by K. L. Noone
Sorceress
By K.L. Noone
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2019 K.L. Noone
ISBN 9781634869416
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
For J.M., for giving this one a new home.
* * * *
Sorceress
By K.L. Noone
The knock at the door came, of course, at precisely the wrong time.
Lily had been mixing rosemary and angelica, a small blessing spell for a farm family down in the valley. The noise broke her concentration just as she whispered the final words to the small knot of herbs, infusing each phrase with a touch of her own power. Simple spells, simple magic, but even those drained her, requiring that she give of herself each time.
Sometimes she found herself thankful that her powers were not more—she could only imagine the terrible draining joy the great magicians of years past must have known—and sometimes she hated that even a momentary loss of concentration dissolved all her bindings, making the spell fall into tiny fragmented bits.
Sometimes: like now. The baby had been sleeping, the rain had been soothing against her window, and she’d been hoping for an afternoon of peace for once.
Clearly the afternoon had not been informed of this plan. Neither had her visitor, who thumped at the door again.
“Do you have to?” Lily said, and set down the crushed herbs on her workbench, and glared at the door.
The pounding redoubled; someone obviously was desperate to see her. She could hear the muffled sound of a voice calling, but the heavy wood of the door made the words indistinguishable; she supposed that if she were a better sorceress she would’ve heard them regardless.
But that annoyance was old, even as it stung; she yelled, “Coming!” over Merry’s sudden screaming—the noise had woken the baby up—and yanked the door open without ceremony. “What do you want?”
For a minute they gazed at each other in silence; her visitor seemed thunderstruck by this abrupt collision. Lily could imagine what he saw: a sorceress with hastily thrown-on glamor, through which tangled hair and patched breeches flickered dimly, amid the detritus of spell work and single motherhood; she scowled preemptively.
For his part, the tall man with amber eyes—and dripping dark hair—regarded her curiously, one hand still raised to knock. He wore Court dress, all crushed velvet and gold embroidery; the rain-spots would never come out without magic. His face was familiar, though it took her a second to place it, and when she did she couldn’t quite believe it.
“I know you. You’re the Bastard.” Too blunt; but then again, magicians could do as they liked, couldn’t they? Lorre had taught her that.
She refused to think about Lorre—yet another man—and glared more at the present man, instead.
One corner of his mouth quirked up, a wry acknowledgement of old pain that surprised her. Perhaps the king’s half-brother was more human than all the rumors made him out to be, then. “So I am.”
He added, even as she observed the marks of worry and sleepless nights around his eyes, “I need your help, Sorceress Liliana.”
“Everyone does,” Lily said. “It’ll cost you.” She stepped back to let him in, inwardly wincing, knowing what he saw. The dusty cottage, strewn equally with magical paraphernalia and baby-related items; the burned bread on the stove; herself, rumpled and unkempt and smudged with smoke and berry stains under what she suspected was a pathetic attempt at disguise. Hardly the kind of place any Court noble would frequent, much less the decadent and depraved hedonist William the Bastard, about whom rumor said that he slept on gold-embroidered sheets and paid his lovers, both women and men, with rubies.
Of course, rumor also said that he rewarded his assassins—again, both women and men—similarly, though none of them had yet managed to kill the king.
She thought, with the clarity of razor-wire: the Bastard can afford to pay, but he can also afford to have you killed.
And he’d followed her in, ducking his head to avoid the low beam of the doorframe. The velvet of his shirt caught briefly on the splintery wood. He ignored it.
“I imagined it would. How much will it take for you to come with me to the palace?”
He had to raise his voice for the last few words. Merry, who’d paused for breath, chose that moment to start shrieking again. Lily, whose mind was still stuck on coming to the palace, took a second to move. Before she could, William walked over to the crib, picked up Merry, and settled her comfortably in one large arm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Merry went silent, wide-eyed. Lily could sympathize.
William met her eyes across the baby’s head, with an expression akin to a shrug and a smile.
Lily let out the breath she had been holding and said, “Thank you.”
“I like children.” He kept his voice calm and soothing, and Merry snuggled up against him. “I used to look after Henry. When we were boys…” That flicker of pain intruded into his voice again, and again she wondered why he was allowing her to see it. It might have been on purpose; she believed him, as difficult as that was in the face of all she’d heard, but she also suspected that he would be willing to use every means at his disposal to convince her to do what he wanted done.
And then he said, in the voice of a man knowingly grasping at straws, “That’s why I need your help. Henry is dying.”
Lily stared at him in shock. “The king—?”
“We think it’s something magical. The physicians have tried everything. I thought you could help. Maybe. I know you worked with Lorre; I thought—I don’t know.” He exhaled. It sounded genuine. It sounded like anguish, broken as a mirror.
Lily ignored the casual mention of Merry’s father, though as always the name sparked a deep-seated anger in her bones. Memories like the fleeting intoxication of strawberry wine and summer sun, eaten up by winter.
Outside, beyond the dirty glass windowpane, the rain tumbled and splattered and mourned.
And the king was dying, and Lorre was gone, and she was all they had left. She heard herself say, without conscious thought, “Of course I’ll come.”
The bleak amber of his eyes warmed slightly at that.
Lily hesitated, moving past him to find her bag, the one she kept packed for emergencies, all the things she knew to try and the things she hoped she wouldn’t have to, and touched his shoulder briefly. His arm was solid and well-muscled, even through the damp velvet and gilt threads; for no reason at all, her hand wanted to linger, to curl closer around the muscle beneath the fabric.
The Bastard, rather astonishin
gly, didn’t move away. Only looked down at her, eyes a bit confused, as if he’d not realized himself how much he wanted to be touched.
Lily moved the hand. Quickly. “I don’t know what I can do.” And then, seeing his expression, unable to not try to help, “I need to know more. About what happened. Why you think it’s magical. Anything you can tell me.”
He nodded, accepting this. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
* * * *
They arrived at the palace in what had to be record time, despite the constant drizzle and the cling of mud. By then she knew precisely as much as anyone knew about the king’s condition: he had been hunting in the woods, his horse had been seen suddenly running terrified and riderless, and two of his courtiers had stumbled upon him a moment later, standing still and gazing at nothing like a man possessed. They had thought they’d seen something moving away in the bushes as they ran up to him, but no one could say what that something might have been.
They’d brought the king back to the palace, his fever already beginning, and called for the best doctors in the kingdom.
That’d been five days ago.
And all the doctors, one by one, had shaken their heads, and the young king continued to fall deeper into feverish dreams, his periods of lucidity fading. Medical skill had failed; whispers of hostile magic, long feared in the intricate circles of power at Court, had been revived.
William, not quite believing the rumors but willing to leave no stone unturned, had gone to find the best-known of the magicians, sorceresses, and hedge-witches in the kingdom. Lily supposed that she should be flattered by that, but the truth was that real magicians were rare these days. No one currently practicing had even a tenth of Lorre’s skill; the Grand Sorceress Liliana, as his last pupil, had only acquired her status by default, since he had vanished without a trace just under a year ago.
For the first time in a long time, though, she wished for his presence. Not for herself, but because Lorre could have fought fire with fire; she could only do the best she could with her small embers.
In the palace’s corridors, the Bastard brushed past the startled courtiers as if they were so many chickens; they scattered in his wake, murmuring as he passed. Lily tried to keep up, trailing along behind him, self-conscious despite her hastily reassembled facade of blonde curls, smooth skin, and magician-appropriate jeweled gown. She suspected that they could see through it all, despite knowing they couldn’t.
She wondered bleakly how many of them feared her, and how many of them considered her beneath their notice, a sorceress who lived out in the wild in a leaking cottage and found lost pigs for farmer’s children.
The older men and women feared her more, but that was only to be expected. They remembered Lorre.
William, still damp from the rain and ignoring all the hangers-on and curious watchers in the antechamber, walked directly into his brother’s bedchamber and sat down on the bed. Lily, ill at ease in a room where each chair was probably worth more than her cottage, hovered behind him, shifting from foot to foot, and clutched Merry protectively. The gazes of Court and politics and politicians, some coolly dismissive, some apprehensive, swept over them both.
“Henry.” William’s voice was surprisingly gentle. Lily couldn’t see his expression from her vantage point, but the tone reminded her of the way she soothed Merry, when the baby was fractious. “Henry, are you awake?”
“Will?” The king opened his eyes, struggling to sit up. Lily caught a glimpse of his face; she thought, surprising herself, that they did look alike, for all the rumors about their differences. Henry’s face was softer, more rounded, puppy-brown eyes brightened by fever, but despite that there was no mistaking the relation. “I missed you.”
“I know. I brought someone to help you.” He looked up, waved vaguely at Lily. “She’s a magician, Henry. A good one.” Lily wondered whether he meant good in terms of her skill, or her intentions. She hoped the latter, because at least she could promise that.
The king frowned, just a little. “The magician, Will. His eyes hurt.”
Delirious, Lily thought. Not a good sign.
She also heard the pause before William answered, the effort at control evident in his voice. “Not this one, Henry. I promise. She won’t hurt you.”
“The dark,” the king said, and closed his eyes. Lily, hurting for him, moved up to the bed and touched his cheek; his skin burned her fingertips. She said, to his half-brother, “I need space to work. And a room for Merry. And a place for us to sleep.”
William nodded, and sent several servants scurrying in various directions. To the mass of Court finery occupying the outer chamber, hovering and watching, he simply said, “Leave.” Most of them melted away. When a few showed signs of hesitating, he added, “Now.” The room emptied in moments.
“Nice trick,” Lily murmured under her breath, hands already busy pulling herbs out of her bag. She hadn’t expected the Bastard to hear her, but he did.
“They all believe I’ll kill them if they get in my way,” he said matter-of-factly, “it’s useful,” and stepped out of the way of servants returning with furniture—a crib, a bed, extra blankets. “Merry,” he added thoughtfully, and she knew he was wondering about her, a sorceress with a child. “It’s an unusual name.”
“It’s short for Merlyn.”
“The falcon.” He watched her settle the object of discussion into the crib. “Interesting choice.”
“Lorre named her.”
His eyebrows went up. “Lorre did.”
“Her father.”
“Ah.” His voice stayed noncommittal, but a slight tightening around his mouth spoke volumes. Watching, Lily guessed, “You knew Lorre.”
“Not really.” William almost smiled, a stray and startling bit of rueful confession. “You’d remember this better than I would, if you knew him better.” There were several ways he might’ve said that last line; it landed deliberately clean, without an edge. “He never liked me much. Or our family in general, I suspect. He used to come to Court when we were younger—he’d rant at our father for hours about how the Goddess-worship cults were corrupting the people, how no one respected the power of magic anymore. My father, loyal church supporter that he was, finally banished him from the royal presence, and Lorre got mad and kept the palace trapped in perpetual night for three days.”
“That sounds like him.”
“I always had the feeling that he was really angry because no one respected him and his power anymore.”
That, Lily thought, sounded even more like Lorre. She did not know how to answer, because any answer might press new weight into old bruises, both hers and his.
Astonished, she thought: I’m thinking about him. William. And the way he understands history, and pain.
She went back to her bag, found willowbark and comfrey leaves, crumbled them into water, watched the young king’s flushed, strained face.
William said softly, “Henry tried to like him anyway. But Henry liked—likes—everyone. I—” He stopped there, and finished, “Can you help him?”
“I don’t know,” Lily admitted, honest in turn. “I’ll try.”
* * * *
She worked steadily through the day, as the sun burned lower in the sky above them, as shadows waxed and waned outside the palace gates. Pounding and straining herbs until her hands ached, holding the king’s weakening body, sponging him with cold cloths, trying to bring down the fever. Whispering all the charms she knew, little spells and cantrips, pouring herself into the words, trying to tell them, heal. Make right what is wrong here.
William was there for most of the day, though not all of it. He flickered in and out of the room, a noiseless shadow with his own purposes; she never noticed his movements until she looked up to see him gone, or to see him there, holding water to his half-brother’s lips, taking mortar and pestle from her hands when she grew too tired, or merely standing by the bed in silence. Once or twice she caught him checking on Merry, bringing toys or anothe
r blanket.
Lily, uncertain when the Bastard seemed to have adopted her baby, wanted to be suspicious; she somehow couldn’t be. She’d heard the tenderness in William’s voice, speaking to his younger brother. She believed it was real, though she did not quite know how this fit with his reputation; she did not know why no one else had seen it, nor why he’d let her be a witness.
She did not know where he went, when he was gone. She didn’t ask—none of her business; her business was to save the king—though several times those jewel-like eyes were hard and glittering with frustration when he returned.
The third time this happened, Lily put her hand on his arm, a fleeting touch as he turned to go. She hadn’t quite meant to—it’d been an impulse—and she stared at bitten fingernails under her own glamor, over his midnight-velvet sleeve.
But William regarded her with that hint of honest emotion again, that same flicker of rueful human awkwardness, and said, “Most people don’t try to touch me, and if they do they’re offering to do me favors or to be my next conquest in the bedroom.”
Lily glared at him, and took her hand away. “You’re not terribly concerned about impressing me, are you.”
“No.” But some of the tension had eased out of his face, his voice, nonetheless. “I don’t often need to try.”
“Because you’re so very naturally impressive, yes.” She handed over her own half-drunk peppermint tea. “Here.”
“I’m trying to compliment you,” William said, “and you’re giving me tea. And sarcasm.”
“You are not, and you could use it. Both.”
“I could, and I am.” He handed back the teacup, mostly empty. “I’ll admit I’m better at intimidation than flattery, but in this case I meant it.”
“I think I’ve lost track of the part that was meant as a compliment,” Lily observed, and finished the last sip of tea and then realized halfway through that sip that she’d just put her lips exactly where his had been.
The tingle came from the sharpness of unsweetened mint. Had to.
She almost managed not to cough. Didn’t succeed. William inquired, annoyingly solicitous regarding her plight, “More tea?”
