by Jasmine Walt
He ran into the naked being on his way back. She was standing near the entrance of his study, looking at a painting his brother Louie had made. It was of a village in Blaise’s territory, and the scene it depicted was an idyllic one—a festival after a big harvest. Laughing, rosy-cheeked peasants were dancing with each other, a traveling harpist playing in the background. Blaise liked looking at that painting. It reminded him that his subjects had good times too, that their lives were not solely work.
The girl also seemed to like looking at it—and touching it. Her fingers were stroking the frame as though trying to learn its texture. Her nude body looked just as magnificent from the back as it did from the front, and Blaise again found his thoughts straying in inappropriate directions.
“Here,” he said gruffly, entering the study and putting the dress and the shoes down on the dusty couch. “Please put these on.” For the first time since Louie’s death, he was cognizant of the state of his house—and ashamed of it. Augusta’s room was not the only one covered with dust. Even here, where he spent most of his time, the air was musty and stale.
Esther and Maya had repeatedly offered to come over and clean, but he’d refused, not wanting to see anyone. Not even the two peasant women who had been like mothers to him. After the debacle with Louie, all he’d wanted was to be left alone, to hide away from the rest of the world. As far as the other sorcerers were concerned, he was a pariah, an outcast, and that was fine with Blaise. He hated them all now too. Sometimes he thought the bitterness would consume him—and it probably would have, if it hadn’t been for his work.
And now the outcome of that work was lifting the dress and studying it curiously, still as naked as a newborn baby. “How do I put it on?” she asked, looking up at him.
Blaise blinked. He’d had practice taking dresses off women, but putting them on? Still, he probably knew more about clothes than the mysterious being standing in front of him. Taking the dress from her hands, he unlaced the back and held it out to her. “Here. Step into it and pull it up, making sure that your arms go into the sleeves.” Then he turned away, doing his best to control his reaction to her beauty.
He heard some fumbling.
“I might need a little help,” she said.
Turning back, Blaise was relieved to see that all she needed help with was tying the lace on the back. She had already figured out how to put on the shoes. The dress fit her surprisingly well; she and Augusta had to be of similar size, though this girl appeared more delicate somehow. “Lift your hair,” he told her, and she did, holding the long blond locks with unconscious grace. He quickly laced the dress and stepped back, needing to put a little distance between them.
She turned to face him, and their eyes met. Blaise couldn’t help but notice the cool intelligence reflected in her gaze. She might not know anything yet, but she was learning fast—and functioning incredibly well, if what he suspected about her origin was true.
For a few seconds, they just looked at each other, sharing a comfortable silence. She didn’t appear to be in a rush to speak. Instead, she studied him, her eyes roaming over his face, his body. She seemed to find him as fascinating as he found her. And no wonder—Blaise was probably the first human she’d encountered.
Finally, she broke the silence. “Can we talk now?”
“Yes.” Blaise smiled. “We can, and we should.” Walking over to the couch area, he sat down on one of the lounge chairs next to the small round table. The woman followed his example, taking a seat in the chair opposite him.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to work out the answers to your many questions together,” Blaise told her, and she nodded.
“I want to understand,” she said. “What am I?”
Blaise took a deep breath. “Let me start at the beginning,” he said, racking his brain for the best way to go about this. “You see, I have been searching for a long time for a way to make magic more accessible for the commoners—”
“Is it not accessible currently?” she asked, looking at him intently. He could tell she was extremely curious about anything and everything, absorbing her surroundings and every word he said like a sponge.
“No, it’s not. Right now, magic is only possible for a select few—those who have the right predisposition in terms of how analytical and mathematically inclined their minds are. Even those lucky few have to study very hard to be able to cast spells of any complexity.”
She nodded as though it made sense to her. “All right. So what does it have to do with me?”
“Everything,” Blaise said. “You see, it all started with Lenard the Great. He’s the one who first learned how to tap into the Spell Realm—”
“The Spell Realm?”
“Yes. The Spell Realm is what we call the place where spells are formed—the place that enables us to do magic. We don’t know much about it because we live in the Physical Realm—what we think of as the real world.” Blaise paused to see if the woman had any questions. He imagined it must all be overwhelming for her.
She cocked her head to the side. “All right. Please continue.”
“Some two hundred and seventy years ago, Lenard the Great invented the first oral spells—a way for us to interact with the Spell Realm and change the reality of the Physical Realm. These spells were extremely difficult to get right because they involved a specialized arcane language. It had to be spoken and planned very exactly to get the desired result. It wasn’t until recently that a simpler magical language and an easier way to do spells was invented.”
“Who invented it?” the woman asked, looking intrigued.
“Well, Augusta and I did, actually,” Blaise admitted. “She’s my former fiancée. We are what you would call sorcerers—those who have the aptitude for the study of magic. Augusta created a magical object called the Interpreter Stone, and I came up with a simpler magical language to go along with it. So now, instead of reciting a difficult verbal spell, a sorcerer can use the simpler language to write his spell on cards and feed it to the stone.”
She blinked. “I see.”
“Our work was supposed to change society for the better,” Blaise continued, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Or at least that’s what I had hoped. I thought an easier way to do magic would enable more people to do it, but it didn’t turn out that way. The powerful sorcerer class got even more powerful—and even more averse to sharing their knowledge with the common people.”
“Is that bad?” she asked, regarding him with her clear blue gaze.
“It depends on whom you ask,” Blaise said, thinking of Augusta’s casual disregard for the peasants. “I think it’s terrible, but I’m in the minority. Most sorcerers like the status quo. They have wealth and power, and they don’t mind that their subjects live in abject poverty.”
“But you do,” she said perceptively.
“I do,” Blaise confirmed. “And when I left the Sorcerer Council a year ago, I decided to do something about it. You see, I wanted to create a magical object that would understand our normal spoken language—an object that anyone could use. This way, a regular person could do magic. They would just say what they needed, and the object would make it happen.”
Her eyes widened, and Blaise could see the dawning comprehension on her face. “Are you saying—?”
“Yes,” he said, staring at her. “I believe I succeeded in creating that object. I think you are the result of my work.”
They sat there in silence for a few moments.
“I must have the wrong understanding of the word ‘object’,” she finally said.
“You probably don’t. The chair you sit on is a regular object. If you’ll look out the window, you’ll see a chaise in the yard. That’s a magical object; it can fly. Objects are inanimate. I expected you to be something like a talking mirror, but you are something else entirely.”
She frowned a little. “If you created me, does that mean you are my father?”
“No,” Blaise denied immediatel
y, everything inside him rejecting that idea. “I am most certainly not your father.” Somehow it was important to make sure she did not think of him that way. Look at where my mind is going again, he chided himself.
She continued looking confused, so Blaise tried to explain further. “I think it might make more sense to say that I created the basic design for an intelligence—and made sure it had some knowledge to build on—but from there, you must have created yourself.”
He could see a spark of recognition in her gaze. Something about that statement resonated with her, so she had to know more than it seemed at first.
“Can you tell me anything about yourself?” Blaise asked, studying the beautiful creature in front of him. “For starters, what do you call yourself?”
“I don’t call myself anything,” she said. “What do you call yourself?”
“I am Blaise, son of Dasbraw. You would just call me Blaise.”
“Blaise,” she said slowly, as though tasting his name. Her voice was soft and sensual, innocently seductive. It made Blaise painfully aware that it had been two years since he had been this close to a woman.
“Yes, that’s right,” he managed to say calmly. “And we should come up with a name for you as well.”
“Do you have any ideas?” she asked curiously.
“Well, my grandmother’s name was Galina. Would you like to honor my family by taking her name? You can be Galina, daughter of the Spell Realm. I would call you ‘Gala’ for short.” The indomitable old lady had been nothing like the girl sitting in front of him, yet something about the bright intelligence on this woman’s face reminded him of her. He smiled fondly at the memories.
“Gala,” she tried saying. He could see that she liked it because she smiled back at him, showing even white teeth. The smile lit her entire face, making her glow.
“Yes.” Blaise couldn’t tear his eyes away from her luminous beauty. “Gala. It suits you.”
“Gala,” she repeated softly. “Gala. Yes, I agree. It does suit me. But you said that I am daughter of the Spell Realm. Is that my mother or father?” She gave him a hopeful look.
Blaise shook his head. “Not in the traditional sense, no. The Spell Realm is where you developed into what you are now. Do you know anything about the place?” He paused, looking at his unexpected creation. “In general, how much do you recall before you showed up here, on the floor of my study?”
2
Augusta
Augusta slid out of bed and smiled seductively at her lover, enjoying the heated gleam in his eyes as she bent down to pick up her magenta-colored dress from the floor. The beautifully made garment had only one small rip in it—nothing that she wouldn’t be able to fix with a simple verbal spell. Her clothes rarely survived her visits to Barson’s house intact; if there was one thing she enjoyed about the leader of the Sorcerer Guard, it was the rough, urgent hunger with which he always greeted her arrival.
“Is it already time to go?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow to watch her get dressed.
“Aren’t your men waiting for you?” Augusta wriggled into the dress and reached up to gather her long brown hair into a smooth knot at the back of her neck.
“Let them wait.” He sounded arrogant, as usual. Augusta liked that about Barson—the unshakable confidence that permeated everything he did. He might not be a sorcerer, but he wielded quite a bit of power as the leader of the elite military force that kept law and order in their society.
“The rebels won’t wait, though,” Augusta reminded him. “We need to intercept them before they get any closer to Turingrad.”
“We?” His thick eyebrows arched in surprise. With his short dark hair and olive-toned skin, he was one of the most attractive men she knew—with the possible exception of her former fiancé.
No, don’t think about Blaise now. “Oh yes,” Augusta said nonchalantly. “Did I forget to mention that I’m coming with you?”
Barson sat up in bed, the muscles in his large frame flexing and rippling with each movement. “You know you did,” he growled, but Augusta could tell he was pleased with this development. He had been trying to get her to spend more time with him, to get their relationship out in the open, and Augusta thought it might be time to start giving in a little.
After her painful breakup with Blaise two years ago, all she’d wanted was an uncomplicated affair—an arrangement of mutual desire and nothing more. Her eight-year relationship with Blaise had ended six months before their wedding was to take place, and at the time, she didn’t know if she would ever be able to trust another man again. She’d thought that all she needed was a bed companion, a warm body to make her forget the emptiness within—and she’d chosen the Captain of the Guard for that role.
To her surprise, what started off as a simple dalliance grew and evolved. Over time, Augusta found herself both liking and admiring her new lover. He was not an intellectual, like Blaise, but he was quite intelligent in his own way—and she found that she enjoyed his company outside of the bedroom as well. As a result, when she’d heard about the rebellion in the north, she decided it was the perfect opportunity to witness Barson in action, doing what he did best—protecting their way of life and keeping the peasants in check.
Getting up, he pulled on his armor and turned to face her. “Did the Council ask you to come with us?”
“No,” Augusta reassured him. “I’m coming of my own initiative.” It would be an insult to the Guard if the Council thought them incapable of quelling a minor uprising and asked her to aid them. She was accompanying them solely because she wanted to spend some time with Barson—and because she wanted to see the rebels crushed like the vermin they were.
“In that case,” he said, his dark eyes glittering with anticipation, “let’s go.”
Augusta rode beside Barson, feeling the rhythmic movements of the horse beneath her. She could see the curious looks she was getting from the other soldiers, but she didn’t care. As a sorceress of the Council, she was used to the attention; she even craved it on some level.
It was strange riding an actual living horse. She had gotten used to the flying chaise—her recent invention that had revolutionized travel for sorcerers—and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone somewhere the old-fashioned way. The only reason why she was doing so now was because Barson refused to get on the chaise with her while on duty, and she didn’t want to hover in the air above the guards all by herself.
“How many rebels are there?” she asked Barson, surprised that there were only about fifty men accompanying them.
“Ganir said there were about three hundred,” Barson replied, and Augusta wrinkled her nose at the mention of the Council Leader’s name. Ganir appeared to have his spies everywhere these days. Under the guise of protecting the Council, the old sorcerer seemed to be growing more and more powerful every day, a development that bothered Augusta. She had always gotten a sense that the old man didn’t like her, and she didn’t want to think about what could happen if he decided to turn on her for any reason.
Bringing her attention back to the subject at hand, she gave Barson a questioning look. “And you took only fifty guards?”
He chuckled. “Only fifty? That’s probably twenty too many. Any one of my men is worth at least ten of these peasants.” Then he added, more seriously, “Besides, given the unrest everywhere, I thought it best not to leave Turingrad and the Tower unprotected without a good reason—and believe me, three hundred peasants are not a good reason.”
Augusta grinned at him, again charmed by his arrogance. “Right, of course. Plus you’ve got me.” Sorcerers rarely used their magic against the common population, but they could certainly do so, particularly if they were in danger. Augusta had no doubt that she could subdue all the rebels singlehandedly, but that wasn’t her job. That’s what the soldiers were for.
This little rebellion, like so many others in the past couple of years, was no doubt motivated by the drought. It was an unfortunate occurrence,
and Augusta could understand the peasants’ unhappiness with ruined crops and high food prices—but that didn’t make it acceptable for them to march on Turingrad like Ganir claimed they were doing.
The north of Koldun—where these rebels were coming from—was particularly hard-hit. Augusta’s own territory was further south, but even her subjects were grumbling about the lack of food. They wouldn’t dare do any rioting, of course, but Augusta was not oblivious to the fact that they were unhappy. For almost two years, the rain had been sparse, and grain was becoming increasingly difficult to obtain. Augusta did her best to purchase whatever grain was available and send it to her people, but the ungrateful wretches still complained.
“Who’s ruling over the territory of the rebels? Is it Jandison or Moriner?” she asked, wondering which sorcerer couldn’t control his own peasants.
“Jandison.”
Jandison. Well, that explained it, Augusta thought. Despite his advanced age and position on the Council, Jandison was considered to be something of a weakling. He was good at teleportation (admittedly, a useful skill) and not much else. How he had ended up on the Council—a ruling body consisting of the most powerful sorcerers—Augusta would never understand.
“Some of his peasants ran off to the mountains,” Barson said, looking annoyed with the situation. “And some decided to riot. It’s a mess over there.”
“To the mountains?” Augusta couldn’t suppress her shock. The mountains surrounded the land of Koldun, serving as a natural barrier against the fierce storms that raged beyond them. Only the most intrepid explorers ever ventured out there, given the unpredictable weather and proximity to the dangerous ocean. And these peasants actually went there?
“Yes,” Barson confirmed. “At least twenty of them from Jandison’s northernmost village fled there.”
“They must be suicidal,” Augusta said, shaking her head. “Who in their right mind would do something like that?”
