Witch-born

by A. J. Maguire

  He locked eyes with Winslow and the man gave them all a broad, helpless smile before laughing and grabbing Dorian into a full, back-slapping embrace. In spite of his desires to remain hidden from the ton of society, Dorian found himself chuckling and enjoying the presence of his two oldest friends. Bartholomew shoved Winslow aside to take his own half-hug-half-hand-shake with another laugh.

  "Maiden, Mother and Crone!" Winslow laughed again, "Your brothers are going to piss themselves when they see you!"

  "Watch your manners, Winifred," Bartholomew had taken his hat off, revealing meshed, orange-blonde hair as he tucked the garment under his arm and gave Leona a polite bow. "We appear to have feminine company somewhere beneath these furs."

  Leona's laugh was nervous, barely squeaking out from under her coat. Dorian smiled, remembering that the Lady might have a stately title but she had no previous dealings with the Noble Witch-Born. With a practiced move he stationed himself at her side and began the necessary introductions.

  "Lady Leona, these two rapscallions are Winslow Agoston and Bartholomew Kelemen," he indicated each with a refined gesture, "We had the pleasure of attending school together."

  Leona curtsied to them both; the tremble of her furs the only indication of her frozen state. "It is an honor to meet you," she said. "Such important names, Lord Feverrette, I believe I have heard nothing but good report about both the Agoston house and the Kelemen house."

  "Oh?" Winslow's interest was perked, as was evident in the curious smile he gave to Leona. "Where do you hail from that such reports would be sent?"

  "Delgora, my lord."

  "That is quite a ways from here, good Lady." Bartholomew sent a look Dorian's direction that was promptly ignored.

  Bartholomew was, and always had been, far better informed on the political front than Winslow. This was due largely to the fact that Winslow found politics and society boring for eight months of the year. Winter Tournament was the only thing that really interested the man. Or at least that was how things used to be. Dorian imagined his friend must have done a bit of growing up in the years he'd been away.

  Thirteen years and Winslow had still managed to recognize him with a glance. Dorian did an inward kick to himself. He'd been deluding himself by thinking he could manage four months in the middle of Lorant - the center of society - without being noticed. Especially during the largest gathering of the year, he thought with a growing headache.

  By the Fates! Why had he agreed to this?

  There was a flash in his mind. The warmth of Elsie's stateroom, her bared skin glowing with the stream of evening light through the window, her hair was supple and dark as night against his chest.

  "Am I to assume the young lady beside you is your companion for the trip?" Bartholomew's attention moved to Elsie, which brought Dorian back to the present.

  Leona's voice wavered with a shiver of cold, "Yes, Milord. This is Nessa Gelgova. I like to call her my seamstress, but she has her freedom."

  Winslow cut in, moving too close to Elsie for Dorian's comfort. He reached out and grabbed Elsie's gloved hand, lifting it to his mouth in an almost scandalous but mostly polite gesture and kissing her knuckles. "A pleasure, Miss Gelgova," he said.

  Dorian spotted the wink he sent to her and kept himself from throttling his friend. Winslow was harmless, he knew; a brazen scoundrel, but harmless just the same. No doubt the man was prodding at the situation, trying to investigate the level of involvement that Dorian had between the two women. The act was futile, of course. Dorian would not fall prey to such a blatant attempt at goading him.

  "Shall we make our way to Delgora House?" Leona asked.

  "Oh, of course!" Bartholomew tisked at them all in mock disapproval, "Whatever were we thinking, keeping such beauties exposed to the cold air for so long? Really now, Saldorian, you should have clouted us on the head sooner."

  "I'll clout you later," Dorian responded, taking Leona's arm and beginning the walk to Delgora House.

  From the corner of his eye he spotted Winslow proffering an arm to Elsie and set his teeth together. She accepted the arm, albeit reluctantly, and did no more than stare ahead of her as they began the trek. Because most women fell to Winslow's charm, this act of disinterest only spurred the man to further the conversation. Dorian wished he'd taken the time to warn Elsie about his friends. Not that he'd intended to see them, but the preventative measure would have been better than this surprise meeting.

  "You are a seamstress?" Winslow asked from behind him.

  "Oh, she is the best seamstress," Leona answered for her. "I'd wager my purse that none could match her skill."

  "A heavy wager," Bartholomew whistled. "I might have to petition the girl to have something made just to see her ability."

  "You won't have to," Leona continued to chatter and Dorian suddenly realized that it was a defense mechanism of sorts. When the girl was nervous, she spoke about anything and everything. "She spent almost the entire journey here working on something for Lord Feverrette. Her skill will be quite evident."

  The whole of Lorant was built in a circle surrounding the great fortress and tournament grounds. Each household had a manor home here, a place to stay during the months of Winter Tournament. Separated by only one street, the houses rose tall and proud, echoing the ages they had stood there. Across the street were the Outer Tournament grounds where Hemic Knights and Untalented competed. It was sectioned off into several small arenas, all of them surrounded by merchant tents and spectator seats. Directly at the center was the main arena, where semi-finals and final rounds would be held at the end of the Tournament.

  Each manor home had a small path leading to the front door but no outer signs of which Household resided there. Unless you were a part of the House or an invited member of society there was really no reason to know who lived where. Dorian corrected himself - unless you were a gossiping twit who watched which person visited which house. He had no doubts that his presence in the Delgora Household would spread through the political society before the end of the day.

  The Delgora House was located just three spaces to the left of Fortress Lorant. From the pathway leading up to the house proper Dorian could see the outer gate of the fortress open wide, unguarded, with several people milling to and fro. The general conversation around him had gone from tailoring to milliners to the current fashion. Dorian had no time or patience for inanity anymore. Politics he would rifle through, expenses he would not. So he remained silent on the trek to the House.

  Several of the trunks had already made their way to the house and were sitting just to the side of the front doors as they made their way up. A woman, who Dorian imagined to be the house maid, opened the door for them and stepped aside. Leona led the way, her boots making a pleasant snap against the wooden floor as she bustled from the entryway to the front room, all the while unfastening and discarding her large furred coat onto the closest chair.

  A roaring fire greeted them from its place in the western wall, casting the room in a golden light that shone off polished brass fixtures in the walls. The brass was attached to general candelabra that blended nicely against the floral patterned walls. It was obvious that there hadn't been a male present in the house for many years. The feminine touch had not only found its way into the richly furnished room, it had run rampant. There were three short couches, all with the same pansy-pattern, creating a half-circle around the fireplace.

  The northernmost wall had a large window dead center that was nearly the entire height of the wall itself. It came to a dramatic point at the top and had heavy maroon draperies that were pulled back to allow the light in. In his perspective, the window was the only becoming feature of the room since it gave a nice view of the tournament grounds and was not festooned with floral.

  Dorian stepped toward it, listening as his friends made their way into the room as well. There was no escaping them, he knew. Winslow and Bart would both wait until he had made himself comfortable before ambushing him with questions abou
t where he had been, what he was doing, if he knew what Society had been saying about him. All of which he really did not want to get into.

  Still.

  He missed comradery.

  "We really should let them get settled, Winslow," Bart said from the doorway. "They did only just arrive."

  "I'm afraid to let Sal out of my sights," Winslow said. "The twit might run away."

  "Doubtful, Winslow," Bartholomew sent a look toward Dorian that made him smile. "This is Winter Tournament, after all. The eyes of all Society are here. He cannot hide."

  "Come to Fridgets when you're settled, Sal." Winslow instructed. "We'll be waiting there all day if we have to."

  "Dorian."

  "I'm sorry?" Winslow paused, obviously confused.

  "I would prefer if you called me Dorian from now on, Winslow."

  The room fell quiet for a moment. Leona, who had no idea of the undertones of the conversation, stood near the fire with a pleasant and brave smile, looking small and out of place. Bartholomew and Winslow exchanged glances before both looked his direction again. For all his bravado, Dorian could not manufacture a smile for them.

  "It has just ... " he paused when Elsie entered the room.

  She seemed to sense the charge in the air and hesitated at the doorway.

  "It has been too long since I have gone by that nickname," Dorian said.

  "Perfectly understandable, Dorian," Bart picked up the conversation again. The man was immune to social awkwardness. He could negotiate any situation with a silkiness that Dorian had often envied. "Come, Winslow. We should get ourselves out of their way."

  "Fridgets," Winslow repeated before turning to Leona and bowing. "If you would excuse us, Milady."

  Leona curtsied and smiled. "It was a pleasure to meet you both, Lord Kelemen ... Lord Agoston."

  They left, slipping past Elsie with polite smiles but no more than a small amount of curiosity about her person. Dorian relaxed a bit and wondered how long it would be until they saw past her guise of servitude. Leona heard the front door close and smiled over at him.

  "My Lord, what perfectly amiable friends you have," she said.

  "It has been far too long since I have seen them, Milady. I fear I will need to hurry myself along so that I can meet them." Dorian turned his attention to Elsie. "I do wonder, Miss Gelgova, is there a jacket or something that you have ready for me?"

  "Of course, Milord," Elsie glanced at Leona. "If Your Ladyship does not mind my departure?"

  "Not at all! I'm starving and exhausted all at once. I think I'm in for the night," Leona smiled and curtsied to him. "I hope you have a pleasant evening, Lord Feverrette."

  Dorian bowed to the lady, and she departed, leaving Elsie to lead him through the house. Elsie took a deep breath and turned, showing him through the main floor of the house. Either because it was polite procedure or because she was delaying their privacy, she gave him the tour. The front vestibule led to the main hallway, which separated in three directions - one to the front sitting room that they had first entered, one to the direct left of the doorway that led to the private library and then off down the main hall until they reached the staircase.

  Just behind the staircase was the kitchen, though the servants preferred if he stayed out of there and allowed them to do their job. Elsie led him up the stairs and onto the second floor, where she stopped.

  "Lady Leona's rooms are on the top floor, Milord. Yours are here," she indicated the doors to the left of the staircase. Then she moved to the right and entered a private study adjoining his apartments. "Lady Leona understood that you were not given proper time to address living arrangements before we set off for Tournament."

  Dorian followed her into the room and paused. Her sewing trunks were set against the southern wall. He'd been so distracted on the boat that he hadn't considered what he would need to do as soon as they docked. These were her rooms.

  "I am grateful for the hospitality," he said. "But it would be unseemly for me to remain here. I will find appropriate lodging somewhere in town."

  "If you feel the need, sir." Elsie moved to one of the trunks and opened it, fishing around until she had pulled out a navy-blue jacket with silver buttons. She turned to face him, lifting the garment with a polite smile.

  Dorian watched her, lost for a moment with the distant look on her face. It was as though she were far removed from him even though she stood before him. Her mind was occupied with something else, and he began to feel unease settle in the pit of his stomach. She'd said she needed to be at Winter Tournament but never explained why. If he was honest with himself Dorian hadn't much cared. Their visits on the ship had been full of physical need and spurred by their Magic.

  "Have I done something to offend you?" he asked, though he knew he hadn't.

  "Not at all, Milord."

  He closed the door and moved to stand in front of her. "Then why the sudden coldness?"

  Elsie sighed, lowering the jacket. "I saw the look on your face when your friends spotted you. I have caused you trouble."

  "I told you, I live with trouble."

  "But I would prefer if I were not part of the trouble." She pressed the jacket in his hands. "You'll want to wear something lighter under it."

  Their hands brushed, and her body stilled. He wanted to kiss her again. In fact, the need was so palpable that he leaned forward, forgetting for a moment where they were. Stopping himself a moment before it was too late, he flashed her a smile, "I would like to pay you for your hard work."

  "Nonsense. It would be wrong of me to accept payment from you."

  "Wrong of you?"

  "Lady Leona already bought all of the materials. I have plenty left over to work with."

  "But your time and effort deserve to be paid."

  "My lord," there was steel to her voice now. "I will not accept payment from you."

  He wasn't certain why, but he wanted a bit of a fight. "You'll accept payment from me," he said, "Or you'll tell me why it is you had to be here in the first place."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  He lowered his voice. "Why am I here, Nessa?"

  Her mouth opened and closed, working hard to find something to say. At last she composed herself, a new look to her person that frightened him even more. "My Lord, for your protection I must ask that you desist this line of questioning."

  "I don't need your protection."

  "Perhaps not bodily," Elsie met his gaze, unwavering. "But your good name?"

  He chuckled. "You're working under the assumption that I have a good name to protect."

  She gripped his forearm then, stepped close. Her magic licked up his arm, met with his own. Dorian had never known his Talent to react on mere touch before. Not even with Lorelei. He'd noticed it first on the boat, around the third encounter he'd had with Elsie. Every time she touched him there was a jolt through his body - and not just the sudden force of desire that seemed ever-ready for contact with her. It was almost natural, as though it was meant to be that way all along.

  "Dorian, please, trust me. You do not want to know."

  "Fates," he felt as though he were drowning in her. Then reality struck him, and he blinked down at her in shock. "You're here to do something illegal."

  "Extremely illegal," she confirmed.

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  Reonne watched from the hillside as the Dellidus rampaged through the Bedim Sanctuary. There was no hiding from its rage, no escaping its violence. As skilled as the Bedim were, they were no match for years of hunger. One poor soul leapt from the battlements, bent on attacking the creature. He was caught midair, talons striking deep into the man's chest. It took only a few moments before the Knight was tossed aside, no more than an empty shell, bereft of his Talent.

  One of Reonne's most trusted Watchmen came behind the creature, decapitating the former Bedim Knight in a fluid movement that made her smile. Lifting her chin with pride she glanced at where Artimus, her newfound acquaintance, surveyed the attack beside her. H
e was not so scary in the light of day. In fact, were she not so occupied with her own plans she might have considered him handsome. He had smooth features, wavy hair, a dark sort of smile that felt synonymous with her own.

  When the way was clear, she started down the hillside, ignoring the fallen men; or the pieces of them, anyway. The Watchmen had been ordered not to let any remain intact. It was perhaps a bit overdramatic, but she wanted a point to be made for Magic. Reonne managed to keep some of her noble schooling and therefore knew that the Nobles were descendents of Magic Himself. It was a conundrum really. Magic was both physical man and a force of power. Legend told that the Fates had bound his soul to physical form out of love, unwilling to let him pass on to the After. But his power had grown, spilling out into Magnellum with a chaos that broke society down. Thus Magic made the Witch-Born race to guard the people and keep the threat of the Wild away.

  Magic left nothing to chance. He alone dictated the amount of Talent each Witch-Born received. Just before birth he would visit and make his ruling based on the soul of the unborn child. The fact that he had ruled against her having an inkling of magic was a point of contention, one that Reonne intended to flaunt in his face on the day of Ascension. Her heart fluttered at the thought of it; being able to tell Magic that an entire House of his precious nobility had been brought down by an insignificant Untalented.

  In the topmost tower of the furthest barricade Reonne found what she was looking for. It wasn't the room or the items occupying the scant two shelves lining the walls, it was a man. The Dellidus had fed a little on this one but not so much to leave him bereft of his Talent. In truth, she had been lucky to catch the Dellidus before it had bled the man dry.

  Judging by the man's solitude, his removal from the Bedim Society, Reonne was able to determine what function he played. Only Archives were kept in such a way, given their food supplies but no contact with the outside world. Such was a distraction and could make him lose the decades of information that were stored in his mind. Reonne had heard about them. She'd even seen one in the topmost tower of Fortress Delgora. As much as the profession fascinated her, she could not allow that particular Archive to live and pass on his knowledge of the Delgora family.