“Of course there is!” Lucy cried. She reached for the dress, put her hand on it, and pulled it towards herself with a jerk. “Give me the purple. A deal is a deal!”
* * * * *
Kaille hefted his bottle of rum once more onto his chart table and Jas once again eyed it suspiciously before turning away. Fenric lowered his bulk slowly into his usual chair, though the action didn’t seem to be getting any easier.
“Talk, Scribe,” said the Captain. “There’s more to all this than you’re saying.”
“I still hope to dissuade you of that,” said Fenric affably. “Where were we?”
“The Usurper lied to the King,” said Kaille, “forcing him to divulge his plan for evacuating the three Heirs.”
“Ah, yes,” Fenric recalled. “And so it happened before the Burning of Belaverous. Let me tell you, then, what followed. As the sun rose the next day—”
“Hold on!” Jas cried out. “You can’t just skip the Burning!”
“But I must,” Fenric said innocently, caught mid-gesture.
“You were there,” Jas demanded. “What did you see?” Kaille could tell that his shiphand had meant to ask, “What did you do,” but had restrained himself.
“I see you’re determined not to trust a word I say,” observed the Scribe casually. “But you don’t need to believe me, I have proof. The feast of Belaverous was held by strict invitation as a result of Nic Pharus’s warning. You’ll find no ‘Fenric’ on the registry. I wasn’t invited. What I can tell you is the folklore that’s been spread about that night, but would it be anything you haven’t heard?”
Jas and the Captain shared a confused look, each sure that the other had just won points to his cause.
“This is what we know,” Fenric continued, oblivious, “when the sun rose and the flames were extinguished, only then did I and many others come down from our rooms in the far palace. King Lukilar had been murdered. His body was found with a sword through his chest.”
Kaille shook his head, holding up a hand to interrupt. “Why hadn’t I heard that before?” he asked. “The Usurper’s well known for his skill with the ax, why would he have killed the King with a sword?”
“If we were to understand a maniac,” Fenric replied with a shrug, “wouldn’t we then have lost our humanity as well? Perhaps he’d been disarmed or perhaps he thought that to kill a King with his own royal sword would be an act of righteousness. We know that he used his ax well enough on the Council of Twelve.”
“So it’s true, then,” Kaille inquired, “the council died there that night as well?”
“So it seems,” Fenric said. “The dungeons are deep and the towers high. There are plenty of places to hide an enemy Duke. After ten years without a sign, however, their survival seems unlikely.”
Kaille nodded, his nail thoughtfully wedged in his teeth. “And the Queen?”
“She’s said to live still in the palace,” said the Scribe. “Perhaps she’s a prisoner or perhaps an ally to the Usurper. If she does live unmolested, one must wonder the reason.”
Kaille nodded again. He’d heard similar rumors, but the King’s second wife was of little concern to most. What he wanted to know was much more pressing: “And the children? What of the Heirs?”
“Ah, Captain,” Fenric cried, quite interested in this subject himself, “and this is where the rumors abound! It’s said that Lucia fell to the Usurper’s ax. It has also been claimed at least five times now that Lucivak has been killed in one land or another. As there are not five princes to go around, perhaps it is some poor local boy being held up as a royal. As for the young one, I’ve heard no rumors at all. We can’t know for sure if any have survived.”
“And those are the most tame of the rumors,” Kaille said through pursed lips, his arms crossing over his chest. “Did you hear the one last year wherein a male actor was said to be the lost princess in disguise? He had quite the following for a time, until it was proved that he was…you know, a man.”
“That and countless others, each stranger than the last,” said the harried Scribe. “If they’re still alive, it’s my hope they’re receiving every attention as they come of age, in preparation to reclaim the throne.”
From behind the Captain came a snort of derision. He turned around to give his shiphand an evil eye, but Jas had already stepped forward. “Fine, keep your secrets about the Heirs,” spat Jas. “But explain this, what happened to the other person in line for the throne—the King Brother, Goddard?”
“Goddard was last seen locked in mortal combat with Nic, or so my sources claim,” Fenric said, his tone becoming melancholy. “He’s since disappeared.”
Kaille sat up in his chair. “That’s it?” he asked. “He just disappeared?”
“Either locked in a tower or dead, from what anyone can tell,” Fenric explained. “Might I cite another rumor wherein he’s being held by Nic’s allies in Eischland? There were few outside of the Usurper’s party who lived to tell about that night. We who survived—the more skilled staff housed in the east wing—made our escape at great peril, you see, and many of us were unable to make it out at all. Never again has an unallied man gone into the palace and come out again.”
“Then how came you upon the Quartered Crown?” Jas asked.
The Captain wanted to object to the harsh tone of his shiphand’s voice, but the question was admittedly a good one.
“I picked it up as I ran,” said Fenric a little too quickly. Seeing Kaille’s doubtful gaze, he added sheepishly, “No scribe can resist such a weighty relic.”
“You just…picked it up?” the Captain asked, disbelieving.
“Well, yes,” Fenric said simply, his arms open in a gesture of verity. “What would you have done?”
Jas, however, had returned to the noisome habit of grinding his teeth. “I don’t believe you,” he stopped long enough to say.
“That I picked it up?” the Scribe asked.
“No,” Jas replied angrily. “I don’t believe any of it. I don’t believe you. There’s something you’re not telling us, and it’s making you select words very carefully.”
“Master Hawkesbury,” said Fenric, looking between them affably, “I’m a Scribe. It’s my job to select words very carefully.”
Jas turned to Kaille, his face unbelieving. “You’re truly taken in by this blabber?”
“I don’t know,” said the Captain calmly. He happened to agree in this instance with his shiphand, but he wasn’t about to feed Jas’s suspicions. The Scribe was definitely lying. “I thought listening might help me figure that out.”
“This is all lies,” Jas concluded, swiping a definitive hand through the air. “He knows something.”
“Why don’t you go get some air, Jas?” Kaille suggested, giving his old friend a wan smile.
Jas’s face fell. “You…you’re taking his side?”
“I’m not siding with anyone,” Kaille said by way of clarification, feeling his eye tic at the thought of having to explain himself yet again. “I merely think you could use some fresh air.”
Jas gave a cold chuckle, his tongue probing the side of his mouth threateningly. “Suit yourself,” he muttered, pushing past them and out of the cabin.
“I don’t think he cares for me,” Fenric observed, watching the door slam.
“He’s your greatest advocate, actually,” said Kaille, his eyes fixed on the same. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
* * * * *
Sara barely noticed her reflection that evening as she sat before the mirror and arranged her dull blond locks. She thought of the noble boy from the marketplace. Haskal. She was careful this evening not to sigh his name, as doing so before had cost her an afternoon of teasing from Tobi, who was far too young to be teasing her elders, if Sara had anything to say about it. The day had gone badly.
“Get away from that ridiculous mirror and come downstairs,” said the unwelcome voice of her landlord from the door. Sara pivoted, disturbed that she hadn’t heard him
enter. Then he added: “You have company.”
Sara was struck dumb. “I…I have company?”
“You and I, yes,” Pella corrected himself. “Though it’s undesired by the better half of us. And by the better half, I mean me.”
“Is it the Earl’s son? Haskal?” Sara asked, hardly daring to believe she could say his name out loud. Pella’s silence answered in the affirmative, and Sara’s heart fluttered painfully her chest. Turning back to the mirror, panic set in. “No, wait,” she cried, “my hair is all wrong—”
“You’ll come now or you won’t come at all,” insisted the surly landlord. “I don’t need much of an excuse to send him on his way. In fact, why don’t you turn round and fuss with your curls until he leaves, that might be best.”
“No, you jungle heathen!” Sara cried, rushing past him and down the stairs. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
Hardly aware of how fast she was moving, Sara broke into Pella’s own rooms where she found Haskal sitting at the head of the table. The breath was knocked from her lungs upon seeing his perfectly chiseled face, and she began to question the sturdiness of her knees.
Haskal rose to his feet, giving a courteous bow of his head to Pella and a much deeper bow to her. “I hope I haven’t come to visit at a bad time.”
“Not at all, my Lord,” Sara said, finding her voice at last.
“Please, it’s Haskal. I insist,” he replied generously. “And Pella, you mustn’t stay hovering at the door. I thought you said you were about to tuck into dinner. Where are your other daughters?”
“They’re ill, my Lord,” said Pella, lifting a modest cut of goat meat from the fire and dropping it on his plate. The small cut belayed the idea of a large family, however, so he added, “I’ll be taking them some hearty broth later.”
“What a shame,” Haskal said solemnly. “I would’ve loved to meet them. Perhaps next time,” he said with a wink to Sara. Seeing her blush, he added, “Tell me, sweet girl, what’s your name?”
“Her name’s Sara,” cut in Pella. She was almost glad for his interjection, however, as the boy’s wink had driven away her voice.
“A pretty name,” said Haskal kindly. He looked at his reluctant host. “It’s a Kentshore name, though, I should think. Fitting for a Kentshore girl. She has the coloring of a Kentsheer too. I would’ve thought your children would be more Isabien in tone. Haven’t I heard tales of how virile the men are in your river lands?”
“All true, all true,” Pella said of his fake parentage. “Their mother be from Kentshore, though.”
Sara gritted her teeth, wanting to make it clear to all parties that her father had been Kentsheer as well.
Misinterpreting her consternation, Haskal told her, “Not that it matters, sweet Sara, we’re not blood purists here. Any Illian may be a friend of mine.” He smiled at her and waited for the same, which she gladly supplied. Looking after Pella again, Haskal called, “I thought there was to be food.”
Pella searched his scant kitchen for additional plates. “I would’ve thought your own cooks better suited to—” he began.
“Nonsense! I’m famished,” called Haskal exuberantly, motioning for Sara to join him at the head of the table. Pella slowly cut his small steak into three parts, grumbling peevishly as he did so. Meanwhile, Haskal continued, “Tell me, Sara, have you seen the Uppertown yet? The hanging garden behind the Temple of Edim is particularly lovely this time of year.”
Sara shook her head to say that she hadn’t been and was about to wonder aloud if Haskal would offer to take her, but a heavy clang of metal utensils caused by her landlord had a disapproving edge.
“No, my Lord, I haven’t,” she said, her enthusiasm tempered. “But I’ve only newly come. My cousin was telling me it was very nice—”
“A cousin too?” Haskal cried delightedly. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Would I know him?”
“You wouldn’t,” Pella growled, tossing down a plate of lamb and potatoes.
Haskal’s smile didn’t falter, even as the round potatoes rolled off the dish and across the table from the force of their quick descent. “You’d be surprised, I do try to make myself known to most.”
“You wouldn’t,” Pella repeated, tossing another plate in front of Sara. She grabbed up the stray potatoes and returned them gently to their respective plates.
“Ah, sweet girl,” Haskal sighed, watching her ministrations fondly, “I’m afraid your father doesn’t like me.” He turned once more to Pella, who sat down with his own plate and curled himself protectively around what little remained of his once-fine meal. “It’s a shame we’re on different sides of such important issues. But then, how could a man from Isabiena be expected to share Kentsheer ideals? I only wish he’d stay out of things that are beyond his foreign understanding, you see. But I bear him no ill will.”
Sara nodded at this pretty speech, but Pella leered. “Some people aren’t asking forgiveness for doing what’s right,” he growled.
“And some people don’t have the sense or experience to be able to determine if such things are ‘right’ or not. You weren’t raised here, after all, how could you expect to understand us?” Haskal asked smoothly. Turning to Sara, he inquired, “Did you know, sweet girl, that your father led an uprising against the Uppertown?”
“No, I didn’t,” Sara said with a gasp, speaking quickly before her landlord could cut her off. She supposed his accusations weren’t surprising, however, with Pella’s penchant for interfering.
“I see we’re of similar minds, then,” said Haskal, pleased at her apparent shock. “The earldom of Portridge is ever-generous, after all. If there are needs of the city that aren’t met, do you really think the poor must do anything more than ask?”
Sara felt herself melt at his words of generosity. He would indeed help her if she asked, she knew. She sensed his goodness in her bones.
Pella was less impressed. “Ask? What do you think it is that causes people to be called ‘beggars’?”
Haskal seemed haunted by this view of things. “It’s regrettable that the streets are so littered with the misplaced of the province, but surely you don’t believe that the raids along the coast are my fault?”
“Placing blame was never part of the issue,” Pella said with scorn. “Taking care of those who arrive here is.”
“An issue that you prosper on quite nicely,” said Haskal with equal disdain, “or have you not made your own small fortune taking in our wayward countrymen, Landlord Palaga?”
“I don’t take advantage—” began Pella.
“That’s a lovely scarf, my Lord,” cried Sara, her neck tired of volleying between the lovely boy and disagreeable landlord. “Is it from the Scadias?”
Haskal laughed, pleased himself to find a new topic for discussion. “You see, it’s as I thought,” he said pleasantly to Pella, “the ladies haven’t the heads for politics. Consider the issue dropped.” With a smile to Sara, he said, “And yes, it’s the finest Scadian silk. Would you like to touch it?”
“Very much,” Sara said shyly.
Haskal motioned for her to approach. Leaving her untouched meal, Sara took the few steps required to come up behind him. She held out a hand and he grabbed it with surprising speed. She gasped, but he gently guided her captured limb to the scarf that laid down his chest.
Sara grew hot being so close to him. Her head felt as though it was feverish, and she was sure her cheeks must have been quite red. The scarf was indeed the softest material Sara had ever felt, but she was more focused on the soft heartbeat and firm chest below the scarf, which felt warm and strong.
“That’s very nice,” she said through the blood that pounded in her ears. Lightheaded, she lifted her hand to move away, but the nobleman’s son secured her sleeve.
“I’m glad we’re to be friends, even if your father and I disagree on some things,” he said quietly, gazing up at her. “Sometimes it’s an uninterested party that may serve to bring together two warring faction
s.”
“Yes,” Pella growled. “And sometimes the uninterested party is used as bait for the attack.”
Sara’s gaze shot over to Pella at his dismissal of such a sentiment of peace. She was surprised to find him standing, a dagger in his hand.
“My, my,” sighed Haskal, releasing Sara’s hand theatrically. “Your father thinks of you as bait? Perhaps I should be worried.”
“Or maybe I should,” corrected Pella cryptically.
Out of her depth, Sara sought to remedy the tense situation. “I wouldn’t betray you, my Lord,” she said, looking down steadily at the beautiful boy.
“No, sweet thing,” he said affectionately, his eyes on the landlord, “I know you wouldn’t.”
*
Chapter 9:
The Twin
* * * * *
Twin Magic and Abnormality
A History of Magics
Chapter the Twelfth
By Samjam Juggerram
*
Of twin magic there is much to be said. We must begin, however, by breaking a common misconception: not all twin siblings are magical.
There are two kinds of twins: those created when two separate spirits form into infants at the same time, and those created by the splitting of a single spirit into two bodies. It is the second kind only who harbors mystical abilities.
In the modern world, closed as it is to magical energies, most people carry their spirit tightly inside their bodies. Here they are protected and sheltered. As a result, the spirit, through which a person may connect to the undercurrents of power, is held separate from such energy.
With twins, this is not the case. A single spirit intent on sharing two bodies must travel back and forth between them. This means it is constantly exposing itself and lacks the protection of its single-bodied counterparts. Because it is constantly in motion, then, it will regularly come into contact with the ebb and flow of magical energies. This exposure allows most twins to dabble in the craft unawares, and is the reason that many magicians in history were twins.
One such magician, called Turg, became known for his brutal experiments on twin children after the death of his own brother, Murg. In his experiments he would treat one child as precious, and the other he would hurt or maim horribly, sometimes feeding them strange potions or performing dark rites. When the child under experiment had died, he would kill the other child as well, and compare the two in exhaustive detail.
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