Witherward

by Hannah Mathewson

  Eliot felt betrayed. He was losing hope over something that mattered desperately to him. But the shades of undulating horror that had crossed his face as he absorbed Aelius’s confession had felt like something more. This suspicion is what she chewed over to keep from wishing she could go back to the garden and hear him tell her that he hadn’t meant it, he was just trying to hurt her, he didn’t want her to leave. Suspicion felt better than all those other things.

  Her brain foggy from too little sleep, she drank nearly as much coffee as Fyfe before setting about her mission for the day. She was on the stairs, heading bravely for the small laboratory in the attic, when a shot rang out from the park.

  Ilsa’s blood chilled. Fyfe bounded from the dining room, eyes wide, but Oren emerged behind him, polishing his glasses.

  “We’re not under attack,” he said. “It’s only Cassia. She’s nurturing a new… passion.”

  As another round was fired, Ilsa pushed down her hackles and followed the sounds past the garden and into a grove of trees beyond the duck pond.

  Cassia stood in a side-stance in the unkempt grass, one arm at a perfect right angle to her body and a revolver in her hand. A target had been rigged up ahead of her, a spattering of nicks already clustered around the centre.

  And a boy Ilsa only knew from his portrait was with her.

  Gedeon.

  Ilsa clapped a hand to her mouth. It was him, here, back. But how? She’d taken two stunted steps forward before she understood the truth, a split second before her brother shifted with a jerky movement akin to shrugging on a coat. It was a movement Ilsa recognised, and all her giddy alarm rushed out of her.

  It was Ferrien, one of the wolves who frequently guarded the bridge. He cringed, gaze darting hesitantly between the gun and the target, as Cassia let off another round. But Cassia didn’t wince, or blink, or give an inch to the kickback. The shot landed three rings shy of the bullseye.

  “Drat,” she said, her arm dropping. “One more time, please, Ferrien. And could you hold it just a moment longer?” The wolf mumbled his dissent. “Please, Ferrien?”

  Ferrien’s shoulders sagged, but he did as he was asked, and the chestnut-haired, stocky young man ceased to be, replaced once more with the taller, leaner form of the boy Ilsa had never met. It was no less jarring the second time. Ilsa’s mind wouldn’t quite believe he wasn’t who she wished he was.

  He saw her and shrugged apologetically.

  “What the bloody hell,” she began, swinging towards Cassia, but the Sorcerer’s face made her halt.

  Normally so distant and fragile – a living porcelain doll, who would sooner shatter than smile – Cassia’s expression had taken on an alarming degree of passion. The mist in her eyes hardened to ice; the tension in her mouth turned hot and feral. She dipped her chin and trained her eyes on Ferrien like an animal coiled to pounce.

  Looking at Gedeon was making Cassia furious.

  She lined up the revolver again with a graceful, chilling surety and fired off three rounds. They all hit the bullseye.

  When Ilsa turned back to Ferrien, he was already shrugging back into his own skin. Ilsa shook off the twinge of longing as Gedeon disappeared. She wanted a moment to be with her brother in the flesh; wanted to hear his voice for the first time. But it wasn’t him – it was some perverse copy, a violation – and she daren’t ask.

  She turned to Cassia. “How long you been practising?”

  Cassia reloaded the gun. “A little every day this week. I have a knack, it seems.”

  “You planning on shooting some poor bastard?” She tried to keep her tone light, despite fearing Cassia already had a target in mind.

  “It wasn’t my first objective, but perhaps it’s crossed my mind.” Her gaze fluttered to Ferrien, who blanched. “It’s just the most incredible release. I suspected it when I shot that Oracle, circumstances aside. Mechanical weapons are awfully fun.”

  Ilsa had never imagined Cassia to indulge in fun – she was far too serious and contained – but there was a liveliness to her as she held the gun. While Ilsa had more than once worried that Cassia had died in place – or at the least nodded off – the girl in front of her was undeniably both breathing and awake.

  “Here,” she said, offering the gun, “take a shot.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” said Ferrien to no one in particular, as Ilsa accepted the gun and let Cassia mould her into a forward-facing stance, the revolver in both hands. Bracing herself for the bang, she squinted at the bullseye and pulled the trigger. A moment of focus, a spike of adrenaline, and then the sudden, ferocious burst of power from between her fingers.

  She clipped the edge of the target. Letting her arms fall, she let out a stream of creative curses, and raised an eyebrow at Ferrien. “Think you could be Eliot?”

  Cassia made a noise that might have been a laugh. Ferrien lowered his brow and, declaring that he’d had enough, stalked back to the house. When they were alone, Cassia cocked her head and asked, “Eliot?”

  “You’ve met him, ain’t you?”

  “I torched a pillow once when he made me angry,” she replied, taking the gun. She studied it in her hand, then added, “Gedeon always took his side.”

  Ilsa barely had time to step out of range before Cassia was shooting again; three quick shots found their mark.

  “I’m sensing he’s been on your mind,” Ilsa said so drily that Cassia almost looked proud.

  “Am I awful?” she said. “For being so vexed with him for the way he left? He must have had his reasons, and yet I can’t stop going over everything I want to say if… if I ever see him again.”

  “Vexed? Vexed is when you’re playing chess and Oren watches your move and makes that tutting noise. I’d say you’re closer to murderous. And I’d rather a friend what was murderous than mournful any day. Anger makes you useful. Sadness just makes you tired.”

  Cassia considered for a moment, her fingers rhythmically squeezing the handle of her revolver. When she looked up, neither mist nor ice reflected in her bright green eyes, but warmth. “Thank you, Ilsa.”

  Ilsa hesitated, nervously straightening her skirt, but there would never be a good time to say what she needed to. “’Bout that fight what you had with Gedeon,” she blurted. “I think I know what you din’t tell me.”

  Abruptly, Cassia’s painful stillness returned, and Ilsa regretted the change in topic. “Oh?”

  There was nothing for it now. “I think when you pointed out his trip might be a bad idea, he was suspicious of why. I think he accused you of leaking information back to someone in the Heart. Of being a spy.”

  Silence. Ilsa held her breath to disguise all the uncertainty in her claim. But she’d had a hunch. Aelius said the rebels had known about the trip, and maybe Gedeon had feared that; suspected it. His lover was a Sorcerer, after all.

  Some of the fire was back as Cassia took a deep breath and faced her. “I’m not, you know.”

  “I think I believe you, even though no one’s being honest, it seems.” At least she could fill in the blanks about Cassia. Maybe she could forget about Eliot’s secrets for a few hours.

  “I still can’t for the life of me understand what gave him the idea.” Cassia had put the gun carefully in the case that rested open atop a small folding table. “It’s common sense, isn’t it? That if he and all his strongest wolves were elsewhere, we would be weak at the Zoo. The rebels were cropping up frequently enough that of course I was worried. But Gedeon said as long as the rebels didn’t know, there wasn’t a problem, and that if I thought otherwise, perhaps there was something I needed to tell him.” Her fingers traced the edges of the revolver case that still stood open. “I’d made my peace with it. The fight, I mean. The way he accused me of betraying him, of playing him for a fool, of never… never loving him at all. I forget sometimes how young he is to be dealing with all this. Before my grandfather died, he’d never truly faced any of the difficulties of being alpha, and then suddenly things were getting
worse and worse. I’d chalked it up to pressure.

  “But then he left,” she said, her fingers reaching for the crutch of the revolver again, “and I think it’s me who’s been a fool.” She frowned, turning on Ilsa. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything, but I really didn’t see that it mattered why Gedeon and I fought. It was only a lie by omission. Why do you bring it up?”

  “Because I discovered something. I think the rebels what attacked you did know ’bout the Millwater trip, and I was wondering who could’ve told them.”

  “You think there is a spy,” Cassia said faintly. She shook her head. “It’s not possible. The rebels must have been in league with the Oracles longer than we thought. That’s how they got the information.”

  “I already considered that,” said Ilsa carefully, “but it don’t make no sense. Cogna hadn’t been kidnapped when the rebels first came. The Oracles had no reason to get involved.”

  “Perhaps one of them did. Or there’s another explanation. Everyone who knew about the trip to Millwater has proved their loyalty to Gedeon.” She shook her head again, and the frown deepened. “Eliot put this idea in your head, didn’t he?”

  “What? No, I—”

  A twig snapped beyond the grove and Ilsa’s head snapped to the source of the sound. But there was no one there. Ilsa was letting herself get wound up for nothing. She shook her head, shaking off the unease still prickling her neck. But when she turned back around, Cassia was pointing the revolver at her, that sad, distant expression on her face. Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger.

  31

  All Ilsa knew was the bullet hit her.

  She was on the ground. The force of the shot had spun her around and thrown her to her stomach. Cassia fired again and she covered her head, perplexed and enraged, a slew of curses on her lips, but when she raised her head, everything came into focus.

  A cloaked figure was sprinting to the west boundary of the park. As they ran, their hood fell away.

  Pyval Crespo.

  He ducked but didn’t slow as another bullet came at him from over Ilsa’s shoulder.

  Cassia wasn’t aiming for her any more. Pyval had relinquished control of her mind.

  Before Cassia could shoot again, a snarl tore through the clearing, and Ilsa turned to see a wolf tackle the girl to the ground. They were pouring into the clearing and surrounding her. They hadn’t seen the real threat, but it didn’t matter. Ilsa was on her feet, and then she was in the air.

  That was when she felt the bullet. Pain lanced through her shoulder and her every muscle seized in protest as she tried to spread her wings. She careened towards the ground, catching herself at the final moment with one excruciating push. Then another. She could run on all fours, but it wouldn’t be any easier. Momentum. Only momentum would keep her flying through the agony.

  Pyval was far ahead now, beyond the Outer Circle and into Camden proper. But Ilsa was a falcon. His human legs could not carry him fast enough to get beyond her sights. She just had to catch him up before he hit the border. Just needed to get close enough and—

  And what? In animal form, she was too vulnerable to Pyval’s magic, and as a human she was unlikely to outmatch him. In the Otherworld, she would have had a pocketknife in her purse, but the Ilsa of the Witherward had no weapon but her claws.

  And wolves. She shot a glance back at the park, where they were bursting through the trees on her heels. She wasn’t alone, not this time. Pyval wouldn’t know she was upon him until it was too late. She just needed to knock him out somehow and let the wolves come.

  She just had to be fast.

  He had cut a deft path through the streets, straight for the nearest point of the border, but Ilsa was closing in. She was directly overhead now.

  But she had misread his destination. As they reached a corner, a carriage came speeding from the adjacent street. A rendezvous. The driver hauled on the reins and the horse banked hard to come level with Pyval, who leapt and grasped the open carriage door, and a pair of hands hauled him inside. Ilsa might have had time to dive and knock him off his feet, but the hands that caught Pyval had wrested her attention. She would never have seen it without her falcon’s vision. As it was, the seal ring on the right middle finger was clear as day: a cog, containing a cross-section of the human mind.

  The Sage.

  And Ilsa, out of time. The border loomed. The stewards raised weapons and shouted orders at the carriage, but there was nothing they could do but leap aside. Ilsa could not attack a Whisperer in front of them all, and she could not wait until they passed into Whitechapel.

  But perhaps she could look. She could identify who killed her family.

  She dived for the speeding carriage. As her talons made contact with the vehicle, she shifted into a leopard and brandished her claws. The second they knew she was there they would take control of her mind. She would have the briefest moment’s grace, if that. Steeling herself, she dug a claw into the roof and tore a window large enough to see inside.

  Two heads snapped up, two pairs of eyes went wide with shock.

  And Ilsa knew them both.

  She shifted again and pushed the pain of the bullet to the back of her mind to spread her wings as far as they could go, letting the force of the air push her off the roof.

  The carriage sped on, but if Pyval had got to Cassia in the park, then her fragile animal mind was still vulnerable from here. She was eight feet from the ground – close enough to live – so she shifted again, her shoulder screaming but her mind strong and human, and plummeted to the street.

  * * *

  Wet noses nudged at her. Growls and raised voices filled the air.

  By some evil magic, it felt like every single part of her had hit the ground.

  Someone said her name; begged her name. She knew them, but not like this. Not begging.

  She tried to open her eyes but nothing happened. Every bit of strength had left her, but the pain remained.

  “Ilsa, wake up.” The voice again. Male. A warm hand slipped under her neck and raised her up. She had liked that hand on her neck, she remembered that, and she instinctively leaned into him. Another hand went under her knees, and then she was off the ground, cradled against his chest, her head on his shoulder. The wolves had come.

  Then she smelled fresh linens. Rain. She drew a painful breath and found her voice. “But… I’m cross with you.”

  Eliot’s relieved laugh reverberated against her cheek. His muscles loosened, then held her tighter. “Good,” he said against her hair. There was more, and Ilsa wanted to hear it, but Eliot’s words faded as the world went dark.

  * * *

  She couldn’t have lost consciousness for long, because her shoulder was still streaming blood when she came to, and someone was lowering her onto a table top.

  As someone cut her arm free from her dress, she rolled her head listlessly to take in the bustling room. She was in the kitchen. Most of the household staff and wolves on guard were crowding around the doorway, their fearful eyes gazing back at her. Oren and Ferrien were arguing in low voices. Fyfe was by her head, chewing his lip, and Fliss was next to him, busy with an array of potions and tonics, pipettes and bandages.

  Eliot was gone. Perhaps she’d only imagined him.

  “You need the clear one,” said a shaking voice, and Ilsa pivoted towards the source. It was Cassia. She was sat against the wall, her hands lying limp in her skirt, two wolves stood over her.

  “She din’t do it,” said Ilsa again, with enough strength to startle the room.

  Oren was at her shoulder in an instant. “How close did you get? Are you certain they were a Whisperer?”

  Cassia made a scoffing noise. “Ask Ferrien,” she said, eyeing the wolf dangerously. “He’s seen my aim. If I wanted to hurt Ilsa, I wouldn’t have shot her in the shoulder. But mind control doesn’t lend itself to good hand-eye coordination, it seems.”

  Ilsa lifted herself to a seated position, ignoring the protests from Fliss and Fyfe, a
nd swung her legs over the side of the table. The pain in the shoulder was incessant and fierce, but the shock that had made her swoon had passed, and her injuries from falling revealed themselves to be a collection of dull, innocuous aches.

  “It was Pyval,” she said.

  “You saw him?” pressed Oren.

  “Yes I saw him. He…” Ilsa summoned everything she had to go on. It felt like a confession. It felt like her fault. And it was. She should have known. “He was working for Alitz. He’s always been working for her. She was with him in that carriage.” She swallowed hard, wincing as Fliss pressed something to the bullet wound. “It’s her. Alitz killed my family.”

  Failing to hold back tears of rage, Ilsa explained about the carriage meeting Pyval as he fled the park; about the insignia on Alitz’s ring, worn proudly for anyone to see in a city that didn’t care who hated whom, or why.

  As Ilsa spoke, the blood drained from Fyfe’s face. He shook his head throughout her explanation. “But” – he looked from Oren, to Cassia and back to Ilsa – “but Pyval poisoned her too. She can’t be… she can’t be the Sage!”

  “One can build up a resistance to smokeweed,” said Oren. He gripped his glasses so tightly in his fist that they were bent out of shape. “She may have used this method on her enemies before.”

  “P’raps but—” If I wanted to distract you from the present moment, of course I would show you things you wished to see. Ilsa cursed her own stupidity. “I ain’t sure she drank the tea at all,” she confessed. “She was using my thoughts to distract me. She said it was the lesson.”

  Cassia pulled herself to her feet. “The antidote probably made her sick for a few hours. Nothing more. It would be a small price to pay for such a convincing alibi.” She gasped and turned wide eyes on Ilsa. “Alitz knew about the messenger from the Docklands. The one who told us you were alive. I – I told her. I didn’t think anything of it. She must have sent someone to find you when we sent Fowler.”