The Threads of Magic

by Alison Croggon

  Oswald was silent, staring out of the window. Finally he turned around. “Do you know what this Stone Heart is?”

  “No,” said Ariosto.

  “But I think you can guess,” said Oswald.

  “My guesses, sire, are at best stabs in the dark. I know it is a magical artefact. I know that it was made by a witch from the heart of the crown Prince Clovis, just after Axel the First seized the throne. I suspect it has great power.”

  Oswald turned again to the window. It seemed to Ariosto that he was suppressing agitation, but it was hard to tell. Like most nobles, Oswald was adept at hiding his feelings.

  The assassin waited, wondering how his gamble would pay off.

  At last Oswald turned to face him. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I thought it may interest you.” Ariosto permitted himself another direct glance, and looked away. There was a red flame in Oswald’s eyes. Or perhaps he was imagining it.

  “As it happens, it interests me deeply. What do you wish to gain by telling me this?”

  Ariosto cleared his throat. “I am the best assassin in all Continentia. Perhaps you might be keen to employ someone of my skills in your personal retinue.”

  At this, Oswald laughed. “Had enough of Lamir, eh?”

  “I believe he is not the man I thought he was,” said Ariosto. Or maybe, he added privately, he is exactly the man I knew he was.

  “Do you know where the Stone Heart is?”

  “No, sire. We’re assuming that it is in the possession of witches. Most likely a witch called Amina Bemare, who escaped from the office last night through magical means.”

  “And do you have any idea why Lamir wanted it?”

  “No, sire.” Ariosto cleared his throat again. “I assume that it may serve his personal ambition in some way.”

  Another silence. Ariosto simply waited.

  “So why this sudden transfer of allegiance? I wonder,” said Oswald.

  “I hate Lamir.” Ariosto spoke coldly, without expression. “With every part of my body and every part of my soul.”

  “Dear me. Lamir must be in a state, if he’s alienating his most loyal staff.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Another pause.

  “I’m surprised that Lamir never made you a Spectre,” said Oswald conversationally. “You would have made a most excellent vessel.”

  Ariosto felt a stab of terror as everything fell into place and his mouth went dry. He had known, of course, that Lamir had unusual powers, but he had never suspected that he was a Spectre himself. He licked his lips, trying to think of what to say.

  Oswald examined his face, a cold smile on his lips. “Dear me, you had no idea, did you? In any case, one has to begin in childhood. No doubt your breeding is vulgar, and the thought caused Lamir distaste. I confess I have similar distaste. One only wants the finest vessels for one’s soul, after all.”

  He walked up to Ariosto and forced up the assassin’s chin with his finger. Ariosto stared into his eyes, unable to move.

  There was no warning, none of the theatrics that the Cardinal was so fond of. There wasn’t time to feel afraid. Ariosto only had time to note that he hadn’t imagined the red fire in Oswald’s eyes.

  Oswald said a single word in a low voice, and Ariosto burned up instantly from inside. It was too quick for pain. For an instant he was a blazing column of fire, which went out almost as quickly as it appeared. Then a grey, man-shaped shell crumbled into a small pile of ash on the expensive carpet.

  It was, by Oswald’s standards, a merciful death. He glanced down, his face expressionless.

  A shame, he thought. A criminal waste of some truly exceptional talents. But he couldn’t trust that the man wouldn’t do something foolish. Despite everything, the chief assassin Ariosto, the most feared man in the kingdom of Clarel, was an innocent.

  What he had revealed certainly explained a few things about the Cardinal’s conduct. Oswald walked over to the window and gazed out blankly, digesting the information Ariosto had just given him.

  The Stone Heart. Was it everything that repute made it? It was hard to say, since it had been made by a witch.

  Oswald-Rudolph understood everything there was to know about blood magic. He doubted that witches had an equal understanding of Spectres to his own, although it was difficult to be certain. Witches were, in the end, blinded by their own short-sightedness, their vain desire to do good.

  If the rumours held any truth, the Stone Heart was a tool of unsurpassed power. But equally, it could be used to destroy every single Spectre… And the Cardinal, fool that he was, had let the witches get hold of it.

  Oswald-Rudolph’s first impulse was to leave Clarel, pleading urgent affairs at home, and leave these incompetents to their own mess.

  On the other hand, he was reluctant to leave without the Princess, since he needed her for his next vessel. And if the Cardinal did find the Stone Heart and succeeded in unlocking its powers, he could be unstoppable. Oswald turned on his heel, thinking deeply. Perhaps he should find the Princess first. He could trace her fairly easily with some simple magic. And secondly, he must find the Stone Heart. That might be a little more difficult, but surely not impossible, if he reached for his powers.

  He ought to tell his staff to prepare for departure from Clarel, just in case. But in the meantime…

  He summoned his secretary. “I have,” he said, “a sentimental request.”

  “At your service, sire,” said the secretary. A well-trained servant, he pretended not to notice the pile of ash on the carpet.

  “I am afire with love for Princess Georgette, as you know. And I find I have the fancy to hold something that belongs to the Princess. Something that she values, something that is precious to her, so I may the better summon her to mind.”

  His secretary bowed. “I shall enquire of her ladies-in-waiting, sire,” he said.

  “Make sure you’re quick,” said Oswald. “My passion is impatient.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  GEORGETTE’S COURAGE BEGAN TO FAIL THE MOMENT she crossed the Furrier’s Bridge. As a child she had often ventured into the streets by the Old Palace with Oni and the other servant children, but that was a long time ago. At Clarel Palace, she had been far more strictly confined. On the rare occasions that she went beyond into the city streets, she was either carried in a sedan by four strong men, or travelled in one of the palace carriages. And she never went anywhere without an escort of guards.

  She hadn’t realized that the city was so hard to find your way around in. She exited the narrow bridge, which was lined with dilapidated and grimy shops that sold animal skins and smelt terrible, and set off confidently down the wide street that ran before her, sure that it was heading in the right direction. But then it turned and twisted and somehow she found herself at a dead end, being eyed speculatively by an old man in rags who was sitting on a doorstep. She beat a hasty retreat, doing her best to look as if she weren’t lost, and tried another street. This grew narrower and narrower and at last dived into a dim alley, which she was reluctant to enter.

  The witches had said there was trouble brewing, but Georgette couldn’t see any sign of it. If anything, the streets seemed emptier than usual. Either people were exaggerating, or she was in the wrong place. She thought of asking for directions, but the few people she saw seemed sinister and she walked past them quickly. She doubled back again and saw some Midsummer Festival ribbons on a corner lamp post. She peeked down the road: it was lined with midsummer stalls, although again the street was empty. And then she began to hear a faint roar, as if there were a crowd in the distance. She bent her steps that way, guiding herself by the sound.

  Georgette didn’t want to admit it, but she was beginning to feel that she had made a mistake. What had she been thinking? How would she find the leaders of the rebellion? And even if she did, would anyone really believe that she was Princess Georgette? She was dressed like a street boy, a commoner, and most of being a princess is looking
like one. And by now she was thoroughly lost. She didn’t think she could find her way back to the Undercroft even if she wanted to.

  At the end of the street she ran into her first patrol of soldiers. About half a dozen men in armour were leading an old woman away in chains, but she wasn’t going quietly. She was scolding one of the soldiers, a scrawny young man with pimples, at the top of her voice. Several spectators were hooting in derision, shouting at the soldiers to let her go.

  “What would your ma say, Inias? She would be ashamed of you. Ashamed! Arresting one of her oldest friends.”

  The soldier, whose ears were bright red, muttered that they were just following orders.

  “Following orders!” retorted the woman in chains. “That’s a puny excuse. I helped bring you into the world, boy. It was a difficult birth too, and were you worth the trouble? I saved your mother’s life, and yours too. And this is the thanks I get?” She lifted her chained hands and shook them at him. “You’re a disgrace!” She turned around to the other soldiers. “All of you. You’re disgraceful!”

  More people were gathering, standing out of range of the weapons and heckling. Georgette, lingering despite herself, could see that the soldiers were growing afraid of the crowd. And she knew that frightened soldiers were dangerous.

  “Shut up, woman, or you’ll get the back of my hand,” said one of them.

  “Go on,” said the old woman. “Hit an old woman who barely reaches your chest, you mangy cowardly weasel.”

  “Yeah, do that,” said a burly man with a red face in the crowd. “Proud, are you?”

  “Put down your arms!” Georgette hadn’t intended to say anything at all. She couldn’t believe that it was her voice speaking, but it was: her princess voice, trained in commanding inferiors, crisp and authoritative. “And unchain that woman! At once!”

  Everyone turned around and stared at her. She raised her chin. “I am Princess Georgette of Clarel Palace,” she said, as arrogantly as she could. “And I do not countenance this behaviour.”

  The soldiers stared at her and hesitated.

  “That’s not a princess,” said one. “It’s just some kid.”

  “She sounds posh though,” said one of the bystanders.

  “He’s wearing trews,” said another.

  Georgette took off her cap with a flourish and shook out her golden ringlets. “Of course I’m your princess,” she said. Now she was committed to this, she thought, she had no choice but to play it to the end. “I am going among my people in disguise, to see the hardship they endure. I find much injustice.” She turned a stern glance on the soldiers. “And those who commit injustice will pay for it.”

  The soldiers looked flummoxed. A couple of people started cheering, and then the cheering was picked up by others. More and more people were gathering around the soldiers, and Georgette could see that some of them were armed.

  “You heard the lady,” someone said. “Didn’t you say you were following orders?”

  “Those who do not obey will feel the wrath of the palace,” said Georgette fiercely.

  The issue wavered in the balance for a few moments. At last the man called Inias jerkily unlocked the chains around the old woman’s wrists with a muttered apology and pushed her into the crowd. Then, without a word, the soldiers turned and marched away, taking their tattered dignity with them.

  The crowd whistled and hooted at their retreat. A couple of burly men hoisted Georgette onto their shoulders and she punched up in victory, her golden hair gleaming in the sunshine. Everyone started cheering. Georgette flushed with triumph.

  The old woman hobbled through the crowd and stood in front of Georgette, her arms folded. “You put the girl down, boys,” she said. To Georgette’s chagrin, they instantly obeyed.

  The old woman was studying her with rather too sharp a gaze. “Granny Golovier, at your service,” she said. “I thank you, Your Highness.”

  Georgette nodded graciously, hiding a sudden wariness. Was this woman a witch? “My pleasure,” she said.

  “I don’t know if you are who you say you are, but I’m grateful,” Granny Golovier went on. “My advice is, princess or no, you go home now.”

  “My place is with my people,” said Georgette.

  “I’m not sure who your people are, but I’m pretty sure these aren’t them.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Georgette, glancing around at the crowd. “I must speak to the leaders of the rebellion.”

  The old woman frowned, her face collapsing into a web of wrinkles, and then beckoned Georgette closer. Georgette, deciding again to be gracious, took the woman’s hand and leaned down until she could feel her whiskers tickling her face.

  “I think you’ll be needing to talk to the Witches’ Council, my dear,” the old woman whispered in her ear. “That’s if you’re really serious about talking to leaders.”

  Georgette jerked back, but the woman kept hold of her hand with surprising strength. “Listen, my girl. I can see right plainly that the way you’re going you’re headed for trouble.”

  “I don’t need witches,” hissed Georgette. “I want to talk to the people.”

  “Witches are people, girl. All kinds of people. It’s what nobles never quite understood…”

  “Are you a witch?”

  At this, the old woman let out a crack of laughter. “Me? No! But I’ve been around this world a good bit longer than you, and I know a thing or two.”

  Georgette bit her lip, and straightened up, withdrawing her hand. For a moment she wavered. Perhaps Granny Golovier was right. Perhaps she really should go back to the Undercroft.

  But that would be humiliating. She imagined how Amiable would sneer. It would be admitting defeat before she had even tried.

  This was her chance to be Queen. Leading the riots was how Axel I had become king, after all. Why couldn’t she do the same? All she needed was courage…

  “Thank you, my good woman,” she said loudly, for the benefit of the bystanders. “I will always fight for justice.”

  Some of the crowd, Georgette saw, were losing interest now the soldiers had gone and were wandering off. She had to gain their attention. She took a deep breath, as she had been taught to do in her deportment classes.

  “Arise, my people!” she cried. “We must cast down the tyrants!”

  Some laughed, but others started cheering.

  Georgette lifted her hand. “To the palace!”

  More people started cheering, and a few began to chant, “To the palace!” She was hoisted up again by the burly men and swept off in a wave of enthusiasm.

  It was a little difficult to keep her balance and dignity as she bobbed above the heads of the crowd, but Georgette did her best, holding her chin high. As they proceeded up the street, more people joined the crowd, attracted by the shouting and cheering. She looked over her shoulder. There were dozens of people now.

  This was more like it. It was exactly as she had imagined, like the uprisings she had read about in history books.

  Granny Golovier stared after Georgette until her bearers turned a corner and disappeared, and then she shook her head at a couple of chickens that were scratching in the dirt. “Poor silly child,” she said. “Sometimes you just can’t tell them.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  IN HIS PRIVATE LIBRARY, CARDINAL LAMIR SAT ALONE at his writing desk, staring at the wall. Something was amiss in the fabric of things. The riots in the city – pffff – who cared? A little bloodletting didn’t do any harm. The King would send in the army, there’d be a massacre and then everybody would go home. But riots along with the disappearing Princess, the loss of the Stone Heart and revolting witches: those were more serious matters.

  He had an uncomfortable feeling that King Oswald knew more about his plans than he would have liked. And it had been a mistake to use the office to hunt down the Stone Heart. He realized that now. It had drawn attention.

  He checked his pocket watch. Ariosto was late.

  The Cardina
l was still the only person who knew how to use the Stone Heart. That was a comfort. Not even the witches knew. The Oracle of the Void, whom he summoned through the mirror in his library, had shown him the exact spell the witch had used to make it, and in that instant he had seen how to take this half-formed soul, this Spectre-who-was-not-a-Spectre, and incorporate it into his own being.

  Once he did that, he could control Ruptures. And once he could control Ruptures, he could control reality. He could, if he wished, destroy King Oswald.

  Destroying King Oswald was very much part of the Cardinal’s plan. From there it would be a simple matter to take over all of Continentia. There would be nothing and no one to stop him.

  One careless decision. That’s all it had taken. He should have sent assassins to collect the Stone Heart. They wouldn’t have lost it. But at that stage he was hoping to keep it secret even from assassins. He still held out hope that he could wrest it back from the witches. It would have to be found quickly if everything were not to be lost. Or worse…

  So near, and yet so far.

  The hair prickled on the back of the Cardinal’s neck. That wasn’t his own thought. Or was it?

  Low laughter echoed through the room. The Cardinal knew that laugh. He whirled in his chair, looking wildly around. The chamber was empty. But then he saw that the surface of the mirror was shimmering, like the surface of a dark pond. His mirror. The mirror that no other being, living or dead, should be able to unlock.

  Before Lamir’s appalled eyes, King Oswald slowly stepped out of the mirror. Only it wasn’t King Oswald: he had put away his earthly form. Now he was a skeletal Spectre, Oswald-Rudolph, his form glowing in the shadowed room, his robes flickering with tongues of cold flame.

  “Rudolph,” said Lamir. His mouth was suddenly very dry. “How … delightful to see you…”

  “An informal visit, merely,” said the Spectre. His urbane manner was completely incongruous with his demonic appearance. “I thought you’d be relieved to hear that I am on my way to pick up Princess Georgette.”