The Royal Sorceress

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Gwen,” her father said. He didn’t seem annoyed with her, which suggested that Morrison hadn’t managed to complain to her father or hand in his notice. Perhaps he was just having a cup of tea with the cook. Tea was good to settle one’s nerves. “You know Lord Mycroft, of course” – Gwen nodded – “and this is Master Thomas, the Royal Sorcerer.”

  Gwen stared at him. She had had no formal training in magic, and she’d had to learn by herself, but even she had heard of the Royal Sorcerer. The post belonged to the strongest magician of unimpeachable loyalty to the Crown and the British Empire. Only two magicians had ever held the post, if she recalled correctly. They’d both been men, of course.

  “Charmed,” Master Thomas said. He took Gwen’s hand – Gwen fancied there was a tingle of magic as his hand touched hers – and raised it to his lips, kissing the air just above her bare skin. “I have wanted to meet you for quite some time.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Gwen stumbled. She rarely met anyone who had impressed her on first glance, even King George IV. The Royal Sorcerer had wanted to meet her? He could have visited at any time and Lady Mary would have been more than happy to play chaperone. “The pleasure is mine.”

  Lord Mycroft cleared his throat loudly. “The Empire has something of a problem, Lady Gwen,” he said. His voice was sharp, as penetrating as his blue eyes. Lord Mycroft was a genius, a man who had made his own place in government. He had no discernible vices, or indeed any interests at all outside making the government run smoothly. “Our monopoly on magic has slipped over the past two decades.”

  Gwen nodded, without speaking. The French and Spanish had originally persecuted the magicians who had appeared within their borders, even though magic had given the British Empire some of its most stunning victories. It was too much to hope that the Kings and Emperors of Europe – or Russia, or the Ottomans – would not eventually accept and even condone magic practiced in their name. Britain might have ruled a vast empire, but magicians seemed to appear almost at random. A slip in the magical monopoly would be disastrous. At the very least, any war with the French or Spanish would then be fought on even terms.

  “It was originally hoped that a new Master Magician would appear who could take Master Thomas’s place when he retired,” Lord Mycroft continued. “At first, we had high hopes for one young magician who entered the service of the Crown, but matters came to a bad end. Finding people with the required…qualifications is not easy, and of course not all of them are suitable for the most sensitive post in the country. Master Thomas has convinced us that we must look outside the traditional boundaries for recruitment.”

  “Lady Gwen,” Master Thomas said. “We first became aware of your magic during that…unfortunate incident when you were barely nine years old. Your parents were contacted by the Royal College and asked to keep an eye on any further development of magical potential. It was seriously considered to offer you a chance to train with us, but various other events prevented us from making a formal offer until now.”

  His sharp eyes met hers. “I need an apprentice,” he said, flatly. “Would you be interested in serving your country as the next Royal Sorcerer?”

  “Royal Sorceress,” Lord Mycroft corrected.

  “I…” Gwen broke off, astonished. She hadn’t dared hope that they would make an offer of training, let alone offer her a post in government. If she succeeded Master Thomas, she would be the most powerful woman in Britain since Elizabeth I. And there had been people who had whispered that Queen Elizabeth had been a witch, although they hadn’t dared whisper it very loudly. “I would be honoured.”

  Automatically, she glanced over at her father. Lord Rudolph wouldn’t like the idea, she was sure, but if Lord Mycroft was involved then the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, would have a hand in it somewhere. If he refused to allow Gwen to apprentice herself to the Royal Sorcerer, his career would hit a brick wall and he knew it. Lady Mary would not be charmed with the idea of her daughter leaving home as an apprentice, rather than a wife, but what could she do?

  “I have provisionally granted my consent,” her father said. His voice was under tight control, but Gwen was sure that she detected a hint of…concern. Lady Mary was not going to like it, not even slightly. On the other hand, Gwen would be mixing with blue-blooded aristocratic magicians. She might find a much better match among their set. “Should you refuse, of course…?”

  Gwen smiled. Her father loved her, despite everything. He hadn’t even taken a cane or his belt to her when she sent tutor after tutor fleeing in horror. And he wouldn’t have allowed Lady Mary to marry her off to a man she detested.

  “I won’t lie to you, Lady Gwen,” Master Thomas said, quietly. “The position is difficult and very dangerous. You will be pressed to the limit; you’ll have to learn magic quicker than anyone else your age. We wouldn’t offer you the chance to learn if we didn’t think that you were capable of it, but we will understand if you reject the offer.”

  Gwen didn’t hesitate. “I would be honoured,” she repeated. It was everything she had ever dared to dream of, when she allowed herself to consider a life without her social obligations. “Thank you, sir, thank you!”

  She found herself dancing out of the room, leaving the adults behind to talk through the details of her apprenticeship. Her mother was waiting outside, looking angry enough to curdle milk. Perhaps she had some way of listening to her father’s meetings, or perhaps the Butler had told her who had come to visit.

  Gwen jumped in before her mother could say anything. “Guess what, mother,” she said. “I’m going to be the Royal Sorceress!”

  Her mother fainted dead away.

  Chapter Two

  Cavendish Hall,” Master Thomas said, quietly.

  Gwen peered through the window as the carriage came to a halt. She saw iron railings, surrounding a small garden – and a massive black building, sitting only a short distance from the Houses of Parliament. The statue positioned neatly in front of the building was of an elderly man, staring down at her with an expression of quiet amusement at the world. She didn’t need Master Thomas to identify him as Professor Cavendish, the man who had first put the study of magic on a scientific footing. The British Empire owed its current supremacy to one man, and his disciples had never let anyone forget it.

  The coachman opened the door and Gwen slipped through the hatch, jumping neatly down to the pavement. Her mother had tried to convince her to wear one of her formal dresses, but Gwen had ignored her and donned a light blue dress that clung to her body in a faintly scandalous manner. It also didn’t billow up or hamper her when she tried to run. She would have preferred the trousers she’d worn out in the country estate, where she’d learned to ride with her cousins, but that would have been a step too far. Everyone knew what kind of woman wore trousers in civilised company, particularly the people who weren’t supposed to know anything of the sort.

  Outside, the air around the building seemed pregnant with possibility. She turned her head from side to side as Master Thomas strode up to the gate, holding a silver-tipped cane in one hand. The gate slid open without any visible means of locomotion, suggesting magic to her eyes. He beckoned her to follow him up the path to the house and she did, pausing long enough to take a closer look at the statue as they reached it. Professor Cavendish seemed to be smiling at her personally.

  The doors in front of the building swung open as they approached, revealing a surprisingly ordinary lobby. A handful of men wearing black suits were on guard, but apart from a handful of surprised looks at Gwen they showed no visible reaction to the new arrivals. Gwen realised that they had to be trained magicians, ready to react at once to any hint of magical attack – or waiting for instructions from Master Thomas. They all looked tough and capable, although she knew that that might be an act. High Society taught the nobly born how to conceal their real feelings.

  They passed through an archway into a long, gilded corridor. It was lined with portraits, starting with the latest official port
rait of King George. A copy hung within every patriotic house in the land. Another showed Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of India, who was currently Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. His many conquests in India – painting the subcontinent pink – had earned him far more than just a comfortable position in the very heart of Britain. Gwen knew – from her mother’s gossip – that the Duke of India was tipped as a possible Prime Minster when Lord Liverpool finally shuffled off the mortal coil.

  “David Kendrick,” Master Thomas said. He pointed at one of the portraits with his cane. “The very first magician to enter the service of the British Empire.”

  Gwen halted in front of the picture, studying it. Kendrick had been thin, almost painfully so; his eyes seemed sharp as knives within a pinched, almost unhealthy face. And he’d been a magician...judging from what she knew, Kendrick would have seen service at New York, helping to coordinate the attack on the city that had destroyed the American rebels. She wondered, just for a second, what he would have made of her. Who knew what sort of man Kendrick had really been?

  A thought struck her. “I thought that Professor Cavendish was the first magician.”

  “The Professor had no magical talents of his own,” Master Thomas said. He seemed content to wait for her to finish studying the portrait before leading her onwards. “He was merely the person who discovered the first magicians and outlined their powers in terms...that would be accepted by the King and the Church. There may well have been others before Kendrick, but they passed unnoticed.”

  “Or were burned at the stake,” Gwen said, remembering some of the horror stories from Spain. The Inquisition had developed a nasty habit of burning witches, who were often lonely old ladies whom no one liked very much. It was impossible to defend oneself against a charge of witchcraft – and anyone could denounce a person and be believed. Even the worst excesses of Bloody Mary’s reign had never come close to matching the horror birthed in Spain.

  “True,” Master Thomas agreed. “One thing you will learn as you study magic is that most of what the common herd knows about magic is actually untrue.”

  Gwen wanted him to expound upon that, but instead he strode off down the corridor and she had to move swiftly to keep up with him. They walked past hundreds of paintings, ranging from the surrender of George Washington to a group portrait of the first magicians, until they reached a flight of stairs heading down into the basement. Master Thomas strode down the stairs, which narrowed until they were barely wide enough for two people walking abreast. The door at the bottom was locked, yet there was no keyhole. Master Thomas placed his hand on the handle, closed his eyes for a long moment and the door clicked open. Inside, there was a dark tunnel leading into the distance.

  Master Thomas grinned at her, held one hand in the air and generated a ball of light. Gwen watched, entranced. She’d had some success generating light herself, but it had never been as steady as the light he produced from nowhere. A silvery glow illuminated the bare walls of a passageway that seemed to lead on for miles, deep under London. She looked up at him and saw him smiling. It struck her that he loved showing off – and as Royal Sorcerer, he was not supposed to show off his powers. Gwen wanted to tell him that she didn’t mind, but she couldn’t find the words. Instead, she watched as the ball of light wandered away from his hand and led them down the corridor. It was, she realised, a simple defence against intruders. Only a magician could light his path down the passageway.

  “Or someone with a lantern,” Master Thomas pointed out, when she asked him. Gwen flushed. She ought to know that magic wasn’t everything. “But no ordinary locksmith could get through the door.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. “I want you to concentrate here,” he said, as they left Cavendish Hall behind. “Tell me what you feel.”

  Gwen screwed up her face in concentration. There was nothing, beyond a slightly musty atmosphere and a tingle in the air from the ball of light. She kept walking...and felt it, suddenly. An urge to turn and run, a sense that something was badly wrong, a sense that she could barely take another step forward...she pushed forward, gritting her teeth, but she slowly came to a halt. An invisible field hung in the air, mocking her. She couldn’t go any further forward.

  “I can’t go any further,” she said. Her emotions seemed to be spinning out of control. She couldn’t tell if there was something blocking her way, or if she was suddenly too terrified to go any further forward. Only sheer bloody-mindedness kept her from running – that, and her reluctance to show weakness in front of Master Thomas. She didn’t want to convince him that she was just another weak female, someone who needed a man to hold her hand at all times. “What is it?”

  “A complex zone of emotional repulsion, infused into the tunnel,” Master Thomas said. He took her hand and the sensation vanished instantly. “Only twenty people have permission to enter the tunnel network. Anyone who broke in without permission would find himself frozen and held until we discovered him. Someone with powerful magic – like you – might be able to escape, but they wouldn’t be able to actually break into the network.”

  Gwen looked up at him. “Are you sure?”

  “There’s enough magic infused into this part of the network to repel almost anyone,” Master Thomas said. “Even I would have great difficulty in escaping.”

  They walked onwards, into the network. The walls were no longer bare; they were lined with different paintings, some explicit enough to make Gwen blush. Master Thomas ignored them magnificently as they reached a door set into the walls . He tapped it with his cane. A long moment passed and then the door slid open, revealing another flight of stairs. Gwen rolled her eyes behind Master Thomas as he led the way up and through another door. This one opened into a richly decorated living room. A set of gold-edged chairs dominated the room, along with the inevitable portrait of the King. This one looked to have been painted during the period when he’d been the Prince Regent, wearing a blonde wig and looking surprisingly thin. The opposite wall held a painting of a rosebush. Gwen wondered absently if it was the rosebush George III had attempted to put on the Privy Council. It hadn’t been long after that that his son had effectively assumed his powers.

  She looked up at Master Thomas. “Where are we?”

  He smiled. “Haven’t you guessed?”

  The double doors at the far end of the room opened, revealing a dark-haired butler with a faintly contemptuous sneer on his face. His brown eyes were surprisingly intelligent; they glanced once over Gwen, and then met Master Thomas’s eyes. They exchanged a long look of wordless communication, and then the butler beckoned for them to follow him into the next room. It was even more richly decorated than the last room, but it wasn’t the decorations that caught her eye. The man climbing to his feet was King George IV.

  Gwen gaped at him, and then remembered her manners and went down on one knee. She knew she wasn’t supposed to look directly at the King – it had only been a few years since her coming out at the Palace, where she’d been introduced to High Society – but she couldn’t help it. King George was alarmingly fat, his hair – half-concealed by yet another wig – was thinning out, and his eyes lingered for several seconds too long on Gwen’s bodice. His relationship with Queen Caroline hadn’t been good before the Queen had died, Gwen recalled; Lady Mary had happily shared rumours about the King’s many illegitimate children and affairs, even though properly brought up young women weren’t supposed to know anything about such matters.

  “You may rise,” the King said. His voice was surprisingly deep; Gwen recalled hearing that George IV was clever and could be remarkably well-informed on any subject, but he preferred to leave politics to his ministers and spend his time enjoying himself. His ministers, many of whom would remember George’s father, probably preferred it that way. “We welcome you into Our presence.”

  He returned to his seat as Gwen rose, feeling oddly flustered. The last time she’d seen the King had been when she’d been presented at Court. There
had been an entire ritual to learn, one that marked both her entry into High Society and her position as a potential bride. Nothing had ever come of it, not when Gwen’s magic had been the subject of rumours long before she’d grown into a young woman. She had never been taught how one should address the King in private. The thought of a private interview with him would have sent her mother into hysterics. Gwen wouldn’t have been able to leave the house until her mother had briefed her on all aspects of Royal Protocol.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Master Thomas said, gravely. Behind him, Gwen was suddenly aware of the butler’s presence, ready to advise his master if necessary. “I am happy to report that Lady Gwen has accepted the offer we made to her.”

  The King studied Gwen for a long moment. Gwen almost flushed under his steady gaze. “It is necessary that We have a Royal Sorcerer to handle the affairs of magic,” he said. “The post requires qualifications and abilities beyond that of any normal magician. Master Thomas has served Us well in this post for the last ten years and it is Our dearest wish that he should continue to serve Us in that manner for many years to come.”

  Gwen said nothing. She honestly didn’t know what to say.

  Master Thomas stepped forward. “Your Majesty, I have no intention of dying in the very near future,” he said. “However, Lady Gwen’s education in matters magical is sadly deficient and she will have to study hard to make up for lost time. And then there is the danger of the French or Spanish raising their own corps of magicians. They have not forgiven us for the sound thrashing we gave them over the last century.”

  “Very true,” the King agreed. “Lady Gwen – are you prepared to accept the responsibilities that go with the position of Royal Sorcerer? You may find that you assume the position far sooner than anyone expected.”