Witch-born

by A. J. Maguire

  "He'll hurt you in the end."

  "You don't think I know that?" She recognized the defensive tone in her voice. She did know that, for the most part. Even with the intense attraction from her magic, she still had use of her senses. "He came to Delgora hunting me, Bryva. I'm not blind. At the moment he seems genuinely intent on helping us, though. Something I can't refuse."

  "Won't refuse."

  "Both."

  "Nessa, you're not like me." Bryva glanced at the closed door and her voice lowered; mellow and quiet and holding real concern, so Elsie paid attention to it. "When it comes time you will have to choose a Consort. Witch-Born marry for politics, not affection. You don't have the luxury to fall in love with him."

  "Correction," Elsie smiled, wicked and unrepentant, "I just don't have the time to fall in love with him. He is Witch-Born and a very real prospect for a Consort."

  "And what if he doesn't want to be a Consort?"

  Someone called her name from a great distance, and she had the sudden sensation that someone had grabbed hold of her shoulder. With a startled gasp she turned back around, expecting to see Artimus or a Bedim Knight or someone, but all that greeted her was the empty study.

  Bryva came to her side with her sword half-drawn, "What is it?"

  She heard the voice again, calling her name, only this time it was followed by a sudden and sharp pain in her left temple. "Fates! Someone is summoning me."

  "Summoning you?"

  "Keep Leona out of the library," Elsie hurried through the door as the pain began to morph into nausea. Whoever was calling her was being persistent.

  Nearly blind with the throb in her temples she entered the library, closed and locked the door behind her, and stumbled in. A large mahogany desk sat just to the left of a lit fireplace. It was ostentatious enough to take up nearly the full length of the northern wall and polished to a high sheen that reflected the warmth of the flames.

  Her hands shook as she pulled open the third drawer on the right side, grabbing the bag of salt and candles that were stored there. Although she didn't need the salt circle and candles to summon her magic she knew better than to answer this call without some means of protection. Without the salt circle anyone would be able to see her, even an Untalented. It took too long to build the circle, her hands kept knocking over the candles, but she did finally finish and collapse into the center. The candles all lit at once when she brought in her first breath.

  "I am Elsie Varene Delgora. Who calls me?"

  The chaotic whirl of salt and flame came to life with dizzying speed. Elsie could not remember a time when her Talent had been so effective. And then the circle paused, all flame and particles frozen in midair as Father Schroder appeared before her. He had a profuse amount of sweat on his brow and he appeared to be struggling to keep himself upright.

  "Father?" Elsie straightened in her circle.

  "Elsie, my dear, I am so glad you responded."

  She knew he was lying. It was in the remorseful glint to his eyes.

  "I would never miss speaking with you, Father."

  "Oh, yes, well. I suppose I am your favorite Archive." He glanced to his left as though someone were speaking to him from outside the circle.

  Something knotted in the pit of her stomach.

  Artimus, she thought and then she knew better. Artimus would have contacted her on his own, he wouldn't have gone through the Archive. This had to be Reonne, which meant she had infiltrated the Sanctuary. But that was impossible. The Bedim would have killed her.

  "The reason I am calling," Schroder grimaced and held his side in pain.

  "Are you all right, Father?" She knew he wasn't, she could see the seep of blood through his robes but she had to ask.

  "I'm fine, I'm fine ... tweaked my side a bit is all," he took a few moments to gather his breath again. "The ... reason I am calling is in regards to your list."

  "My list?" Elsie blinked in confusion. "What list?"

  "Your list of names ... of those who support the Heir Apparent," he seemed to find a medium for dealing with the pain because he met her eyes.

  The knot in her stomach twisted.

  "Why are you searching for it?"

  "I'm an Archive ... I need to re-record it."

  She was thinking as fast as she could and yet there was no denying the inevitable. She was miles away and unable to protect him. Reonne - likely with the aid of that damned Dellidus - was there in her stead. Father Schroder knew there was no list. Anyone who supported her was kept only in her memory. They had both agreed to this tactic because they wanted to protect the people. Still, if she told him that then Reonne would hear and the man was as good as dead.

  "I ... " Elsie paused as an idea struck her. "I parlayed with Baldemar Delgora. He has kept it under a rock near Witch-Eater Lake."

  Schroder's eyebrow hiked at her announcement, and he glanced to his left again. When he looked back at her there was painful but partly amused smile on his face. "You never could make things easy, could you?"

  Part of her knew what he meant. He thought she should have just spoken the truth and gotten it over with. Reonne would have killed him when he proved to be of no use, and it would have ended there. But for the life of her she could not agree to such a thing. Schroder was more than an Archive, he was a friend. They'd spent countless hours going over history both for the Bedim and for the Noble Society. He was the only reason she had learned what had occurred at Witch-Eater Lake all those years ago. Together they had managed to discover Reonne's ultimate plan.

  "It just seemed safer," Elsie felt her heart break as he nodded and the circles were dropped. Exhausted, she lay down in the middle of the circle and prayed, "Fates, let that have been the right thing to do."

  ***

  "Gremor tells me you have a new Skirt," Rorant said as he unfastened his cape and tossed it to the waiting manservant. With easy command he strode through the Orzebet house, not an iota of self-consciousness visible in the man. Dorian admired and hated that about him. No matter how poised he tried to be, he could never match the self-assured pride of his father.

  "She's not just a Skirt," Dorian followed his father into a private study.

  "Close the door, Saldorian," Rorant commanded and he obeyed without question. Then, when the door was closed, "Now come over here and let me get a look at you."

  With a sigh, he did as he was told, noticing his father had filled two glasses of brandy in the time it took for him to cross the room. Rorant held one out for him and nodded, "Well at least you're healthy, even if you are a bit better dressed than I remember."

  Dorian chuckled and took the glass, "My 'Skirt,' as Gremor would call her is all to blame for that."

  "The one who is not just a 'Skirt'," his father eyed him with a scrutiny that nearly made him squirm. "I've never seen you move that fast before, son."

  "I'm sorry?" He took a sip of the brandy as they made their way to the two lounging chairs in the center of the room.

  "Just now, at Fridgets," Rorant groaned a little as he sat down. "You moved faster than I have ever seen you go. I thought that might have been some residual effect from Lorelei but ... "

  "But what?"

  "It's been how many years, Dorian? What has changed that would make you come back to us?"

  "I'm not sure, Father. What does Gremor think?"

  Rorant laughed; a rich and full sound that immediately made Dorian heartsick for their years apart. Amid all of the animosity with his brothers and his stepfather there had always been Rorant Orzebet, his true father, to pull him out of it. Just as he had at Fridgets, ordering the cessation of battle with only one word and a powerful shove of Talent.

  "Gremor thinks you are completely smitten with this Untalented woman and that you have decided never to return to the Peerage," he said.

  "Yet here I am, smack in the middle of the Peerage," Dorian sipped the brandy and took a deep breath. "A bit contradictory, don't you think?"

  "Indeed," Rorant nodded. "Unless
your Skirt isn't Untalented."

  "She's a seamstress, Father."

  Dorian watched him over his glass and they met eyes. There was no question that his father knew something was going on. The old man was too sharp by half, too experienced in life to merely accept his words at face value. He also knew that if they continued to talk about Elsie his father would puzzle through the situation and find the right answers. There was a reason the Noble Council had put Rorant Orzebet in charge of the Warders after all. Dorian decided on a distraction tactic and changed the subject.

  "Why are you in Lorant, Father? I thought your duties would keep you away from Winter Tournament."

  "Very well, if you insist on keeping your secrets ... " Rorant swirled his glass, amber light reflecting around the floor as he did so. "I've been tracking an illegal arms dealer."

  Dorian felt his magic react to the word "illegal", which caused a physical reaction and his fingers tightened on his glass.

  Elsie.

  But was she the seller or the buyer?

  He realized of a sudden that he was holding his breath. Careful to let it out slow, trying not to alert his father, Dorian cursed the day he'd met her. Of all the laws to break she would choose the one that carried the death sentence. His father watched him through half-lidded eyes, leisurely sipping his drink. There was no doubt in Dorian's mind that he'd noticed the reaction.

  "I've made a bargain with the dealer," Rorant said. "He's agreed to set up the buyer. Some Grizzato person. Does the name mean anything to you?"

  Dorian's eye twitched. Damn her beautiful hide. In thirty years of life he'd never once lied to his father. And now he had to. "Should it?" he asked.

  "Gremor tells me you have recently been to Delgora," Rorant rested his glass on the arm of his chair. "The name was very familiar to your servant, though when I questioned him on the matter he continued to evade me, which is very strange for Gremor."

  Good for Gremor, Dorian thought.

  "As it happens I was in Delgora. I found it pleasant but irritating all at once. The humidity takes some getting used to."

  "Saldorian," Rorant tapped his glass twice with one finger, a sign that his temper was rising. "These are dangerous games. I need to know the truth. I can't protect you in this matter."

  "I'm not looking for your protection, Father."

  It was a long while before the man spoke again. Dorian waited in silence, meeting his father's unhappy and searching gaze with as much nonchalance as he could muster. Outside of the large room there was no sound, telling him that House Orzebet was mostly unoccupied. This was normal given the time of day. More than likely Alois was at the Warder's office, filling forms testifying to the incident in Fridgets. Lady Orzebet refused to go to Tournament, it was too nerve-wracking for her.

  "Bartholomew is right, Son. Fight against your brothers and they will be silenced."

  The change in conversation was typical for his father. Whenever things started getting personal, or there was a stalemate in front of him, he would alter the discourse to something else. Dorian smiled and felt a swell of gratitude for having been able to see him again. Bedim be damned, he deserved this moment.

  "Then I imagine I shall have to fight them," Dorian laid his head back against the plush chair. "Have you got any pointers for me?"

  "Choose your partner very carefully. Those two may not be the most Talented but together they are brutally fast."

  "Winslow then, he's always been swift."

  "And make your Skirt attend the function."

  "Father," Dorian grunted a warning. "She's not a Skirt."

  Rorant gave him an irreverent grin, "Of course not."

  Dorian laughed and stood up, setting his empty glass on the nearest table. "I missed you, Old Man."

  "Saldorian."

  He paused and turned to look at Rorant again. It took a long moment for his father to choose his words, and then Dorian had to smother a dry laugh when he finally did speak; "I'm placing my bets on you and Winslow, so try not to lose."

  With a low, humble bow he left Orzebet House, making certain not to cross paths with any of the servants as he did so. It wasn't that he was afraid of an assassination attempt, just that he preferred not to have anything to do with the Orzebet's beyond speaking to his father. His step-mother Lady Elyria had made certain he knew her disdain for his existence at a young age. She wasn't cruel or anything, she just fell into a melancholy whenever his name was mentioned and moaned about the sins of his father. Combined with the seething hatred of his stepbrother, Dorian had decided long before Lorelei's death that he would not bother with the lot of them.

  Snow drifted light and easy, peppering against his jacket and swirling in the light of several lampposts. He felt it on his head and brushing against his cheeks as he made the circular trek back to the Delgora House. There were several people milling about, making their way to their respective homes for the evening. An anticipatory feeling seemed to permeate the scene and Dorian smiled in spite of himself. He could remember when there was nothing as exciting as the night before Winter Tournament.

  The combat grounds lay empty and untouched, promising excitement and hope and the display of talent for both the Noble Knights and the Hemic Knights. The grounds he was passing were for the Hemic Knights, smaller and square because the two Untalented competitors would not need as much space to swing their swords around. Dorian had never really paid much attention to the Hemic Circuit. He'd been too engaged with the Noble Tournament, fighting alongside Artimus or Winslow or Bartholomew, to really care.

  What he did know was that every Noble House made a pretty penny during Winter Tournament. The Hemic's could not heal themselves so the Talented charged for their services. Now that he thought about it, Dorian should have tried that once or twice himself. There were several winters when he hadn't known where he would get his next meal, let alone have a place to stay.

  "Do not turn around," a quiet voice said from behind him.

  Dorian froze, his hand locating the butt of his pistol by instinct.

  "You are a lucky man, Saldorian Feverrette. A month ago there were no less than three contracts for your life and yet today, there are none. However did you manage that, Milord?"

  "I haven't a clue." It wasn't a complete lie since Dorian didn't know how Elsie had managed the feat, but he did know she was behind it. Given the state of events in Fridgets between himself and his two brothers, Dorian knew without a doubt that she could not have reversed their feelings for him, which meant she'd had to find the original copies somehow.

  "Lying to me is unwise."

  "Telling you the truth is impossible." Dorian spun around, ready to fight. Only the man had turned as well and was walking away. "You're not going to kill me?"

  The man half-turned, displaying a sharp, bent nose and high cheekbones. The moonlight made him a sallow color, but Dorian was still able to make out a scar running from the corner of his smirking mouth down under the man's chin.

  "There's no money in killing you, Feverrette."

  Then he walked away, looking every bit as noble as the rest of the society that wandered between houses. Dorian watched him for a moment before turning and hurrying the opposite direction. The Fates only knew what Elsie had done in order to reverse his contracts. He had a feeling she owed a substantial debt and he wanted to know exactly what the terms were for his freedom.

  Only when he got to Delgora House and searched through the study just beside his room she wasn't there. Realizing it was not proper for a woman to reside on the same floor as a man he assumed she had taken to the Library and went to investigate. The door to the library was not only locked but guarded. The servant girl Bryva stood there, one arm braced against the side of the doorway as an added barrier to the room.

  She'd been expecting him, which proved that his attempts at keeping his relations with Elsie secret had failed in some aspect. She was also as cold as the weather outside, absolutely unruffled by both his position as a young Lord and his in
herent Talent. Bryva stood there in her night robes and for a brief instant Dorian appreciated the sight because, being honest with himself, he could not ignore beauty when it was before him.

  Her sleeves were cuffed, allowing full view of her toned forearms. Dorian imagined she was showing that part of her as a warning, reminding him that she might be a servant but she was also every bit as capable of defending herself as he was.

  "I need to speak with Nessa for a moment," he said with a smile that he had hoped would disarm her.

  "She had a long evening finishing Lady Leona's gown for tomorrow. She is sleeping and I will not allow her to be disturbed tonight."

  "It will only take a moment."

  "It will not take place tonight, My Lord. I bid you good night." There was an irritation in her voice that proved she was angry about something else and not necessarily his attempts to visit her so-called sister.

  "Have I offended you in some manner?"

  "Not yet, but I'm sure you will."

  "Do you always expect the worst in people?" Dorian was getting annoyed now.

  "No, not always," Bryva responded with a glare. "Given your history, however, I must assume ... "

  "My history?"

  "Gremor told me about your prolific experience with 'Skirts' as he called them," Bryva lowered her arm and lifted her chin. "Nessa will not be another name to add to your list."

  "Gremor is greatly exaggerating. He does that from time to time." He made a mental note to throttle his manservant.

  "I know your type. Hell, sometimes I am your type." Bryva stepped forward, which forced him to step back. "But Nessa isn't like me. With everything that she's been through and everything she's about to go through, I think we both know its best that she not be put through this sort of heartache."

  Dorian blinked at the woman, "I wouldn't do anything to harm her."

  "Probably not on purpose, but you'll end up hurting her anyway." She turned to leave but stopped. "There is one other thing I need to say."

  "By all means," Dorian flexed his fists and presented her with a false and angry smile. "I would not dream of stopping you."