Warlords, Witches and Wolves: A Fantasy Realms Anthology

by Michelle Diener

  The sanctii nodded back.

  "You do well with them," Honore observed. "Have you thought of bonding one yourself?"

  Imogene blinked, startled. Sanctii fascinated her as much as diplomacy. They always had, since she'd first lived with them at the Academe di Sages. But while she was a water mage, and technically any water mage was free to bond a sanctii, it was an unwritten rule that an Imperial mage would not do so without permission. Such permission usually only came with seniority. "I'm a little young, I think."

  Honore shrugged, sipped her tea. "Old enough, perhaps. You have a talent for this work. You did well in Reyshaka."

  And sanctii were useful to diplomats. They could be used to spy, to intimidate, or to fascinate. Or to protect.

  "It's something I had considered might be possible in the future," Imogene said carefully, hiding her pleasure at the praise and her excitement at even a hint that she might be able to bond a sanctii.

  Cool blue eyes studied her. "The major and I would be happy to make a recommendation. Should you want to move that future somewhat nearer." Honore swigged the last of her tea. "But you don't need to decide now. No doubt you are tired and longing for a bath, as I am. Come see me in a day or so and let me know." She handed the mug back to the waiting orderly and tugged her uniform jacket straighter, clearly preparing to move on to whatever was next on her mental list of tasks to complete in this break.

  "I will. Thank you, Captain." She hoped the excitement and apprehension suddenly fizzing through her veins wasn't too apparent. "I appreciate your confidence in me."

  Honore smiled, but then her expression turned serious. "Just keep your nose clean. I know that mess with Alexei had nothing to do with you, and you've proven yourself here, but the army has a long memory."

  Chapter 2

  "So was it wonderful?"

  Imogene looked over at Chloe Matin, who was currently bouncing on Imogene's bed in a manner which would make Imogene's mama, should she walk into the room right now, tell them both they were acting like children. It was always strange to return to her parents’ home after the freedom of a mission. Being back under their roof, in the same bed she'd slept in since childhood, gave her an odd sense of being caught between her past and her future. Though Chloe, her best friend for many years, was always welcome wherever Imogene was.

  "Stop bouncing and I might tell you. Better still, start passing me things out of that trunk." She waved her hand at the battered wood and iron trunk near the bed.

  On Chloe's arrival, Imogen had shooed Dina, the Carvelles’ maid, away, preferring to talk in private. Dina had obeyed after removing all the clothes that required washing—which, after the long journey home, was most of the contents of the trunk. But some had survived Dina's inspection and deemed clean. Which left Imogene with the task of rehanging them and unpacking the other bits and pieces she had taken with her.

  Chloe slithered off the bed, kneeling beside the trunk and peering into it to see what remained. "Well?"

  Imogene shoved aside two silk ball gowns that were distinctly not the type of clothes she preferred—and she was dreading her mother's explanation as to why they had appeared in her wardrobe—and tucked her sole clean uniform jacket into place before turning back to Chloe, who promptly handed her a pair of boots.

  "It was...intriguing. And exhausting. Fascinating. And nerve-racking." She grinned at Chloe. "I can't wait to do it all over again." She bent to put the boots away. When she straightened, Chloe's expression had turned gloomy.

  "So you're definitely going to ask for another assignment, then?" Chloe asked.

  Imogene hesitated. Chloe, a year younger than Imogene, wanted to join the Imperial Corps, too. But her mother had fallen ill not long after Chloe turned twenty-one and manifested her magic, and Chloe had temporarily given up her plans to help her family out. "Temporarily" had stretched to several years already. Chloe had completed her studies—her father was the Maistre of the Academe di Sages, after all—but spent all the time she could running the Matin household and looking after her younger brother and sister.

  "How is your mama?" Imogene asked gently. They'd written to each other while she had been away, but Chloe had kept her letters relentlessly positive and gossipy, so Imogene didn't know what the actual situation might be.

  Chloe's smile was a little too cheerful. "She continues to improve. We are hopeful she will be fully well again within the year."

  In other words, Chloe would not be joining up this year either. And might not like Imogene's response. But Imogene wasn't about to start lying to her best friend.

  "I am planning to ask for another assignment. I don't think I'll be in town very long." Too long and her mother would start getting ideas. The Carvelles weren't part of the level of society that partook in the palace's season of balls and entertainments that were prime matchmaking territory for the Illvyan nobility, but there were similar events amongst the families of the well-off merchants and such. Her mother had, no doubt, already made a list in triplicate of potential suitors, as she had every year since Imogene turned twenty-one. There was no other explanation for the new ball gowns.

  "So we must spend time together while we can," she continued, reaching for Chloe's hand, squeezing it.

  Chloe looked away. Then she lifted her chin, another of those too-bright smiles stretched across her face. "Speaking of which, Father has an invitation to the imperial ball this week. Mother cannot attend, so he asked permission to bring me. And a friend. Will you come?"

  To a palace ball? Her mother would go into a frenzy. "It's not really—"

  "Oh don't be boring. It will be fun," Chloe said. "In fact, it's the perfect way to outwit your mother. None of the aristocratic bachelors will be looking for anything serious with the likes of us, so you can flirt and dance in perfect safety." She grinned then, dark brows lifted in challenge.

  There was an argument Imogene hadn't considered. Chloe, as Henri's daughter and a strong witch, was perfectly eligible, as she herself was. But there were also plenty of women with power among the noble families. Most of the bachelors at an imperial ball would be on the hunt for someone with a title, or a dowry far more impressive than either she or Chloe could bring to the table, or trying to avoid matrimony altogether.

  Chloe was right. Those men were safe. Those men might even offer the opportunity for the kind of entertainment she hadn't indulged in at all during her mission. Smart girls didn't have liaisons with members of their own squads. Or companies. She missed sex. In some parts of the empire—and in mysterious Anglion across the ocean—they had odd rules about such things, particularly for young witches or potential witches. Or so she had heard. Here in Illvya, other than perhaps in the highest families, the unwritten rules were "don't get pregnant and don't cause a scandal." Easy enough for a witch with the brains to choose a sensible, discreet partner, and to wield a basic knowledge of herbs and the ways of female and male bodies. So why not enjoy herself?

  Captain Brodier had told her to keep her nose clean. That meant stay out of the spotlight, not avoid fun altogether.

  Furthermore, if she was at a palace ball, she couldn't be at one of the balls she suspected her mother would be forcing her to attend where the men were far more likely to be looking for a wife like her and therefore apt to become troublesome.

  She threw an arm around Chloe and kissed her cheek. "Darling one, I believe you're a genius. A ball sounds wonderful."

  Chapter 3

  The palace was lit up like a chandelier. Light streamed from every window, casting a shimmering golden hue over the white marble facade, making it look like something summoned from a dream. A floating, gleaming confection of magnificence defying the night.

  Imogen knew the size and scope of the palace, the arc of its marble and gilt and glass designed to shout power and might to the world. She knew the less grand administrative buildings in the complex of barracks, office, workshops, and stables that nestled behind the palace best but had some familiarity with the public
parts of the palace itself. But its beauty tonight left her almost giddy as the Matins’ carriage drew closer to the head of the queue of carriages waiting to deliver their occupants to the ball.

  She flexed her hands in their white satin gloves and tried to draw a deep breath. The corset she wore under her sapphire blue gown made that difficult. She'd made Dina lace it as loosely as possible, but the truth of the matter was that the dresses her mother had ordered were cut tight, and "loosely" was a relative term. The corsets she wore with her uniforms were sensible, front lacing so she could get herself in and out of her clothes, and comfortable as old shoes. She'd forgotten the restrictions of formal gowns.

  What would Honore think if she saw Imogene now?

  Imogene had told the captain the previous day that yes, she would like to be recommended to bond a sanctii. Honore had seemed pleased, though she repeated her warnings about behaving.

  Perhaps that was part of the reason she was so excited now. She hadn't told anyone—not even Chloe—she had a chance at a sanctii, and she had no intention of doing so until she'd been formally granted permission. And really, an invitation to a ball at the palace was respectable in all senses of the word. Her dress was tight, but it was not in any way scandalous. Her mother, annoying as she could be, had undeniable style—even if her choices might not always be Imogene's—and would never send her daughter out in a dress of questionable taste.

  She made herself take a breath, then settle back against the seat and try to relax. Enjoy the moment. Choose a night of froth and bubble to let herself shine after months of being the sober, somber lieutenant. Indulge in being female and enjoy the ritual of Dina doing her hair and pulling out her makeup and choosing jewelry to sparkle and gleam at ear and wrist and throat. But there was a limit to how far one could relax in a corset laced for a ball gown. Froth and bubble were all very well, but why couldn't they be a little more comfortable?

  "Ready, girls?" Henri Matin asked as the carriage inched forward. Imogene was used to seeing Chloe's father in his Academe robes. In his evening clothes—more formal even than what he wore to the occasional party in their circles—he looked debonair but still mysterious. His sanctii, Martius, was nowhere to be seen. Which didn't mean he wasn't nearby. Sanctii could be invisible and incorporeal when they chose.

  Perhaps it was just as well he wasn't riding in the carriage. She might do something foolish and give her excitement away if she was too close to a sanctii just now. She knew Martius as well as a mage could know any sanctii not their own, and he sometimes chose to speak to her. It would be tempting to ask him more about his kind. But even if Henri had not been present, there was the risk that Martius would report any conversation he had back to Henri. For now, Imogene needed to stay silent and rely on the knowledge from her studies. She'd managed to find several of her old textbooks buried in a storage box under her bed and refreshed herself on the lore of sanctii. But none of them contained the actual details of a bonding. Such things were deemed too risky for students. There were books that did contain the information, of course, but she’d had no chance to find a bookstore that might sell them and no excuse to return to the Academe and dig through its library. Besides, she suspected the army would have its own preferences for how the rituals should be performed.

  "Of course we're ready," Chloe said, dragging Imogene's attention back to the here and now.

  Henri grinned fondly at her. "The more pertinent question may be whether the palace is ready for the two of you, I suspect. Promise me you will behave. Mostly."

  Chloe glanced at her father and raised her eyebrows. "Of course, Papa. When have you known us to get into trouble?"

  "Only most days of your lives," Henri said. "But this is the palace. There are rules here. You can have fun, dance, flirt with the men who want to flirt with you, but don't forget who you're dealing with. The emperor keeps a tight rein on his court, but most people inside these walls are playing games of power. Don't become pawns."

  "No one will be very interested in us," Imogene said. At least, not for the kinds of games Henri was thinking of. She had a different kind in mind.

  "Two young, beautiful, strong witches? There may be more interest than you think. Perhaps not from the aristos, but there will be parliamentarians and courtiers and all sorts of men looking to rise high. Don't underestimate them or what they might do." His brows, starting to show threads of gray amongst the black, drew together. "You are here with me, and that will offer a degree of protection, but keep your wits about you."

  He was, Imogene thought, being dramatic. Her time with the mages had left her well-trained in how to deal with unwanted advances, and she intended to be less than interesting to any men who showed even the slightest tendency toward matrimony.

  "We'll stick together," Imogene said, exchanging a look with Chloe. She hadn't asked Chloe if there was anyone in particular she was hoping to meet at the ball. Hopefully she wasn't about to ruin any...fun Chloe had arranged for herself.

  Her friend had maintained her determinedly cheerful face every time they'd seen each other in the three days since Chloe had issued her invitation, but Imogene saw the tension beneath it all. Though so far, Chloe had resisted Imogene's attempts to give her an opening to talk about how she felt. Imogene had to respect that choice.

  And she would do so. Along with doing her best to aid Chloe in anything she might choose to do to indulge herself for a night. If anyone deserved fun, it was Chloe. So if that meant distracting Henri from his daughter's choices, or putting her own plans on hold, she would.

  Chloe's dress was the shade of ripe seila berries. The deep red set off her pale skin and dark eyes beautifully. She was taller than Imogene, and her figure ran more to curves. She'd be beating off the young aristos with a stick if she chose.

  Imogene's own dress was her favorite shade of sapphire blue. Her mother had gotten that much right. And Imogene was hoping it might, when the carriage finally reached the front entrance to the palace, help her do some aristo fishing of her own.

  Chapter 4

  Jean-Paul du Laq watched the whirling throng of dancers decorating the emperor's ballroom and wished there was something stronger than campenois on offer to drink. An imperial ball was never his first choice of entertainment—too many damned people and too much politicking for it to be actual fun—but as the heir of a duq, sometimes duty took precedence over his own wishes. His father was not yet old and, goddess willing, there would be years before Jean-Paul had to assume the title, but lately, duty was encroaching more and more often.

  From his father came more demands to show his face at the palace and take his place in the court, when in reality, Jean-Paul was far happier serving in the army or spending his spare time at the family's estate, Sanct de Sangre. That side of being a duq—the running of the estate, seeing the land and the people flourish under his family's care—he would enjoy when it became his turn. This part—the social whirl and posturing and scrambling for power—he was yet to develop much of a liking for.

  He appreciated the view, to a degree. Watching beautiful women in beautiful gowns was never a hardship. He would have enjoyed it more if his father's speeches about carrying on the family line weren't growing more frequent. He was only twenty-eight. Plenty of time before marriage grew pressing. But he knew that some of the women here tonight—and their parents—would be watching him. Trying to determine how to win his favor. The son of a duq, heir to one of the oldest titles in Illvya, was a prize.

  But he was in no mood to be hunted. So lurking on the outskirts of the room where Aristides’s servants had placed thick rows of anden trees in golden and silver inlaid pots was the wiser course of action. The trees helped him blend in. He was taller than most of the men here, and the black and silver of his evening jacket only made his height more apparent. But sons of duqs weren't allowed to slouch or dress to blend in, so he had no choice but to stand out in most crowds.

  "Hiding in the bushes again, du Laq?" Theodor du Plesias asked, gliding u
p from behind him.

  "Not well enough if you found me," Jean-Paul retorted.

  Teddy grinned and held up a slender glass bottle filled with pale green liquid. "Thought you might need a drop of something stronger than campenois."

  "I knew there was a reason I tolerated you," Jean-Paul said. He held out his empty glass. Teddy poured in a careful measure. Absintia was potent. It could cause actual harm if brewed incorrectly, or if you drank it like wine. But he trusted Teddy to have the good stuff. And Jean-Paul would avoid a second glass. He couldn't afford for his wits to be addled. Not when the room was full of husband-hunters and their mamas.

  The absintia was herbal fire as it coated his throat and stomach but soon resolved into a pleasant warmth that melted away some of his boredom.

  "So, can I coax you out of the bushes?" Teddy asked. "It's a dull way to spend an evening in a room full of pretty girls."

  "Easy for you to say. No one is forcing you to marry and carry on the dynasty." Teddy was a third son. His father, the Marq of Elimen, already had five grandchildren and counting from Teddy's elder brothers. Which left Teddy largely free of the kinds of parental pressures Jean-Paul was becoming uncomfortably familiar with.

  "Marriage is not on my mind," Teddy agreed amiably. "But that doesn't mean female company isn't. There are some interesting girls here tonight. Aristides invited some of the senior mages and their families, and some of the parliamentarians, too." He waved his glass of absintia out toward the dancers. "Some of them must be looking for some fun."

  He had a point. Jean-Paul had no intention of going after a politician's daughter. Too close to a courtier. But the mages were safer. And young witches from outside the nobility were raised with rather a more liberal mindset in relation to male companionship than the girls he'd known since infancy. But, with the absintia lifting his mood, dancing sounded more pleasant. And if dancing led to more, should the lady be willing, even better.