey wasn’t surprised to see Atwater falter. “How come you to know the young lady’s name, Reginald?”
For a moment, naked terror was plain on Atwater’s face. Then he gave a little laugh. “Ah, I must’ve heard it somewhere, seen it in the papers, or something,”
“You couldn’t have,” Winter went on in that same cold voice. “I made sure to leave the young lady’s name out of any written communication. Only her family and a select few of her friends even knew of her accident, and the only ones to connect her to the pawnshop were me, Shield… and now you.”
Atwater paled and flushed by turns. “What are you saying, August? Surely you aren’t accusing me of—” His hands clenched and Trey’s hands twitched for Sorrow. Let the man make even one threatening move—
Winter gave his friend a look devoid of pity—or any other emotion. “Why did you do it, Reggie? You, of all people?”
All the fight went out of the other man. He sank into his chair, deflating like a punctured balloon, and put his head into his hands.
“It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” he said, voice muffled. “I only meant to shake things up a bit, scare people, turn them against Internal Affairs.”
Winter’s eyebrows shot up. “Turn them against Internal Affairs?” he repeated. “You, who have been a staunch supporter your entire political career? In the name of the Twelve Saints, why?”
Atwater lifted a face old and lined and bitter. “And much good it’s done me! There’s no
money in it, is there? All the new financiers, industrialists, and mercantile companies are agitating to relax the regulations the government imposes on magic use…”
“Like, perhaps, bringing miasma from the Shadow Lands?” interrupted Trey. He glared at Atwater, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Or Winter’s.
“Which groups financed you?” demanded Winter, leaning forward, his knuckles white on the chair back. “Who supplied you with the miasma?”
Atwater pressed his lips together and shook his head. A crafty look had come into his eyes. “I won’t say any more. This is not a trial; I’m not required to speak.”
“Don’t make this worse for yourself, Reggie,” Winter warned.
“Oh, it can’t get much worse than it already is,” Atwater answered. “But I won’t just give myself to the hangman’s noose. You want names, you’re going to have to pay for them.”
They stared at each other, Winter pale and contemptuous, Atwater flushed and belligerent.
“Very well,” said Winter, “if that’s the game you want to play. But you will understandably be detained.” He nodded to the Home Office constables waiting against the wall. They came forward with magic-sealing manacles.
Atwater held out his wrists with no further complaints. His eyes were on Winter as they yanked him to his feet. “Well, you did advise me to give up politics, August.”
And with a bitter chuckle, he let himself be led away.
Arabella Trent opened her eyes and stared up at a familiar ceiling covered in painted pink roses and yellow tulips.
She felt oddly heavy. Weights seemed to be attached to her lids, so that it took great effort to keep them open. Her eyes felt gummy, her head weighed as much as a cannonball, and as for the rest of her…
And then she remembered.
Arabella gasped and jumped up.
Or at least, she tried to. But what emerged from her stiff lips was a low moan, and all her body did was twitch a bit.
Her body, that she now inhabited.
Arabella’s hands were still crossed on her chest. Her fingers tightened around each other, seeking her ring. The sapphire pressed into her hand, and a small smile curved her dry lips.
