by Violet Grace
‘That would require a cataclysmic spell – a spell that alters the balance of life and death decreed by Mother Nature. There’s no more serious business,’ she says solemnly.
Goosebumps spring up along my arms as I realise that this must be the same type of spell that Tom used to kill Larry, the one where he had to sacrifice what he desired most. Me.
Gladys tells me that in Iridesca, anybody can use the Art whenever they like. It’s as normal and accepted as the law of gravity. The only spell that carries a cost in Iridesca is a cataclysmic spell.
‘Life and death are universals and have universal value,’ Gladys says. ‘If I were to perform a cataclysmic spell to save my life, I would have to sacrifice that which I desire most – my life. Quite a paradox, you see? To save my life I would have to sacrifice it.’
‘Well, then ask someone else to do it for you.’
Gladys shakes her head. ‘I could not ask someone to sacrifice their greatest desire in all of the realms for me.’
As her words sink in, I’m struck by how alone Gladys is. She doesn’t have anybody who cares enough to save her. And I realise that I know next to nothing about her, or nothing that really matters anyway. Nothing about her family or her life before I met her. Maybe, like me, her family is long dead. It never came up and, if I’m being honest, I never really thought to ask. Gladys just is. I can’t ever recall her socialising with anybody. Except me. Sure, she made small talk with regulars at the laundromat, but there was no one she’d have a deep and meaningful conversation with.
Am I her only friend?
I flick through the book until I find the cataclysmic spell, and then make sure that I remember all the words correctly. If Marshall’s pills stop working, I will perform this spell for her. I don’t care what it costs me. Until I rescue Tom, Gladys is all I’ve got. And I owe her.
‘There’s no reason to save me,’ Gladys says, crashing in on my thoughts. ‘My wellbeing is of no matter where the survival of the Fae is concerned.’
This does nothing to make me feel better. Does she not think she’s worth saving? Or is this just the same fatalistic coldness I saw when she was dismissing Tom as a casualty of war?
‘Why don’t Fae value life the way humans do?’
‘A lioness fights to the death to protect her pride because the pride’s survival depends on it, no? But she will not extend a single claw to save any other lion. It is the law of nature.’
That seems screwed up to me. In my experience, whenever someone justifies something as part of the ‘natural order’, they’re just excusing their own negligence.
‘Isn’t that the definition of evil?’
‘Not at all,’ Gladys assures me. ‘Granted, nature is amoral, but that’s not the same as evil.’
She pulls another hairpin out of her bun and waves it, conjuring a water fountain in front of the bookcase.
‘Observe. Water. Is it good or bad?’
‘Good, of course.’
‘Ah, but water can be deadly. Tsunamis destroy whole villages and towns.’
At her words, the still water in the fountain rises into a rolling wall, reaching to the top of the room. I instinctively raise my arms, anticipating its force as it comes washing down, but it breaks over us, then pools around the library. Water laps at my waist, chilling my legs and soaking my dress. The couches and books float around us.
‘Floods wipe out crops and property. Water enables bacteria that transport disease, killing millions.’ She waves the wand again and the water vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving no trace. I run my hand down my gown and find it bone dry. The books and furniture are returned to their rightful places, and Gladys is at my side as if the whole thing had been an illusion.
‘The truth is that we project good and evil onto water. But water just is. It is not good nor evil – it is amoral.’ Gladys watches me closely. ‘You are Fae and that is our way. Neither good nor bad, but beyond both.’
I’m lost in thought for a moment. Amorality might work for water, but something still doesn’t add up. What about intention and free will? Surely we’re not all just blown by the wind, at the mercy of nature. And not all Fae are so heartless and indifferent. Tom cast a cataclysmic spell to save me when I was a child, but he didn’t do it because the survival of the Fae was at stake. He wasn’t motivated by saving the heir to the throne, because he didn’t even know who I was. To him, I was just a kid trapped in a bad situation. Why would he do such a thing, if doing good wasn’t in his nature?
I decide against pushing this further. I figure the less Gladys knows about Tom – and my debt to him – the better. Gladys knows me well enough to guess what I’ll do, and I can’t afford to have her try to stop me.
‘Imposing moral values on that which is neutral makes humans weak,’ Gladys continues. ‘It makes them suffer guilt and shame, feelings that can only exist in a moral context. The Fae are spared this fate. In nature, there is no remorse. Everything is as it is.’
I bristle. I know what it’s like to grow up in a household with no morality.
‘So you think humans should just forget right and wrong and not care about who they hurt?’
‘On the contrary.’ She leans towards me and whispers as if she’s about to impart a state secret. ‘Human morality is core to our existence.’
I wait for further explanation.
‘Fairies and unicorns would not exist if not for humans,’ she says. ‘The source of the Art is energy – energy created by human moral action. When humans act morally they release energetic vibrations. It is that energy that unicorns are able to channel through their horns, and fairies or unicorns in their two-legged form channel it through a metal called chromium.’
She turns her hairpin over in her palm. ‘Hairpins, walking sticks, even phones. They all contain chromium and make useful instruments for channelling the Art.’
Now I get the Agency’s precautions – all that wariness around my watch and shoes, even the teaspoon in the hospital. They must have been expecting me to use something containing chromium as a weapon.
Gladys raises her wand and a flame bursts from the top of it. Golden light dances across her face.
‘The Art is nothing more than intense energetic vibrations, and human moral energy is the flint that starts our magical fires. No morality, no Art. It’s as simple – or complex – as that.’ She extinguishes the flame with her fingers and then settles back into the couch. ‘But, as in all nature, everything has its opposite. Just as the Art is ignited by chromium, it is extinguished by graphite. This is why human prisons are now made of graphite. They’re designed to hold humans and Fae alike.’
I think back to the cage Agent Eight imprisoned me in. She must have been sure it would hold me because it was made from graphite.
‘But I produced enough magic to explode my way out of the Agency’s cage,’ I say.
‘Unfortunate,’ Gladys says, making a tutting sound. ‘Necessary but unfortunate. If the Agency believe they cannot contain you, they will arrive at only one conclusion.’
‘They’ll want to kill me?’ I say weakly.
Gladys purses her lips. ‘No more questions,’ she says. ‘Now is the time to practise.’ Nodding towards The Book of Artifice, she says, ‘Gladys has taught you more than enough to be going on with.’
I go back to the book, finding a spell for dematerialising objects. I say the words out loud while focusing on making Gladys’s teaspoon disappear.
Nothing.
The spoon just sits there on the saucer.
‘Use your wand,’ Gladys urges.
I try again.
Nothing. Not even a wobble.
‘Articulate the words clearly,’ she orders.
I try again. Nothing.
‘Stand up straight. Relax your body. Clear your mind. Feel your power.’
But nothing happens. No matter how hard I clasp my wand or ready my muscles or will my thoughts, I get nothing.
Zilch. Diddly squat.
No dice.
‘Maybe I used up all my magic with the teacups,’ I say, only half joking.
‘Nonsense,’ says Gladys. ‘The Art cannot be used up. So long as there is human morality the Art can be channelled.’
I try again and again. The hours tick by, my limbs feel heavy and my head aches. The room has grown dark and I’m ravenously hungry. But the only thing I have managed to conjure is my frustration and Gladys’s puzzlement.
‘Perhaps food will help,’ Gladys says optimistically as she conjures a plate of potato scones.
It doesn’t.
Defeated, I slump onto the couch. ‘Looks like you were wrong about my special powers.’
‘It will come,’ Gladys says with a confidence I don’t share.
‘What if you’ve all been backing the wrong horse all these years?’ I say, unable to hide the edge of despair in my voice. ‘Everyone wants something from me, and I keep falling down. I saw what we’re up against – those creatures that attacked me in the V&A. What were they, anyway?’
‘Pycts.’ Registering my confusion, she adds, ‘You probably know them as pixies.’
‘Pixies? Aren’t pixies supposed to be cute little creatures in kids’ movies?’
Gladys shakes her head. ‘Agency propaganda. Pycts are not the stuff of children’s movies. Don’t be fooled. They are dimwitted but deadly.’ She leans forward, resting her hands in her lap. ‘There are rumours that your uncle Damius is building an army to bolster the rebels, but we did not foresee that it would be an army of pycts. Pycts are extinct, you see. Well, they were.’
‘A whole army?’ I ask. I’d only seen four of them at the V&A.
‘It is only a rumour.’
‘Well, I’m no match for that.’
‘Come,’ she says, rising. ‘There are some people you should meet.’ She ushers me out of the library and back out into the corridor, stopping at the portraits. ‘The royal line. Your forebears. All of them masters of the Art. All of them leaders.’ She nods towards the paintings. ‘You’ll take your place in time.’
‘Looks like the family business stops with me,’ I say glumly.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Gladys chides.
‘But I —’
‘Enough buts,’ she says impatiently, and I know I’m in for a session of tough love. ‘You think you know something of sacrifice? Giving up before you even begin, eh?’ She’s off again, bustling down the corridor. She stops at a portrait about halfway along. ‘Queen Signe, your great-great-great-great-grandmother.’
The woman in the painting has emerald eyes and long wavy blonde hair. I search for a family resemblance but find none.
‘Before her reign, the humans and the Fae existed in an almost constant state of war. The humans were terrified of the Fae. And they were right to be. For a long time, the Fae would creep into cottages in the dead of night and steal human young. They were ripped from their cradles and brought back here to power the Art.’
‘Changelings?’
‘And much trickery and bad behaviour besides. Some of it aimless, much of it ruinous – to humans and Fae alike. Fairies were routinely rounded up and killed by the humans. And the Fae unleashed terrible plagues on the humans or seduced them to their deaths. A more pleasant way to go, but gone, nonetheless.
‘Queen Signe broke the cycle of terror by forging a peace treaty with King James. The King allowed members of the Fae to take up permanent residence in Volgaris. They began channelling moral energy into Iridesca so there was no longer any need to relocate human children. And Queen Signe curbed the use of the Art in Volgaris. You might say that she clipped our magical wings in Volgaris by locking away the unbridled Art that we wield in Iridesca.’
‘That’s why magic is essentially free in Iridesca but when you conjure a spell in Volgaris you must pay a price,’ I say, trying to keep up.
Gladys nods. ‘Queen Signe confined the unbridled Art in a chalice devised by the King’s alchemists – a chalice whose power could be unlocked only by a fairy possessed with moral sense. Impossible to break. As a gesture of goodwill, the chalice was located in Volgaris itself. King James’s alchemists were satisfied that unbridled magic would be beyond reach in Volgaris for all eternity – humans can’t unlock the chalice because they are not fairies, and fairies can’t unlock it because they are not moral. Quite an elegant solution, you’ll agree.’
Gladys’s eyes are downcast. She looks like she is recalling the events of the Treaty like they happened only yesterday. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she was there.
‘A high price our queen paid for her troubles, too. Many Fae – even her closest kin – would never again trust her. She was charged with all kinds of nonsense: perverting the natural order; imposing limits where none should be. She went into self-imposed exile and suffered an untimely death.’
Gladys looks at me, making sure I’m paying attention. ‘Queen Signe brought a peace that has lasted these past 400 years, but she was destroyed by it.’
Okay. Point taken. I’m chastened and humbled by Gladys’s words.
‘If you are to become a leader,’ she goes on, her eyes boring into me, ‘first you will need to master something far more powerful than the Art. You must master yourself.’ Her voice softens. ‘For 400 years, the Art in Volgaris has been contained and peace between humans and Fae has prevailed. Your birth has put that at risk. Your mother’s fairy blood mixed with your father’s human morality means you, and only you, are a moral fairy. You alone, possess the power to unlock the unbridled Art in Volgaris.’
‘No way,’ I say. ‘How can I be the only moral fairy? Surely my parents aren’t the only fairy and human to get it on in 400 years.’
‘They are the only ones to have produced a fairy. All the other recorded unions produced unnatural abominations. Which is why inter-realm procreation is strictly forbidden. But what is done is done,’ Gladys says dismissively. ‘For some Fae – dissenters of the Treaty, for the most part – you are vindication that the natural order will right itself. Limiting power, so it is said, would never last. Just as water wears at stone for aeons to create a great estuary, so nature will find a way to overcome the restrictions placed on the Art.
‘And there may be some truth in that,’ she sighs. ‘Your birth not only threatens the Treaty, it is also perilous to the very survival of our realms. Whoever unlocks the chalice will decide how the unbridled power is channelled. Will it be returned to nature as it once was, or will the power fuel heinous ambition? Along one path lies the continuation of the peace your forebear forged. Along the other path lies unending violence, pain and the destruction of our worlds if the unbridled Art is released into the hands of someone who will misuse it.’
She looks me squarely in the face, appraising me. ‘You, and you alone, have the power to decide along which path we shall travel. All of us. Fae and humans alike.’
She turns and continues up the passage a short way as questions swarm around my head.
‘The chalice of unbridled magic,’ I say, as the pieces of my life’s puzzle start to slot into place. ‘It’s the Luck of Edenhall.’
Gladys gives a single nod and continues down the stairs. I linger a moment at the painting of Queen Signe, thinking back to Marshall and the story about his family I heard from the tour guide at the V&A. How much does he know about the chalice and its provenance? He sure was sensitive about the topic. Does the Luck of Edenhall mean more to him than injured family pride and a lost fortune?
I hurry after Gladys, but stop as a realisation almost crumples me to the floor. The key to the Luck of Edenhall is my one bargaining chip. It’s Tom’s and my Get Out of Jail Free Card – literally. But, assuming I can find the key, how can I just hand it over to Agent Eight now that I know what it will unlock? I assume she’ll lock the key away in some dusty government vault for safe-keeping. But what if it ends up in the wrong
hands? Nobody should be trusted with that amount of power. The only safe place for the key is where it currently is: lost.
But how can I not trade the key for Tom’s freedom? Tom sacrificed so much to save me; surely I owe it to him to do anything and everything in my power to do the same.
I’m breathless when I catch up to Gladys. She leads me out of the grand old castle and into the gardens. If she senses my distress, she doesn’t show it. We walk in silence past a dozen unicorns trotting in formation around the grounds. I try not to gawk, but I can’t keep my eyes off them, especially Loxley, who stares straight at me. I feel like he’s challenging me, but to what? A race? A fight? The throne itself?
Jules’s warning about the Protectorate unicorns echoes in my ears. My feeling of foreboding intensifies as I wonder if everyone is happy about living under a matriarchy. All the rulers in the hall of portraits are women.
‘Why, in all those centuries, have there never been any kings?’ I ask Gladys.
‘Female genes are dominant so our queens produce more daughters than sons,’ Gladys explains. Then, lowering her voice as if she doesn’t want the unicorns to hear, she says, ‘Which is fortunate, because men do not do well in positions of power. A male heir is a last resort. We have not had violence in the Royal House for generations. And for the first time in recorded history we have a man vying for the throne. And how does he plan to do it?’ She curls her lip as if she has a bad taste in her mouth. ‘By shedding blood.’
She walks on, seemingly oblivious as to whose blood Damius is trying to shed.
We pass the fountain and walk along the path away from the castle. The huge trees grow thicker, their interweaving branches denser, and the garden grows darker and colder. Overhead, the sky has turned to a slate grey, threatening rain.
We reach a ramp constructed from moss-covered stones, rising steadily up a hill. At the end of the elevated ramp stands an archway fashioned from rows of trees, their tops thatched together to form an alcove. It’s dark and noticeably colder in here, the thatched trees blocking the light. Through the alcove sits a stone building with a high arched roof, mirroring the thatched trees. It’s covered in thick moss and ivy, but gives the impression of being ancient and solid. It’s so deeply nestled into the trees that from a distance you wouldn’t know it was here.
