A Shadow Bright and Burning

by Jessica Cluess

  “You mustn’t worry. Keeping a clear mind isn’t easy, especially for someone who’s never trained as a sorcerer before. I’ll give you some breathing exercises to help control your thoughts. Now. Try again,” Agrippa said. He crossed his arms and watched. I did as he’d asked.

  My anxiety rendered my mind blank, just like he wanted. But whenever I touched Porridge to the water, nothing happened. Two hours ago, I’d created a wind current. Why was it so difficult now?

  My powers, whatever they were, seemed to work only when I was actively thinking. But that was wrong.

  Suppose the queen would not commend me? Suppose I was a failure? They would put me on the street for certain, and Rook would go with me. No. He wouldn’t lose his security because of me.

  “Miss Howel, stop. You’ll hurt yourself.” There it was, that tinge of disappointment in his voice. The water would not move.

  I thought of Gwen, beautiful Gwen in her beautiful room. Had she felt like this? That if she didn’t please him, she would die a little inside? Or had she always been secure in his love, as a daughter should be? I felt like a changeling, a peevish, whining, solemn creature stealing beautiful Gwen’s place and lingering in Agrippa’s house, to feed off him and give nothing in return.

  There was no trace of a smile on Agrippa’s face. Beside him, Blackwood watched with interest. Frustration sparked something inside me. Bright light appeared at the edges of my vision.

  Magnus said, “Well, perhaps the Ancients aren’t fond of crossing puddles.”

  A great sweep of flame covered me, not blue this time, but orange and blood-red at the heart. Agrippa and the boys threw up wards to protect themselves as the fire reflected in the walls and ceiling. As quickly as it had appeared, the fire died.

  “Why did I do that?” I put a hand over my chest; my heart was pounding.

  “I’ve no idea,” Agrippa said.

  I had been so frustrated, so furious. Instinctively, I decided not to mention this to the others. They’d responded to my question about control in such an odd way; perhaps it would only cause trouble. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Agrippa said. “It’s odd, of course. Usually, when supported by three others, when in a triangle…But this is helping no one.” He scratched his head and sighed. “Perhaps we’ve begun a bit too soon and fast. Miss Howel, why don’t you rest this afternoon? We’ll speak more at dinner.”

  I did not want to rest. I wanted to fight on until I’d conquered the lesson, but I sensed Agrippa needed time to think. To reflect on my failure.

  “Of course,” I said, praying that no one heard my voice waver. I left, pretending that I didn’t feel how heavy their gazes were on me.

  —

  THERE WAS NO TALK OF THE training at dinner, but afterward the butler asked me to follow him to the library on Agrippa’s orders. Feeling ill, I walked down the corridor to two large oak doors. Inside, the room took my breath away.

  The shelves rose high above my head, with a ladder that stretched to the uppermost volumes. Huge bay windows looked out onto the garden. Several green velvet armchairs clustered before the hearth. The firelight flickered on the walls and the carpet, with the occasional snap of wood the only noise. I padded into the room and admired the shelves bursting with books and the portraits hung on the walls. I recognized Agrippa’s image, but examined the others more closely. Some had been painted recently, judging by the style of clothing, and some dated back hundreds of years.

  One particular image drew my attention: the painting of a great house on an emerald lawn, fringed on all sides by a dark wood. The house glowed in the sunlight. I couldn’t tell if the dark, foreboding woods lent the place its air of grandeur and beauty or if the house’s splendor caused the woods to appear more threatening by contrast. Something about it stirred my imagination, like a scene from a fairy tale. I felt in some way that I’d been there before.

  “Do you like it?” Agrippa said, startling me. He stood behind me, smiling at my curiosity.

  “It’s exquisite. Are these all books on magic?” I glanced around.

  “No. Sorcery doesn’t require much literary knowledge. Only scholars or magicians write anything. But my father was a great reader, and so am I. I’ve the most extensive collection of magical theory and history in London, I’m proud to say.”

  The thought of devouring centuries of sorcerer history excited me. “I should love to read one or two, if I may?”

  “We’ll set up a little desk for you by the fire. I’ll have my personal librarian make recommendations.” That was generosity itself. I wanted to hug him, but of course refrained. He motioned for me to follow. On either side of the great bay windows hung a tapestry, and Agrippa bid me to stand before the one on the left. “This is a special creation. It was fashioned by the Speakers in the Dombrey Priory.” I’d heard of it. Dombrey—d’ombre, French for “of shadow”—was one of the great jewels of English sorcery. But I hadn’t known how the Speakers communicated until now.

  “They’re weavers?”

  “The Speakers drink the juice of the Etheria flower, a night-blooming plant that increases psychic ability. It leaves them in too much of a haze to have a proper conversation, but they see their visions and weave them.”

  I took in the details. A great white hand reached into the sky from a tangle of black trees. Tongues of fire bloomed from the tips of the five fingers. In the center of the palm, two lions flanked a shield: Agrippa’s own seal.

  “They created this sixteen years ago,” Agrippa said, reaching out and stroking the fabric with two fingertips. “So many of the tapestries the Speakers make seem confusing, and no one had a clue what this one meant. The words, especially, seemed like nonsense.”

  “Words?” I looked closer, and, woven along the tapestry’s edges, I could make out:

  A girl-child of sorcerer stock rises from the ashes of a life.

  You shall glimpse her when Shadow burns in the Fog above a bright city.

  You shall know her when Poison drowns beneath the dark Waters of the cliffs.

  You shall obey her when Sorrow falls unto the fierce army of the Blooded Man.

  She will burn in the heart of a black forest; her fire will light the path.

  She is two, the girl and the woman, and one must destroy the other.

  For only then may three become one, and triumph reign in England.

  I wasn’t too keen on being told I must destroy one part of myself, but seeing Agrippa’s obvious pride, I chose not to mention that. “Even after the Ancients attacked, no one thought of it,” Agrippa said. “But six years ago, on an inspection of the priory, they found the tapestry again. ‘Shadow’ and ‘fog’ are obviously an allusion to Korozoth. ‘Poison beneath dark water’ has to mean Nemneris, the Water Spider. ‘Sorrow falls unto the army of the Blooded Man’—that must mean R’hlem. The tapestry seemed to identify the Ancients, and to give us the key to their demise.”

  “I can’t possibly best all the Ancients by myself.”

  He laughed. “No, we wouldn’t expect that. It seems obvious, though, that a girl-child, a sorcerer, one presumably with some aptitude for fire, is needed.”

  I looked to the other tapestry on the right side of the window. “Is that from the Speakers as well?”

  “No, an Agrippa family heirloom.”

  This tapestry displayed a hunt for a white stag, with medieval ladies in pointed hats and long-sleeved gowns watching as sorcerers burst into the fray, wielding staves. One fallen sorcerer touched the lips of a young boy who knelt by his side.

  I pointed at them. “What’s he doing?”

  “It’s a way to share power. Magnus did it yesterday, when he marked you with his blood. He gave you the temporary ability to use his stave, as this man is allowing his human servant to wield magic for a time. Sorcerers in battle would often do that if they were too weak to continue.”

  The young boy’s forehead bore the image of a star, presumably drawn in blood. So
that was what Magnus had painted on my head. Extraordinary. “Can you teach me how to do something like that?”

  “I can and will teach you everything,” Agrippa said, leading me out of the library. “When I’ve finished, you’ll be commended, and all will be well.”

  “Then you don’t doubt?” I asked. I couldn’t bear to look at him. “After my failure this morning?”

  Agrippa placed his hand on my shoulder. “I wanted you to see the tapestry because I believe you’re destined to help us. That was no failure. It was our first try.”

  His kindness was almost overwhelming. “I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done,” I murmured, bowing my head.

  “In time, I believe I will say those exact words to you. And I’ll have every cause to mean them.”

  The next morning, I was heading toward the training room when Magnus stopped me. “You’re to rest today. Master’s orders. I’ve been instructed to escort you about the town.” He put my arm in his and wheeled me toward the front door.

  “I’ve no wish to see the inside of your five favorite taverns,” I said, biting back disappointment at missing a lesson.

  “Don’t be absurd. I’ve eight favorite taverns, thank you very much. Besides, Blackwood’s coming along.” He laughed at my pained expression. “My thoughts exactly. You should have heard him grumble. I actually found him in the training room after breakfast, running through his maneuvers. Just for extra practice, he said.”

  “I suppose you have plans that Lord Blackwood won’t like at all.”

  “On the contrary, I’ve designed an educational outing.” He grinned with excitement but said no more.

  —

  WE RUMBLED ALONG IN AGRIPPA’S CARRIAGE, Blackwood and Magnus seated opposite me. As we drove, people on the street smiled and bowed to us.

  “The carriage has Agrippa’s seal on the door,” Magnus said. He waved through the window. “They love Master Agrippa. They’ll love you as well.”

  “Unless I fail.” I was still focused on yesterday’s lesson. “What happens if I don’t receive the queen’s commendation in June?” I asked Blackwood, certain he of all people would answer with honesty.

  “You won’t be a sorcerer, Miss Howel.” He stated it matter-of-factly, as if I’d inquired about the weather. “On the rare occasion that an Incumbent cannot complete the assigned maneuvers, his stave is taken from him and he’s removed from the family record in disgrace.”

  “So I’d receive the same punishment as someone who’s trained these past two years?” The panic of my botched lesson came thundering back, but I held it inside.

  “They need to know you’re the one named in the prophecy. If you’re not what Her Majesty seeks, you won’t be encouraged to develop those abilities,” Blackwood said, his tone effortlessly cool. I doubt she’ll be capable, he’d said to Agrippa. “Most feel that women should not learn magic.”

  “Do you?” I raised my eyebrows.

  “I support whatever the Order thinks is right,” he said after a moment of careful consideration. How very generous.

  “Blacky, much as I adore your conversational contributions, I really think we should focus on enjoying the day,” Magnus said. He knocked Blackwood’s hat off his head for emphasis.

  They took me to St. Paul’s Cathedral, at Blackwood’s suggestion. Magnus stifled a groan as we walked up the church steps. We passed along the nave, and I marveled at the marble floors and golden ceilings decorated with angels. Down in the crypt, we visited Christopher Wren’s tomb, surrounded by an iron gate. The grave was topped with a slab of obsidian.

  “Wren came from a fine sorcerer family,” Magnus said. “That’s why the obsidian. All sorcerers try to be buried with some piece of it on them.” He whistled, listening to the echo play off the walls. “Nice place for eternal rest, but I prefer Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey. You wouldn’t like it, probably. You’re not one for poets or playwrights, are you, Miss Howel?” Magnus paused before a collection of prayer candles. With a sweep of his stave he lit them. Their glow highlighted his hair and played on his cheekbones. If he wanted me to notice how handsome he was, perhaps he was succeeding.

  “I didn’t say I hated them, only that I had no time for them.”

  He responded in a low, powerful tone, speaking the words, “ ‘What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel.’ ” His voice reverberated in the great space, soft yet clear. “That’s Hamlet.”

  “You should’ve been an actor.” I was impressed.

  “Do you think?” He seemed pleased. “Sometimes I imagine I’d give up sorcery and duty just for the opportunity to tour the countryside with a small troupe. Mother always said I had a knack for voices.”

  Blackwood came by and hushed us.

  After my tour, we stopped at an inn for lunch, complete with chops and potatoes and ale. A few more months eating this way, and I might attain some feminine curves. Magnus entertained us with stories and jokes, but I tried bringing Blackwood into the conversation. Despite how badly our relationship had begun, I wanted us to be civil. It would make training easier.

  “How old were you when you became the Earl of Sorrow-Fell, my lord?” I asked.

  “I was eight when my father died,” Blackwood replied, studying his half-drunk ale. “The youngest seal bearer in the history of my family. They thought that was terribly exciting.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, and meant it. To be that young and head of a family was one thing, but seal bearers were responsible for their entire magical line. The pressure would’ve been tremendous.

  “Father died battling R’hlem in his country’s service. It was a noble end,” Blackwood said, as emotionless as if he were reading the words out of a book. “What of your family?”

  “Father died before I was born, mother soon after.” I felt uncomfortable, as I always did when talking about my parents. I’d no memories, no connections. I wished I could feel something more than curiosity and longing when I thought about them.

  He nodded. “So you truly grew up at Brimthorn?”

  “Well, I lived in Devon until I was five.” There. There was a real memory, a real flash of pain. Blackwood noticed.

  “Why did you leave?”

  I thought of my aunt walking away from me, back to her carriage. And me, hanging on to her skirt, begging her to take me home. She hadn’t listened. She hadn’t cared.

  “Several reasons,” I said quickly. “The war, for one. I’m sorry that training in London left you so little time on your estate. As I’ve said, the girls at Brimthorn would have loved to meet their great benefactor.”

  “I’ve visited Brimthorn before. I might have seen you. We just would not have been formally introduced.” Of course not. He was an earl’s son, and I, a charity girl. Very little chance of meeting. “Before the war, Sorrow-Fell used to host events for the Brimthorn children. I’d have continued the tradition, but I couldn’t arrange it from London. It’s better to be present for those sorts of things.”

  “Yes, one of the wretched girls might make off with the silver tucked under her bonnet,” I said. Magnus snickered.

  “I don’t like strangers on the estate when I’m not there,” he said defensively, as if this were an old argument.

  “Perhaps it’s for the best. ‘Sorrow-Fell’ sounds like a gloomy place for a picnic.”

  “No. It’s beautiful.” Blackwood’s expression cleared. “The founding earl received it as a gift from a faerie lord. The land is steeped in magic. Some find it rather melancholy.” No wonder he loved it. “But the forests and grounds are deep and lush. White stags live on the property. My father always forbade a stag hunt, as he said it would be wrong to kill any magical creature. My father…” The light vanished from his face in an instant, and he said no more.

  “Do you see Sorrow-Fell often?” I asked, feeling a small flash of sympathy.

  “No. My studies keep me
in London.” He withdrew into himself; I couldn’t get another word.

  A pretty serving girl arrived with more ale. Magnus winked at her, sending her into a giggling frenzy.

  After lunch, Magnus hustled me toward the carriage. “We have to move fast or all the best spots will be taken,” he said.

  “For what?” I asked as we drove down the street.

  “Have you ever seen a ship launch before?”

  The docks were outside the protected area. Living in Agrippa’s fine house only made the devastation I witnessed beyond the ward more terrible. Magnus talked, but I didn’t pay much attention. I watched the burned houses and debris-strewn streets roll past the window. Just sitting in a fine carriage made me feel guilty.

  We got out at the docks, elbowing our way through crowds as they waved handkerchiefs and flags. Squeezing between them, we strained to catch a glimpse above the throng of cheering humanity. A massive sailing ship moved down the river, toward the sea. It was a great square man-of-war with billowing white sails and an unfurled blue flag. The launch had the air of a national celebration. A small brass band played as men selling apples and meat pies moved through the crowd.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Magnus cried. He seemed to glow with excitement.

  “You want to go with them when you’re commended?” I was impressed despite myself. With Nemneris the Water Spider attacking the coast, the navy was about the most dangerous place for a sorcerer.

  “Yes. I don’t want to stay here and uphold the ward. Put me in the midst of the battle. I’m ready!” He whooped and threw his hat into the air. The people around us applauded his enthusiasm.

  “I never thought so many would turn up for a ship launch,” I said. Some poor woman sobbed beside me as she waved her handkerchief toward the departing vessel. Then again, perhaps seeing any boat leave the harbor was cause for celebration. Even if a ship got past the Water Spider, the English were persona non grata on the continent. Europe did not want to invoke R’hlem’s wrath by aiding refugees. “Do ships never come in?” I asked. Magnus easily followed my train of thought.