Witch-born

by A. J. Maguire

"The Bedim have a sanctuary in Delgora," Dorian continued to explain, no longer looking her direction. "If the Vicaress had known about the Heir Apparent still being alive then she would have set contracts out against her life before the girl had reached the age of thirteen."

  "What kind of lunatic would attempt to take over a noble house?" Bartholomew was still watching her, which would have made her uncomfortable if she hadn't been so angry with Dorian. "She cannot hope to keep Delgora for herself. Magic would not allow it."

  "Well, if the House Seat was bestowed to someone in her family then the Vicaress would still maintain power," Dorian said.

  She wanted to smother him in her cape. Shove her stockings into his throat, watch him gag until his eyes bulged and his face turned purple. The fact that she hadn't made such a move yet spoke volumes as to her restraint.

  "Fates preserve us," Bart breathed the words as though he was really praying, "that's absolutely sinister."

  "It gets worse," Dorian finally looked back at her and faltered. After a moment of what she assumed was his assessing the level of her anger he touched her knee and murmured, "It's all right. They can help us."

  "There is no 'us', Lord Feverrette," Elsie pushed his hand off her knee. "Fates! How did you survive thirteen years with Bedim chasing you?"

  "Elsie ... "

  She shot to her feet and slapped him. Full, open-palmed slapped him across the face. The sound of it startled most everyone in the room. "Nessa!" she hissed down at him. "You stubborn, arrogant, rutting bastard!"

  Dorian recovered quickly from her attack though the imprint of her hand began to make an angry mark across his left cheek. "You can trust them," he said through his teeth.

  "It appears I will have to," Elsie snapped.

  "Truly," Bartholomew took a daring step forward. "You can."

  It took her three deep breaths to gain a semblance of control. Then she turned to Bart and Winslow, "It is not that I do not believe you both to be kind hearted gentlemen. I am sure you are."

  "Then what is it?" Winslow asked.

  Elsie rounded back to Dorian, who slowly got to his feet. "You called me reckless," she said, taking another deep breath. "Yet you toss your friends into harms way without hesitation or thought. You gamble my life, my sister's life, the lives of my people on the idea that this room is secure enough to speak openly?"

  "Eh," Winslow stirred from his chair. "I can assure you that it is."

  "And that's not even the worst of it," she struck Dorian's shoulder once, hard. "You made a decision to tell these two without consulting me first. Without taking into consideration what cost it might bring to me!"

  "It is the right course of action," he said.

  She couldn't stand it any more. If she stayed in the room she would lose all control and really hurt the fool. Shoving her way to the door she left them in the sitting room, brushed past Cecil in the main hall and completely ignored the call the servant made for her to come and get her cape. Not bothering to close the house door Elsie hurried down the cobbled path and onto Tourney Street. Her feet didn't slow down until she had gotten halfway to Delgora House.

  The wind had picked up a bit, stirring the snow off the ground and whirring it back into the air. She felt it breeze against her skin, the cold biting hard enough to make her regret leaving her cape.

  ***

  Dorian stared at the door and debated the consequences of following her. She'd already hit him once. Well, twice if he counted the shove to his arm. And private time with Bart and Winslow was limited because someone else from the Agoston household could come home at any minute and he needed to fill them in. He'd anticipated that she might react badly to his sharing her identity with them but he hadn't thought she'd hit him.

  Though what he knew of her character should have pointed in that direction, he thought with a scowl.

  "That went well," Bart moved to sit on the sofa.

  Dorian grunted.

  "I imagine Sal neglected to inform the little dear that we were the two most trustworthy fellows in all of Magnellum," Winslow leaned back in his chair and peered out the window. "Blimey. Her shoulders are so stiff the snow is bouncing off them."

  "Stop staring at her shoulders," Dorian sat down again.

  Winslow turned back to the room with a wicked grin, "What should I be staring at instead?"

  "Nothing. Don't look at her at all."

  "Come now, Dorian," Winslow chuckled. "You can't have known her ... what? Three weeks or so? Has she besotted you already?"

  "Quiet, Winslow," Bart intercepted the conversation before Dorian could reply. "Tell us what is worse than an Untalented murdering that poor girl's family."

  He rubbed his face with one hand and sighed. He knew it was going to sound crazy, which was why he'd wanted Elsie there when he told them. She could identify who the Dellidus was, add credibility to his story where he knew traditional belief would mock him.

  "A Dellidus," he lowered his voice and glanced at the open doorway.

  "Now you're making fun of us," Winslow clucked his tongue in disapproval. "Really now, Dorian. Your time away from society has twisted your sense of humor."

  "I am not poking fun at you and my sense of humor has always been twisted," Dorian frowned at the doorway. She should not have left alone. Without an escort of some kind she was likely to be gawked at, perhaps even in danger given the state of animosity between himself and his brothers. "It attacked us on the road."

  "Us?" Bart asked.

  "Well, me. To be specific."

  "What exactly happened?" Bart was leaning forward in his seat now, blue eyes narrowed as he listened.

  "We were battling Artimus so we were distracted. I turned and there it was. It rushed at me so quickly I didn't even see it until it had me." Dorian rubbed his chest, remembering the feel of talons deep in his body. "Three claws in my chest and it started eating."

  "Fates," Winslow shuddered. "How did you get away?"

  "Nessa," he deliberately used her fake name and glared at the door. "Chopped its arm off. Or I think she did. The hand was still attached to me when I came to."

  "Have you spoken to your father about it?" Bart asked.

  "Not yet."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he is bound by honor to tell Lord Lorant and the council, which may or may not be detrimental to her life."

  Bart grunted, "And we're not?"

  "Neither of you are full Consorts yet," Dorian slumped into the sofa. "So you would be able to aid us in a quieter manner."

  "Damned and curses," Bart raked his hair back with a hand. "I imagine you have a plan?"

  "Not exactly, no."

  Winslow smirked, "This is Saldorian Feverrette you're talking about, Barty. He's more instinctual than strategic, remember? He came here looking for a plan."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Reonne frowned at Witch-Eater Lake from her spot just at the edge of the clearing. Father Schroder was bound and at her side, looking better now that he had some time to recover his strength. The Lake was an ominous thing, roaring with life as water churned into its depths from the falls above, rich with greenery and danger. At the shores of the Lake was a small boy. He wasn't doing anything but staring directly back at her and had been that way for the better part of an hour.

  "How is it possible that the Heir Apparent managed to parlay with the dead?" Reonne asked Schroder.

  The Archive was silent.

  "It isn't possible," Artimus said from the shadows.

  Schroder hissed for the man to be silent.

  "The ghost is as much a part of the Wild now as the Lake," Artimus sauntered up to them, giving Schroder a sneer. "Though that was quite clever on her part, it delayed your death for a bit, I think."

  "You're the one who let her in," Schroder growled at Artimus.

  "I am," Artimus turned to her. "My Lady, you've been led on a chase."

  "I was there when he contacted her. I heard her myself," Reonne watched Schroder now.

&nb
sp; "But you could not see her, am I correct?"

  "Correct."

  "Then there was another sort of communication going on, Vicaress. The Heir Apparent knows what you have done to the Sanctuary now. She'll be plotting something new." Artimus paused. "What exactly are you out here for, anyway?"

  "The list of associates that support the Heir Apparent," Reonne said.

  Artimus laughed, "You're on a fool's errand, Vicaress. There is no list. She keeps all those associations up here," he tapped his head. "A protection plan, if you understand."

  Furious with herself for listening to the old man, Reonne pulled a dagger from the sleeves of her gown and pressed it to Schroder's throat. "I imagine he is telling the truth."

  Schroder just smiled.

  The smile was meant to goad her further, she knew. She knew and she was about to slit the man's throat when a face flashed in her memory. Bryva Gelgova, she remembered. It was perfect. Naharia Gelgova's two children were playmates to Elsie Delgora. That was how the old woman had done it. All these years the Heir Apparent had been a servant in her own home, laughing at her ignorance and plotting her resurrection from the dead.

  "I see," Reonne muttered, mostly to herself. Then she turned to Schroder. "You are an Archive. You are bound to record everything you see and hear and know."

  "I am," Schroder eyed her with growing distrust.

  "More than that, you are a Bedim Archive. Contracts are made through you."

  This time Artimus answered for him. "They are."

  "Good," Reonne lowered her dagger. "Artimus, initiate the contract ritual with the Archive. I want a contract made against the life of Bryva Gelgova. Also known as Elsie Delgora."

  The Bedim Knight smiled and gave her an acquiescent nod of his head.

  ***

  Elsie winced as Bryva took a hit to the left shoulder. A second later the woman rushed at her opponent, knocking the man off his feet. The crowd rallied either in support of Bryva or her opponent as the two toppled to the ground and began a restrained sort of wrestle for dominion. The restraint was more on account of the padded armor both were required to wear for the tournament and perhaps a little exhaustion. This was the third and final round and the scores were even. If Bryva won then she would proceed to the next round.

  And Bryva needed to win.

  The arms deal was a few days away and they needed the extra cash just in case the seller raised the price. Elsie knew that the blasted man would raise the price, too. Seventeen thousand was too cheap for something as hard to get a hold of as weapons. They'd managed to stock away twenty-thousand by frugal living, but there was an ever-present sick feeling in the pit of her stomach whenever she thought of the deal. Her Talent was trying to tell her something, she just wasn't sure what it was.

  Bryva rolled over the man, paused her body mid-retreat, and shoved herself backward. Her elbow came down hard near her opponent's throat and the crowd roared its approval. Then she was back on her feet with her sword at the ready.

  "Nessa!" Dorian's voice called over the din of people.

  With a groan of irritation Elsie kept her attention on the fight. She'd managed to keep Saldorian Feverrette and his blasted friends at a civil distance, smiling politely whenever they happened by the House - and to her further aggravation Lady Caresse and Lady Leona had become fast friends, which added to the amount of visitors that came to House Delgora. Every other day the front sitting room was full to bursting. Dorian was always preoccupied with his sister when she visited, so there was a small blessing there.

  He came to stand beside her, glanced once at the tournament ring and shouted over to her, "I wondered if we could speak about my jacket?"

  "I am busy at present, Lord Feverrette."

  "Blimey, let me through!" Winslow shouted as he pushed his way to Dorian's side.

  "Good day, Lord Agoston," Elsie greeted him.

  Winslow flashed a smile at her, "Miss Gelgova." And then he was distracted by the events going on in the tournament ring.

  Bryva ducked a wide swing at her head and moved closer to her opponent. She sent two sharp jabs to the man's midsection, one hand still negotiating her sword, and then gave him a vicious hit to the soft part of his belly. He made a strange sound and stumbled back.

  "Whatever are you doing here?" Winslow asked.

  "I'm supporting my sister."

  "Sister?" Winslow gave Dorian a confused look.

  "Bryva Gelgova," Elsie explained and nodded to the center of the arena.

  Bryva's opponent fell back, and she leveled her sword at his throat. The crowd, including Elsie, cheered as the round was called. The herald stated that Gelgova would advance as Bryva trudged to the side of the ring, unfastening her helmet as she did so.

  "I'm still slow on the right side," Bryva panted as she removed her helmet. Sweat-matted blonde hair curled around her head, and she still managed to smile in an unselfconscious manner. It didn't matter that she looked frazzled and overheated, she was too elated with the victory to care.

  "Fast enough to win," Elsie grinned at her. "Well done."

  "Slow on the right side?" Winslow leaned against the tournament barrier. "Nonsense! That has to be the most impressive thing I've seen all winter."

  "There's still a lot of winter left," Bryva laughed and climbed over the barrier.

  Elsie watched the exchange with amusement. There seemed to be an instant attraction between the two, evident in the way they held eyes for just a moment too long. Winslow was a cad, she knew. A man who flirted as much as he did couldn't be known as anything else, but he was also a good man. And Fates knew her sister had a way with men as well.

  Then Bryva caught sight of Dorian and her smile faded.

  "How kind of you to come see me compete, Milord." There was flatness to her voice that made even Winslow wince.

  "I hadn't realized that you competed until just this moment," Dorian responded with a bland smile. "I had just come along to see if Nessa was finished with my apparel."

  "Exactly how long have you competed?" Winslow interceded.

  "Several years," Elsie supplied. "But forgive my manners. Lord Agoston, this is my sister Bryva Gelgova."

  Elsie watched as he took Bryva's gloved hand and pressed a kiss to the fabric. Bryva appeared conflicted for a moment, glancing between Dorian and Elsie and Winslow as she debated what to do. No doubt the woman would fight Dorian away if she had to, despite the fact that she had just competed. They met gazes and Elsie tried to communicate that everything would be fine.

  Her sister knew her very well. A moment later Bryva's shoulders relaxed and she turned her smile to Winslow. "I've been competing since I was seventeen, Milord."

  "Seventeen? So you've been fighting for three or four years now?" Winslow proffered his elbow to her and she took it.

  "Nine years," Bryva laughed. "But that was very nice of you."

  Winslow cringed. "Fates. Never call me nice."

  "What shall I call you, then?"

  "Charming," Winslow looked off at the sky and thought for a moment, "Handsome, debonair ... "

  "Debauched," Dorian muttered.

  Winslow wrinkled his nose at him. "Tush. I'm a perfect gentleman." Then he turned his full attention to Bryva, "After such exertion you must be parched. Can I entice you to a drink?"

  "I've no more rounds today," Bryva glanced at her one last time to be certain it was all right. When Elsie nodded and gave her another smile she focused in on Winslow, "Mind if I change first?"

  Elsie lost the conversation as they moved away from them, vanishing into the crowd.

  "I'm not sure that's wise," Dorian frowned after them. "Winslow can be ... well ... "

  "So can Bryva. Besides, she needs a release. I can't imagine a better diversion than your friend."

  Dorian grunted.

  The tournament grounds were coming to a close for the night. The sun was hovering near the horizon and the moon was midway across the sky, stars flecking across the backdrop in place of the snow
clouds they'd been facing all week. Dinner scents began to waft across the grounds, calling people for their supper and rest. The familiar hum of the lampposts warming to life gave an undertone for the mill of people.

  "Will you speak to me?" Dorian asked. There was a tentative look on his face when she glanced at him.

  "I can't imagine what we have to speak about, Lord Feverrette."

  Several people glanced their direction and Elsie sighed. Sometimes she forgot the second best pastime for Winter Tournament - gossip. The discussion he wanted could not be done in public and yet they could not be seen wandering off together either. Not that she really wanted to speak with him. Her sentiments had been very clear in the Agoston House. She'd never asked for his help, she'd never wanted it, and she'd certainly never wanted his friends to become inextricably involved.

  Reputations could be slandered and lives could be lost, and even Elsie had doubts as to whether or not she could rise to the position as House Witch. There were so many people she felt responsible for already, she didn't want them added to it.

  Just thinking about the way he had so blatantly betrayed her trust made her angry again.

  "Lord Feverrette," she turned to face him. "I thank you for your considerations on my behalf. I know your actions had the best of intentions however, I remind you that those actions were never requested." She took a breath and glanced at the thinning crowd. That was vague enough to the common eavesdropper but pointed enough for him to understand. "Your garments will be passed through your manservant as soon as they are completed."

  "Nessa ... " He reached for her, but she had already stepped away.

  Dipping into a polite curtsy she left him there, moving out of the tournament grounds and onto the street. It hurt to leave him. The revelation was a surprise since she hadn't been upset in the least when she'd run off from the Agoston House. Her Magic rose up against her, roiling in her stomach and making her feel ill with every step she took. Flattening a palm across her belly she continued down Tourney Street, trying to convince herself that she had done the right thing.