Deep Magic - First Collection

by Jeff Wheeler

  The priest dropped the dagger.

  “Your lordship…you don’t look like much of an expert with a spear,” Hadrian said. “What do you say we just talk?”

  Lord Darren set the spear on the floor and took a step back.

  The bald man was on his feet again and Hadrian tossed the saber back to him. He caught it as shock washed over his face.

  “I hate when you do that,” Royce said.

  * * *

  “Who else knows?” Lord Darren asked Royce and Hadrian. “How many people have you told?”

  They had moved to the drawing room, where his lordship placed the spear above the fireplace and invited Royce and Hadrian to join him at a small mahogany table dressed with a dark wine bottle surrounded by cut-crystal glasses. On the walls were paintings of people and landscapes; the most prominent hung opposite the windows and depicted a beautiful woman wearing a silver heart-shaped locket.

  Hadrian shrugged. “We didn’t even know until five minutes ago.”

  “Technically we still don’t know,” Royce said. “And we don’t need to know. Our business here is done.”

  “What business is that?” the priest asked.

  “What part of our business don’t you understand?” Royce responded with his usual quiet voice and fixed stare that caused the man to lean back in his chair.

  “If you’re still curious”—Hadrian looked at Royce—“why not just ask them?”

  “Ask us what?” The bald man looked awkward on the couch, his hands gripping the cushions. Hadrian recognized that uncomfortable pose from when he was sitting in the tea shop.

  “How about we begin with why there is a wolf in that box?”

  There was a silence, then Lord Darren stood up and walked to the fireplace. “My wife was killed. I was staying in town to inspect the docks, and I sent her and Kristin home in a carriage driven by a man named Roy—Roy Westin. Good man, I thought.”

  “You really couldn’t know,” the priest said, leaning forward with sad understanding eyes.

  “Turns out Roy Westin had a secret.”

  “His name wasn’t Roy Westin,” the bald man took over. Hadrian realized he had a slight accent—southern in nature, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. “His real name was DerVoy Brickle. Comes from my homeland—a place of jungles and wild things, overrun with black magic and curses. Brickle had one of these curses. Every full moon he changed into a monstrous wolf driven by bloodlust to kill. I tracked him many miles until he got on a ship bound for Vernes.”

  “You’re from Calis, then?” Hadrian asked.

  The bald man nodded. “I’m the Viscount Ianto Don Speakman of Tel Dar. Brickle was part of a pack of cursed men who roamed the forests and hills near my estate. They killed many of my people, and I’ve made it my life’s work to see this curse ended. I hunted and killed each of them, but Brickle slipped away. I ran into difficulty catching his trail in Vernes. By that time, he was already in Medford and working as a carriage driver. I arrived too late to save his lordship’s wife. The night he drove her and the child home there was a full moon.”

  “They were coming through the forest.” Lord Darren pointed out the windows. “When Roy changed. It sent the horses into a panic, and the carriage crashed. The beast tore my wife apart and turned on Kristin just as Ianto arrived. He used that spear”—he pointed to the silver weapon mounted over the mantle—“and killed it. But the damage had already been done. My beautiful wife was dead, and the wolf had bitten Kristin.”

  Lord Darren got up and poured himself a glass of wine, then paused, looked at the two of them and sighed. “Would you care for a glass?”

  “Gracious for a man to entertain thieves,” Royce said.

  “I have a cellar full of this stuff, left by the previous owner. And I find it less humiliating to offer rather than have it taken.”

  “We really weren’t here to steal from you,” Hadrian said.

  Royce waited until Lord Darren drank, then poured himself a small glass.

  “Just visiting without an invitation, then?” his lordship asked. “In the middle of the night after slipping in—where?” He looked around. “A window? The garden door?”

  “So how did he get involved in all this?” Royce pointed at the priest.

  Ianto said, “When I saw the girl had been bitten and the wolf I had just killed turn back into a man, I tried to speak to Lord Darren, but in his grief he wouldn’t see me. So I sought out Parson Engels to arrange a meeting. We sat in this very room, and I explained his daughter might have the same curse.”

  “I have seen such things before in the service of the church,” Engels added. “The viscount wanted the girl killed, but I begged him to stay his hand. She was an innocent, and certainly Novron wouldn’t want to take the life of one of his own who was cursed through no fault of her own. I convinced Ianto if appropriate precautions could be made the child could live.”

  “When they told me of Claire’s death, and what would happen to Kristin, I didn’t believe them. Who would accept such a tale?” Lord Darren was still holding his glass, staring off toward the fireplace. “The viscount gave me the spear and insisted I lock Kristin up the night of the next full moon. I thought they were crazy, but the parson insisted. If I didn’t do as he said, he would have no choice but to tell the bishop of Medford, who would go to the king. They agreed to stay silent only if I could prevent her from harming anyone else.”

  “And on the next full moon?” Hadrian asked.

  Lord Darren nodded, then swallowed the last of his wine. “I planned to lock Kristin’s bedroom door, but they insisted on a more secure place. Leta, my housekeeper, told us about a steel safe in the basement that the previous Port Minister, Lord Griswold, had installed to keep his valuables in.” Lord Darren poured himself another glass.

  Royce hadn’t tasted his drink yet. He was still swirling the wine, watching it spin inside the glass.

  Lord Darren noticed and smirked. “It’s not poisoned, and it’s good wine. Don’t know where Griswold got it. No labels on any of the bottles.” His lordship took another swallow, then retreated to the hearth and leaned on the mantle before continuing. “Poor Kristin. She had no idea why I was locking her in that dreadful place. Thankfully she was only five. We made a game of it, but later that night when I heard the howling…” He took another swallow of wine, a big one. His eyes staring off unfocused. “When we drew back the plate she had changed. My darling daughter had turned into a vicious, snarling, fanged beast. Only then did I believe.”

  “So you two come here every full moon?” Hadrian asked Engels.

  The parson nodded. “It’s necessary to contain Uberlin’s minion, and I couldn’t live with myself if she escaped in that dreadful form and killed, or worse, passed the curse to others. It was either this or destroy the child.”

  “What do you do all night?” Hadrian asked.

  Lord Darren pointed at the bottle on the table. “We drink. I do at least. Have to once she starts howling.”

  “So, you know all about us,” Ianto said. “Now what about you? Who are you, and why are you here?”

  Royce finally tasted the wine. “Just visiting.”

  “I think I know who you are,” the parson said. “Two men, one big with three swords, one little dressed in a dark hood.”

  “I’m not that little,” Royce protested with a dash of menace.

  “You’re Riyria.”

  “Riyria?” Ianto asked, and Lord Darren’s expression showed the viscount had only barely beaten him to the question.

  “A pair of thieves that work in Medford,” Engels explained. “Contract workers. Only do special jobs—that’s how they co-exist with the local thieves’ guild, the Crimson Hand.”

  Royce smiled at him. “Amazingly well informed for a clergyman. Tell me Pastor Engels, what are the twelve tenets of the Nyphron Church?”

  “I wouldn’t waste my time ministering to the likes of you two.”

  “But you do know them?”

  �
��Of course.”

  Royce continued to smile until Engels poured himself a glass of wine.

  “The sun!” Lord Darren crossed the room and threw back the curtains, revealing the morning light. He took a step toward the kitchen, then turned. “You have to promise me not to breathe a word of this to my daughter. She doesn’t know, and I don’t want her to—not yet. One day she’ll have to learn the truth, but I want her to have a few more years of innocence, a few more years of happiness. Promise me.”

  “You have my word,” Hadrian said.

  Lord Darren looked at Royce.

  “Oh, yes. You have mine too.”

  The Port Minister rushed out of the room.

  “Your lordship!” Engels shouted after him, glanced at Ianto, and sighed.

  Hadrian looked to Royce who remained relaxed in his chair taking another sip of wine. The man appeared all too comfortable for one who, moments before, had been eager to leave.

  When Lord Darren returned, he had a drowsy Kristin at his side. The woman was yawning and running fingers through her hair. She wore a simple white nightgown with a burgundy robe tied at the waist with a gold cord. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of Royce and Hadrian.

  Lord Darren led her toward the stairs to the second story when Kristin stopped and addressed the pair, “You were supposed to kidnap me!”

  This caught everyone’s attention.

  Lord Darren hesitated, confused. “You know these men?”

  “I hired them to abduct me.”

  “To what?”

  The woman stood rigid, arms straight, hands in fists, her lips rolled up in a painful frown. “Why didn’t you steal me? I paid you!” She looked at Ianto. “This is sooo embarrassing! You two are absolutely lousy thieves!”

  “You paid them?” Lord Darren was still trying to understand.

  “We couldn’t kidnap you,” Hadrian said.

  “Why not?” Kristin’s voice was near screech level.

  “Because, apparently, you’re a werewolf,” Royce said.

  Kristin blinked. “What? I’m a what?”

  “Werewolf. You turn into a vicious wolf every full moon. That’s why your father locks you in the box.”

  “You gave me your word!” his lordship shouted.

  “And you actually believed me.” Royce shook his head. “I can’t believe the king appointed you to enforce his tax and tariff laws. It’s little wonder the black market is thriving.”

  “I’m not a werewolf!” Kristin said.

  Hadrian offered his most sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid you are. You still wore your locket.”

  Kristin touched the necklace. “And…” The woman’s eyes darted back in forth in thought. “And was this wolf wearing this nightgown as well? This robe?”

  Hadrian glanced at Royce. Both shook their heads.

  “Because this is what I woke up in. Do my clothes magically disappear and reappear as well?”

  This caught even Lord Darren by surprise and he looked to Ianto. “How does that work?”

  “I hunt werewolves, I’m not an expert in their enchantments.”

  Eyes shifted toward Engels, who waved his hands before his face. “Look, that doesn’t matter. We’ve all seen her change.”

  “Have you?” Royce asked. He looked at Lord Darren. “Have you actually witnessed your daughter change into a wolf?”

  He shook his head. “No—and I would never want to.”

  “I’m not a werewolf!” the woman repeated, then stared at Ianto. “All this time—all these years—you’ve been coming here because…because…”

  “He wanted to kill you,” Royce told her. “But as long as your father stays here, looking over you, Ianto won’t go to the king and demand your execution or just stab you with that pretty silver spear. Still want to marry him?”

  “I wish I was a wolf,” Kristin said. “I wish I was a wolf right now!”

  “So each full moon, while you sleep in a steel box, he’s here having a party.” Royce raised his glass.

  “We aren’t having a party,” Lord Darren said through clenched teeth.

  “No. More of a small social gathering, I suppose. But you do enjoy a very fine wine.”

  “I drink to cope with the fact my daughter is howling through a steel grate! I drink to fall asleep before I go mad. I don’t care about the quality of the wine.”

  “Pity, this is Montemorcey, one of the finest wines in the world.”

  Lord Darren looked puzzled. “Can’t be. Montemorcey is banned in Melengar by the king’s edict.”

  “And yet you have one of the largest collections I’ve ever seen. You are an excellent Port Minister, aren’t you?”

  Lord Darren glanced at the bottle on the table.

  “Trust me,” Hadrian said. “If it wasn’t Montemorcey, he would have spit it out. That’s the only thing I’ve ever seen him drink.”

  Lord Darren continued to look at the bottle.

  “Can we get back to the werewolf thing?” the woman asked.

  “I’m sorry, Kristin,” her father said. “But it’s true. I wanted to spare you that horror until you were a little older, but…well now you know.”

  “It’s not true!” She stood glaring at him defiantly as tears filled her eyes. “It’s not!”

  Lord Darren reached out to hold her, but Kristin recoiled. She looked at Engels and Ianto and drew away from them as well. Finally she faced Hadrian. “I brought you here. You work for me. Tell the truth!”

  “There was a wolf in the box you spoke of, and it was wearing your necklace.” He pointed at the silver locket. “Were you bitten by the wolf that killed your mother?”

  The woman began to sob. Lord Darren put his arms around his daughter, and this time she let him hug her.

  A tall slender woman in a servant’s gown appeared from the corridor. Her hair was pulled back, showing threads of gray. She held out her hands. “There now, come child. Let’s get you washed up and dressed.”

  “Thank you, Leta,” Lord Darren said, releasing Kristin.

  Hadrian felt awful as he watched the once hopeful woman shuffle out, head bowed. “Isn’t there anything that can be done? A cure of some sort?”

  “His lordship has investigated everything possible,” Engels said. “Nothing short of death will free her.”

  Lord Darren faced Royce and Hadrian. “As my daughter admits to hiring you to break into my house, and since you made no attempt to steal anything—other than her—I can find no cause to arrest either of you. I don’t think there’s a law against paying someone to kidnap yourself…so you’re free to leave.”

  Royce raised an eyebrow and smirked.

  “My lord,” Engels protested. “If they talk—if the king learns—your daughter will be executed.”

  “First,” Royce said, “I’m not the sort to talk.”

  Engels frowned. “You’ve proved your word means nothing.”

  “I’m not giving my word. Don’t even know what that stupid saying means. Just pointing out I’m naturally quiet. Second, what’s you’re alternative? Want Hadrian to take your weapons away again?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Lord Darren declared. “Now that Kristin knows, I’ll go to the king and explain the whole thing. I—I just can’t keep living like this, and what happens to Kristin when I die? Now that she knows, we’ll face this together. One more night in the box, then my daughter and I will throw ourselves on the mercy of his majesty. Maybe he can help us out of this nightmare.” He looked at Royce and Hadrian once more. “I can’t say I’m pleased you came, but perhaps it was for the best.”

  * * *

  On the road heading back toward Medford, Royce and Hadrian stopped at the Gilded Lilly public house where they shared lamb stew, heavy bread, and some light ale for Hadrian. Royce, who normally didn’t linger, showed no desire to hurry, and they enjoyed a rare leisurely afternoon on the open porch overlooking the King’s Road.

  “We aren’t going back to Medford, are we?” Hadrian asked when Royce
ordered a third round of drinks.

  “You can if you like.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  Royce grinned.

  “You’re going back? Why?”

  “Professional integrity.”

  “You keep saying that. You’re starting to scare me.”

  Royce put his feet up on one of the empty chairs at their little table. All the furniture at the Lilly was old-fashioned rustic—sturdy, the sort Hadrian could trust.

  “You can say I’m still curious.” Royce stripped a splinter from the table and used it to clean his teeth of lamb.

  “About what?”

  “For one thing”—he used the splinter to point at the sky—“there aren’t twelve tenets of the Nyphron Church.”

  “There aren’t? How many are there?”

  Royce looked at him shocked. “How should I know? I just picked a number at random. Either I’m incredibly lucky or Engels is lying. And he knows too much about the underbelly of Medford to be alive, much less a minister of the church. He works for the Hand.”

  Hadrian wasn’t surprised. While servants of the church usually made him uneasy, as if he were guilty of something, Engels had a comfortable brown-bread-and-beer way about him. “So, I guess you’d be interested to know Engel’s isn’t the only one being dishonest. Ianto isn’t a viscount of Tel Dar, either.”

  Royce shifted his shoulders to look at him, displaying raised eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

  “Tel Dar is a little Tenkin village on the eaves of the Gur Em. They don’t have viscounts there, just a chief and a warlord. But if they did have a viscount his title would be Pansoh. I suspect the closest old Ianto has been to Calis is Wesbaden or possibly Dagastan.” Hadrian took a swallow of his ale. “That saber he was swinging is a seadog cleaver, and I suspect you’ll find a dirk tucked in his belt somewhere. Real popular among sailors of the southern seas.”

  “Something is definitely going on,” Royce said. “That something involves the Hand and crates of Montemorcey wine. And since knowledge is power, I want to know what.”