The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil

by Heidi Cullinan

  “He grounds to earth.”

  He tried to imagine the gray shapes, then remembered they were white, but his mind kept remembering the feel of that deep, cold earth in his hands as he had flown through the Void.

  “He grounds to earth. He is a good Lord.”

  Charles took a deep breath, reached deep into the soil, and stepped forward into his mind.

  It was beautiful. It was soft and sparkling, like a rainbow over falling water. He saw the room, the rock—he even saw the tendrils of magic around it, showing he had moved it. He saw the birds that had flown over here, the ones that had nested, and the ones that had died. He saw the rats and wild animals that roamed the rocks, looking for food. He took another step, and he saw light, so much light.

  He saw the people from his dreams, the pale people who died so many times, but in this place in his mind, they were whole, and they were dancing and laughing—oh, how they were laughing.

  “Charles. You have stepped too far.”

  He turned to Madeline, still holding to the earth, and he gasped when he saw her. She shimmered like stars, but there was something wrong with her. Her edges were pointy and jagged. He could see her forcing herself to stay stable. It hurt her to step out to the place where he was, but she was trying to save him. But she stood there like a thousand shards of broken glass forcing themselves to stay together.

  “You are not grounded,” he said.

  “I cannot,” she said. “The guides will not come to me.”

  “But I’m not grounding to a guide,” he told her.

  She frowned at him and started to speak, but then she started to shimmer too hard. She was breaking up.

  Before he could even think, he reached for her.

  “Ground with me,” he said. “Ground to the earth. You do not need a guide.”

  He watched Madeline shimmer, falter, then slowly come into focus. Charles took one step back, then another, and the visions faded. He was simply standing in the ruined solar, holding tight to Madeline’s hand.

  She was staring at him openmouthed. I’m sorry, he started to say, feeling self-conscious, but he didn’t. He just waited.

  She shook her head. “I cannot teach you. And you are more than an Apprentice.”

  “I’m barely a novice, Madeline. I need your help.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “I need my sister.”

  She said nothing for a moment. Then, with a strange look on her face, she leaned forward and kissed him near his ear, lingering with her cheek against the side of his face. Then she withdrew, reclaimed her hands, and smoothed them over her dress.

  “Let us try again,” she said.

  And they did.

  * * *

  Jonathan felt like a coiled spring.

  He tried to tell himself that Madeline would not be harmed by working with Charles. He tried to reassure himself that she would monitor herself and not go too far, that she was intelligent and competent and much more informed about these matters than he was. He tried to remember this, but he remembered too how she had thrown herself over him during the spell and how she had reached down so hard to ground that she hurt herself to cast the dome.

  With nothing else to do, he wandered the abbey, desperately looking for some way to unleash himself. When he spied Timothy in the shadows of the foyer, pacing like a caged tiger in front of the main windows, the Catalian glanced at him, and in that brief look Jonathan saw a mirror of his own frustration. And he knew in that same instant what he needed. What they both needed.

  Timothy grinned. He knew too.

  They said nothing, only moved as one down the halls together to the courtyard.

  Once there, they stripped down, Jonathan to his shirtwaist, Timothy to his bare chest. There was no verbal sparring this time, and they were both bouncing on their feet as they picked up their foils.

  Jonathan watched Timothy twitching, then seized an inspiration. “Moria’s circle,” he said and trailed the tip of his foil in echo of the shape. “What do you think?”

  Timothy flexed his shoulders, nodding. “Perfect. You in the center first.”

  Jonathan stepped forward, whipping his foil about in a way that would have made his Catalian fencing master roll her eyes, but which felt satisfyingly juvenile. He had to get rid of this rage somehow, or Timothy was going to best him without even trying.

  But when Timothy came to face him in the First Form, Jonathan found his partner to be fighting his emotions as much as he was. They struggled together through the formal moves of the exercise, contracting and expanding the circle in the way that was supposed to relieve their tensions and focus their self-discipline, a method that had kept them sane through the darkest parts of the war but was now not doing anything at all except frustrating them further. Still, they pressed through the Twelve Forms, making it all the way to the ninth before they fumbled.

  Timothy swore, and Jonathan did too. “Fuck this.” He grinned a dark, bleak grin and raised his foil above his head like a saber. “How about an old-fashioned brawl?”

  Timothy’s answer was the flash of his teeth before he launched himself pub-style at Jonathan’s middle.

  Jonathan brought down the foil and smacked the hilt against the side of Timothy’s head—or tried to. Timothy raised his own foil at the last second and beat him back, cursing at him in Catalian as he swung his foil around and made for a sloppy, dirty lunge, which very nearly caught Jonathan in the groin. He parried but spun away instead of recovering, leaping onto a pile of rubble to escape a new attack while he caught his breath and regrouped. Then he leaped and lunged at once, clipping Timothy against the ear before taking a sharp hit against his shoulder.

  They knocked each other around the courtyard, shouting and crowing and grunting as they beat and poked and shoved each other in a combination of classic moves and go-for-the-throat barroom fighting and some maneuvers they made up on the spot. They shouted with every thrust, even if there was no hit, but whenever they did hit, they almost groaned, it was such a release. They fought like demons, bruising each other, battering each other, scuffling in a way that only friends could, because only friends would know how to hurt one another so exquisitely.

  Timothy tired first, blocking too late, failing to counter; Jonathan tried to give him quarter, not wanting the game to end, but when Timothy began to flag with intensity, he ended it, knocking the Catalian into the dirt and leaping on him, pinning him to the ground as he held the edge of the foil against his neck. But before he could shout “yield,” Jonathan caught Timothy’s eyes, and he said nothing then, only remained frozen with the blade at his neck, breathing hard and fast, waiting.

  “I hate that I cannot help him,” Timothy whispered.

  Jonathan’s shoulders sagged. He lowered his foil and nodded.

  “I want to tear the fog apart.” Timothy clutched at the ground beneath him, digging his fingers into it. “I want to kick that demon in the teeth. I thought I was so strong. I survived so much, but this—” He shut his eyes and let go a shuddering breath. “I hate this country.”

  “It’s beyond Etsey now,” Jonathan said, but his voice was gruff. “I think this darkness would follow us wherever we went. The only way to be rid of it is to finish it.”

  “I swear I would if I knew how.” Timothy tightened his hand into a fist and pushed it tight against the ground. “I would do anything. Anything.”

  Jonathan crouched beside him and took his friend’s hand from the dirt, closing it tightly in his own. “We have swallowed darkness many times, mira.” He squeezed the hand in his tighter. “We will find the way through this together. As we have always done.”

  Timothy swallowed hard, his emotion moving in a great visible lump down his throat. With shining eyes, he reached up with his other hand, using Jonathan and his abdominal muscles to keep himself above the ground, his strength reverberating through Jonathan as Timothy reached up, put his hand against the back of Jonathan’s head, and pulled him forward for a swift, hard kiss. Then, in a cheeky
afterthought, he kissed him again, openmouthed and bold, drawing sharply on Jonathan’s lip before he let him go.

  “Teos, Jonathan,” he whispered.

  Jonathan closed his eyes and kissed him back, a hard, lingering press against Timothy’s forehead. Then he laughed. Timothy laughed too, then beat him once against the chest before he let go and rolled away to rise.

  Jonathan rose too, reaching for his foil. He backed away and raised the foil before him, curling his other hand back behind his head.

  “On your guard,” he said, and they began again.

  * * *

  As Madeline and Charles practiced magic and Timothy and Jonathan dueled, Emily did the only thing she could think of to keep herself from dissolving into hysterics: she cooked and she cleaned.

  She washed the teacups in a basin in the study, set a stew over the hob Timothy had helped her fashion beside the hearth, and then she tidied the room, blushing a little as she found scraps of her clothing and Stephen’s and the much-emptied bottle of oil. But she kept cleaning, and when she finished in the study, she went to the master bedroom and made the bed, picked up stray clothes, and even dusted the mantel. When she opened Jonathan’s trunk and saw what was inside, she let out a small, “Hmph!” and continued on to the turret.

  Timothy had already done his own straightening up here, but she gave the room a once-over all the same. When she finished, she went back down to the study to check on her stew, but her mind was already racing ahead, gathering more activities to do. If she stopped, she might remember. She would think of the kitchen at the cottage, of all her things turned to ash. She would think of her garden and her lavender and Nancy, whom she wanted to believe had gotten away, but her heart told her that no one had bothered to think of the cranky mule in the barn. But Emily did, and her eyes filled with tears and her heart grew heavy at the thought of how she must have died.

  Keep busy. Keep busy, do not think of it, and you will be fine.

  When she returned to the study, Stephen was there.

  He was standing in the middle of the room as if he had been waiting for her, his hands in his pockets. “With the way the morning began, we did not get a chance to talk.”

  Emily’s heart lurched, and she used the momentum it gave her to launch herself at the hearth. “There’s too much to do.”

  He followed her but did not touch her. “Emily.”

  Emily swallowed hard and shut her eyes. He will tell me it was a mistake, that it was the heat of the moment. He will tell me not to make too much of it. The thought made her want to sob and laugh at once. She had begun her seduction that way. She had intended it to be just what Timothy suggested, a healing, a lightening of their hearts. And it had been that, at first. It had been fun, watching Stephen blush, making his eyes go dark with passion, hearing him hiss as she spread the oil across his skin, feeling the rush as he clutched her and dragged her higher to take her breast in his mouth. It had been everything she had wanted.

  But somehow along the line, it had changed. His kisses had been too tender, too deep. He had probed inside her in more ways than one. She rested her hand against the mantel to keep it from shaking. He had been so kind. No one had ever been so tender to her, not in bed or out of it. She had felt, in his arms, as if she were his whole world, and as she had looked into his eyes, she had wanted desperately to be it. In the night, in the darkness, it had felt right. But here in the light?

  She cleared her throat and reached for her wooden spoon. “Please don’t speak of it. Please, it was only—”

  She felt her heart ache when he touched her shoulder. Unable to stop herself, she turned slowly to face him.

  He looked miserable but resigned, and he spoke evenly, squaring his shoulders as he delivered what was clearly a practiced speech. “I realize I am about to make a hash of myself, but I have to say something, Emily. I know I am not much. You know now about the truth of my birth. I have nothing to my name—not even anything saved, I am ashamed to admit. And you heard about my cowardice with my grandfather.” He looked at Emily, his heart in his eyes. “I am not much. And at this point, I realize we may none of us come out of this alive. I realize there are others, many others, all of them far more gallant and handsome and competent than myself, who would serve you better. But—” He blushed, the red coming in patches up the sides of his face. “I am in love with you. I know you can’t possibly love me, and that you have no use for me. But I am afraid I am yours all the same.”

  For a minute, Emily could only stare at him. She stared at him, at Stephen Perry, his red hair slightly on end, his neat city clothes rumpled, his hands shaking, his heart in his eyes.

  His heart, which was all for her.

  She laughed. Then she cried. Then she dropped her spoon and embraced him.

  She was kissing him before he even had his arms around her, kissing him as her tears streamed down her face, her stew bubbling behind her, the room tidy and clean around her, her home destroyed across the moor, the dome of magic pressing down on them as certain death licked and curled against it. She kissed him, and she didn’t care about any of the rest of it, because he wrapped his arms around her and he kissed her back.

  “Emily,” he whispered against her mouth. “Oh, Emily.”

  She kissed him again and again. She led him to the couch and straddled him, sliding his hands up the sides of her dress, encouraging his nervous fingers to dip inside the front of her gown, and she touched his face and kissed him and then rose up on her knees so he could take her in his mouth. She threw her head back and let the love and peace surround her, oblivious to the world, pretending for one sweet moment that the darkness would never come.

  * * *

  Madeline and Charles did not return to the tower until the lack of light forced them there.

  She put Charles through every exercise she could remember and made up a few more on the spot, constantly adjusting for the strange instincts and leaps around traditional Craft that Charles brought to their casts. At the end of the day, she was not certain who had learned more. She returned to the study stronger in more than just mind. It disturbed her that she was so untutored; it made her angry with the Morgan for failing to teach her. At times she had wanted to stop, she was so shocked at what she did not know, but Charles was so…Charles about it. She couldn’t bring herself to draw the lessons to a close. To be honest, she hadn’t wanted them to end either, and she was eager for the dawn so they could begin them again.

  But thoughts of the future plagued her as they all sat huddled in the evening around the hearth, praising Emily’s cooking and sipping at tea and wine. Madeline had tested her protective spell while she was working with Charles, and in fact he had helped her to strengthen it. But even if Timothy’s secret supplies were endless, they could not wait here forever. The elements were trapped within the space she had made with them too, and they would try to work their way out and let things in. She had begun Charles’s lessons on the hope that somehow something would occur to her as they worked, some offensive she could take, but there was none.

  She had felt too, while they were working, the edges of the answer to a riddle that had plagued her for some time now, and it was not a truth that comforted. Since she had broken with her guides, she had been waiting for the witch’s Council to destroy her, but they had not come. She hadn’t let herself wonder why, because she feared the outcome too much. But today she had felt the edges of the reason, and she was fairly sure now that the Council had been deliberately kept away. The lake demon had blocked their ability to find out what she had done. She was almost sure of it. It should not have that kind of power, but it did. Why it would do such a thing, even if it could, she could not guess. But it convinced her more than ever that the demon was playing a deep game, and she feared no matter how powerful or clever she was, it would beat her. She was destined, no matter what she did, to be its pawn.

  And as she sat there sipping wine, she could feel the edges of that block cracking. The spell the demon had use
d to keep the Council away was starting to come down. They were still ignorant, but they would not stay that way for long. Soon they would know, and they would come for her. She would not be able to stop them, and then she would be dead.

  Madeline felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up and saw Jonathan leaning over her, and when she caught his gaze, he inclined his head to the door.

  “Will you come away for a while?” he asked.

  She hesitated, wanting to say no, even though deeper down she wanted desperately to throw herself into his arms and sob helplessly. He did not push her further, only waited, and it was this, in the end, that made her nod and excuse herself. He did not take her hand, but he touched her back lightly as she walked ahead of him on the stairs. He indicated she should go into the bedroom, and she went.

  She stopped as soon as she saw the room, and it took every ounce of reserve not to turn into his arms and kiss him.

  The tub had been pulled out of the bathroom and into the center of the room. The plumbing there was useless now, so he must have hauled the water—the heated water, she amended, noticing the steam—all the way from the kitchen. She smelled the lavender and rosemary even before she saw it floating, and her heart went very soft.

  “I can leave you to it,” he said, “or if you would like company, I would be happy to stay.”

  “Stay.” She turned to him and touched his arm. “Please. And…thank you.”

  He took her hand, kissed it, then went to the window.

  Madeline shed her dress quickly, eager to step into the waiting water. She left the dirty black mass in the middle of the floor and stepped over the side of the metal tub, sighing audibly when her aching feet and legs went into the heat. She all but melted into the bath, letting her head fall back against the rim of the tub, her eyes drifting closed in pleasure.

  “Not too hot?” he asked, still at the window. But she thought he may have turned around.