Magic of Fire and Shadows

by Raye Wagner

  The soldiers who’d broke through over a week ago were slowly advancing toward Rizy, but their limited number meant their attacks had to be strategic. Until a larger number of men were able to get through, Cervene would not be able to go after Tsar Baine or his nephew.

  “Oh, the weather is far too hot, Your Highness, far too hot,” Duchess Vanda rushed to agree as she reached forward to pluck another lemon tart from the tiered server set. She bit into the confection, and Adaline felt a small measure of relief to see crumbs fall into Her Grace’s lap. Granted, her napkin caught them all, but the fact that the duchess wasn’t perfect gave Adaline a smidgen of hope.

  Sitting at the table beside Chantal Vanda, Duchess of Vallée de la Rivière, her three daughters perked up, attention fixed on Adaline. Their names utterly eluded her at the moment. Were they virtues or, maybe, fruit? Adaline racked her brain, but the only information she could remember, regarding the three girls, was their names all started with the same letter. On the opposite side of the table, Francine, lady of Vallée de l'or, sat, and her five daughters were scattered at the remaining tables. Lady Francine’s girls were named after flowers, the oldest was Petunia, or was it Peony?

  Adaline glanced back at the women and frowned as she looked at their apparel. When had the fashion changed? “You ladies must be roasting alive in those dresses,” Adaline said. “It’s still summer.”

  Her hand went unconsciously to her own low v-line, and she grimaced. The new style was familiar as was the fashion of stiff lace covering their neck and chest instead of the previously fashionable scoop or v-line. Stars above, Adaline looked positively indecent with this primly dressed crowd.

  Lady Vanda tittered an uncomfortable-sounding laugh, and Lady Francine’s daughters all nodded, bobbing their heads in unison, but their eyes were wide with surprise. Adaline must’ve said something rude . . . again.

  But then, mercifully, one of the plant-named girls, Lily or Lilac or Lavender, grinned prettily and said, “Oh, yes, far too hot, Your Majesty. Mama fainted yesterday right in the center of town square.”

  Lady Francine covered her heaving bosom with a thick hand and huffed. “Laurel, darling, half the ladies of court fainted at that. It took three strokes of the ax for the executioner to cut through that man’s neck.”

  Adaline’s stomach flipped, and her afternoon tea threatened to come back up. “What?”

  “Do you plan to attend the next one, Your Majesty?” one of the other plant-girls asked, her thin pink lips spreading into a smile over her teacup.

  Adaline blinked at the women, trying to digest Lady Francine’s words. Certainly they couldn’t mean . . . “Plan to attend what . . . exactly?”

  The women glanced at one another, and Duchess Vanda patted Adaline’s arm. “The next execution at Burdad’s square. I do hope your health will allow you to attend soon.”

  “It’s very entertaining,” one of the other girls said before stuffing an éclair in her mouth. “We’d love an invite to the royal box when you do attend.”

  “Hush, Pansy. We cannot ask Her Royal Highness for an invite; she must ask us on her own,” said the duchess, giving Adaline a meaningful look.

  Words dried to dust in Adaline’s mouth as the vision of the boy in the dungeon played over in her head. Her gaze fixated on the empty space before her, but in her mind she saw the executioner’s ax slice through the young man’s neck and dark blood spilling out, saturating the filthy straw. She choked back vomit and stood, upending her cup and plate, splattering tea and crumbs all over the polished wood floor.

  In unison, the women gasped.

  “Are you unwell, Your Highness?” the Duchess asked, her eyes as wide as the rim of her teacup.

  Adaline shook her head. “Who—who is being executed?”

  This question caused all the women to peer among themselves yet again. “The Belochian spies.” A sculpted, painted-on brow rose high on Lady Francine’s handsome face. “Queen Dimira is having them publicly beheaded for treason. They’ve been happening almost daily for the last fortnight and sporadically before that. It’s quite the spectacle.”

  Peony-Flower-girl leaned forward, her painted face twisting grotesquely with excitement, and whispered to her mother, “I have to say I thought I wouldn’t have a taste for watching, but I quite enjoy—”

  “That’s revolting,” Adaline spat, interrupting the young woman.

  Even with the thick makeup, the girl’s complexion blanched. “Um, Your Highness—I, uh, I apologize . . .”

  The rest of the room’s occupants, including the servants, all wore identical expressions of shock, but Adaline was only further sickened by their surprise. She stepped over the fallen dishes, her skirt dragging them on the floor as she strode from the room.

  “Your Highness?” one of the women called, but Adaline ignored them all as she rushed into the wide marble hallway stretching the length of the east-wing of the palace.

  Only a few feet into the hall, Evzan caught up to her. “Adaline?”

  She reached for the pommel of her weapon, only to recall she wasn’t wearing it. Shooting a glare at her taciturn guard, she demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me about the executions?”

  Neither her tone nor words affected his impassive expression. “Did you think the war would come without loss of life? What do you think your hundreds of thousands of soldiers are going to do when you destroy the wall? We’re fighting this war because the tsar murdered your family. Do you not have the stomach to see this through?”

  Instead of responding, Adaline focused on the sound of her heels clicking on the stone as she rushed through the network of high arched hallways. The silken gown she wore was almost as bad as the corset underneath. The cumbersome skirts slowed her pace and inhibited her movement enough that she considered ripping a split up the middle. Passing between wings into the palace proper, she crossed an open colonnade and glanced across the courtyard toward the border. She could see a few of Burdad’s spires and rooftops over the bailey. She’d not ventured into the city in months. But how had no one thought to tell her what was happening?

  Adaline found her aunt in council in the king’s cabinet; guards had moved to restrict the princess’s passage, but a thinly veiled threat from Evzan gained them both entrance. The thick wooden doors parted to reveal a room full of older men lining a long table with Dimira seated at the head in King Jarian’s high-backed throne.

  Every person at the table glanced up. Lord Billiere, a middle-aged duke with more bristly white whiskers than meat on his face, paused mid-sentence. His jaw sagged open while one of his skeletal fingers pointed into a thick tome open on the table.

  “Princess Adaline.” Dimira stood, and the rest of the members of her father’s cabinet scraped their chairs across the stone floor to follow the queen regent’s example.

  All the men bowed to Adaline, and she bowed shallowly in response.

  “I didn’t expect you for another hour, but I have been hoping that you would join us at the council.” Dimira smiled, gesturing to a chair.

  Lord Chaucer, the portly minister of finance, hurried out of the seat to take one farther down the table.

  Adaline approached the party, and the afternoon light shot through the west-facing windows, dust motes dancing in the beams.

  “Aunt Dimira. I just learned we’re holding public executions,” Adaline said as she held a hand to block the light. The hem of her gown caught under her boot, and Adaline lost purchase on the stone floor. Her stomach flipped as she flew forward, her hands going out to break her fall.

  Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and hoisted her back up, still holding firm when she was upright. Adaline looked back to find Evzan glowering.

  “Thank you; I’m fine now,” she told him. “This is why I hate skirts and dresses.”

  He lifted his hands, holding them up in an obvious sign for peace.

  “This has to stop. My father would’ve never ordered or allowed such barbarism,” Adaline said as she turned back
to the council at the table. “I will not—”

  Evzan cleared his throat, and Adaline spun around once more to glare at him. He raised his eyebrows in response, and she understood his silent warning. Perhaps in her frazzled state, she was not as polite as she should be. She spun forward to face her aunt and amended, “Excuse me, please. Aunt Dimira, I really must speak to you about the executions.”

  “Of course.” Dimira turned to the crowd of men. “Gentlemen, I wish to speak to our heir alone. We will continue this discussion tomorrow at . . . seven in the morning. Thank you, each of you, for joining me.”

  They took their turns bowing to the regent and then again to the princess. Evzan stayed at Adaline’s side, but once the room was clear, just as she did every day before magic lessons, Dimira said, “You may leave her with me, guard; I’ll look after her.”

  And, as he did every day, Evzan hesitated a moment before bowing to the Queen Regent and then retreated out the door.

  Dimira crossed the room, hands outstretched, and Adaline stared with dawning realization. The fashion mimicked by the attendants of the tea party, from the high neckline and sculpted updo to the stark makeup and even occasional wimple, was all together right here. Adaline blurted, “The ladies of court all dress like you now.”

  Dimira waved away the comment. “Darling, mimicry is normal; the ladies of the court did the same to your mother and then Mari when she came of age.”

  “I just . . . it’s a little disconcerting.” The women had so quickly moved on.

  “Sheep of fashion want a shepherd, and ladies of the court aren’t going to start donning britches and a tunic.” Dimira took Adaline’s hands, squeezing them gently. “Also, I do wish you would call me Your Highness in front of company, darling. It’s challenging enough already getting the men to respect my commands.”

  “Oh, yes,” Adaline said, wincing with shame. “I’m sorry about that. I just . . . I’m just . . . I need to speak with you about these executions.”

  “Certainly,” Dimira said, nodding. “Do you mind if we go to my boudoir? Old men do love to hear themselves, and the chairs in here are dreadfully uncomfortable. Every single decision must be discussed for hours; it’s exhausting.” She gave Adaline a small, conspiratorial smile.

  Adaline nodded, her gaze flitting over the chairs. Had her father felt the same? She had no memory of him saying such, but she hadn’t paid much attention to his rule either. Gratitude for her aunt swelled in Adaline’s chest. “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Dimira took Adaline by the elbow and, graceful as an egret, led her through the inner stone archway and down a long hall to the royal chambers. Though the queen regent’s grip was firm, her shoulders sagged and eyes fell to half-lidded as if she’d been holding back a tide of exhaustion and no longer had the ability.

  “Would you like to take your usual seat by the hearth?” Dimira gestured to the unlit stone fireplace at one end of the sitting room. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  Adaline sunk into the oversized chair and waited while the sitting ruler of Cervene poured them tumblers of mead and then settled across from her niece on the settee.

  Adaline accepted the honey-liquor but merely held the crystal tumbler. Though much of her anger had ebbed, Adaline refused to let this drop. “Aunt Dimira, Papa outlawed public executions. He said they led to barbarism and brutality. I’ll not give my consent to continue.”

  Dimira sipped at her glass while the princess spoke—and for several moments after. Finally, her aunt sighed. “I understand, Adaline. I loathe it, but these Belochian spies are the ones who betrayed your parents to their tsar. We must make an example of them. It is not enough to wear a crown, Adaline. To rule you must show, despite your age, you’re to be taken seriously and that Cervene is not weak.”

  Adaline nodded, but her attention had zeroed in on Dimira’s declaration that these were the traitors who’d been responsible for her family’s capture. Staring unseeingly at the clean hearth, she asked, “How do we know it was them? Was there proof of their treachery?”

  “Of course. Ample proof. If you wish, I’ll send for the evidence after our lesson.” The queen lifted her glass and frowned at her mead. “In the future, how would you have traitors punished?”

  “Execution for treason, but privately,” Adaline said and then mumbled, “Like my father did.”

  “Perhaps if a more public approach had been taken, no one would’ve dared attack,” Dimira responded, frowning. Before Adaline could respond, the older woman continued, “I do wish you would’ve advised me of your feelings sooner, darling. If you do not attend council, I’m left to guess at how or what you would like done.”

  “You’re right,” Adaline said, straightening. “It’s hardly fair to criticize your swift action when I’ve been hiding in my garden or room. I’m sorry. I—I understand why you made the choice you did, and I’ll do better at attending council . . . I promise.”

  Dimira pursed her lips before taking another sip of her drink. “Excellent. Now, if we’re finished discussing the executions, let’s move on to your magic lesson. Have you been practicing?”

  A fluttering nervousness rose in Adaline’s belly, and she set the tumbler on a side table.

  “Yes,” she said, but her mind was still stuck. She leaned toward her aunt and pressed on, “But, moving forward, you’ll make the executions private. I want to make sure we’re on the same page. Once prisoners have been tried, the guilty will be sentenced and killed without glorifying the brutality?”

  Dimira smiled, but the skin around her eyes tightened. “Of course. I’ll announce your decision tomorrow and honor it.”

  Adaline might not be as pretty as her mother, as kind as her sister, as smart as her father, or as talented as her aunt, but she would be fair. “And I’ll need to see the evidence. Not that I don’t trust you. It’s that—”

  “You need to see for yourself. I understand; I’m not offended in the slightest.” Dimira leaned forward and patted Adaline’s hand. “It’s good to see you growing up, darling.”

  Twirling the tumbler of mead, Adaline whispered, “Thank you.”

  She took a sip of the sweet beverage. The honey taste tickled across her tongue, and a moment after the liquor went down, her nerves settled. Judging by the ladies’ enthusiasm for the public executions, the announcement would not be a popular one, but it was right. It was the decision her father would have made, the one he had made years ago. “Thank you for respecting my wishes.”

  “You are to be my queen soon. It’s good practice for me. I need to get a few supplies for our lesson. If you will excuse me for a moment,” she said as she stood, setting her tumbler on the intricately carved end table.

  Adaline stared at the piece of furniture. The Temavian style artistry had been her father’s favorite, and Adaline’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Princess?” Dimira touched Adaline’s arm, and the princess startled. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes—no.” Adaline shook her head, trying to clear it of the wave of emotion. “It’s so strange . . . I can spend all day perfectly able to keep it together, and then I’ll see an end table my father liked, and I’m fighting back tears.” She blinked, spilling the tears, and Adaline scrubbed them away with a mirthless laugh.

  Dimira squeezed her niece’s arm and crouched low to look Adaline in the eyes. “You can let your tears fall, dear girl. You’re safe here, and it’s important to have someone you trust, someone you can be yourself with. Otherwise, you’d go mad without a release.”

  Adaline swallowed, unable to respond because, for some reason, it wasn’t Dimira’s face Adaline’s mind conjured up when she thought of trust and being herself; it was Evzan. Ridiculous mind. Adaline could never confide in her guard. He was much more likely to lecture than console her as he’d proven more than once.

  The queen regent set a jeweled box on the table. Instead of opening the box, she placed a hand on its cover and squeezed the edge of the metal lid. “I think, pe
rhaps, we’ve had no success accessing your power because we’re not going about this the right way. We’ve been trying to push past the binding on your magic, but I think we might need to work around it instead.”

  “Work . . . around the binding. As in, keep it in place?”

  Dimira tilted her head to the side as she seemingly considered her niece’s words. “Sort of. I think we’d best go back to the very beginning of what we call magic. What do you know of the planes of existence?”

  “You mean the heavens and the stars?” Adaline asked. When Dimira frowned, the princess rushed to amend. “Not much, I guess. Mother and Father weren’t particularly religious, but I know djinn are said to come from another plane of existence, and they rule the . . .” She thought for a moment. “Tele-a-world, or something. I think that’s what the Celestial Sisters say. So are there two planes of existence?”

  A small smile played on the queen regent’s lips as Adaline ignorantly attempted to explain. When she’d finished, Dimira spoke. “There are three planes of existence—ours here is the mortal plane. Mankind will live their entire life on this earthly plane, and when they die, they are buried in it. The mortal plane is called the telestial plane, or mortal plane. Above that is the terrestrial plane, or Lumea. Djinn and other magical beings of mixed blood rule this plane, and what they do in the Lumea can affect the mortal plane. Above that is the celestial plane, which is infinite.” She waved her arm overhead, extending her fingers to the ceiling. Then she took her seat on the settee again and continued. “The first two planes are like layers, coexisting in the same space. The celestial plane extends to other realms and other worlds. Beings from the other planes can travel between them, down but not typically up. Most will never come to our world, but some slip through the planes, and occasionally these terrestrial or celestial beings have children with mortals. Like their parents, these children are often able to access more than one plane of existence.” She tapped Adaline’s hand. “When one of these blended beings alters the reality in the mortal realm by accessing the terrestrial plane, or the Lumea as some call it, mortals call it witchcraft. But at its root, witchcraft is changing reality in the mortal realm.”