A Ragged Magic

by Lindsey S. Johnson

  “P-Petey,” he whimpers through a sob. “Can’t go home, me mum and da’re out there.” And he points out the door to the pile of bodies, growing slimy in the muck. I drape my cloak about his shivering body and wipe his nose with my handkerchief.

  “Why haven’t the priests Healed you yet, Petey?” I fear his fever has gotten too high for him to answer me coherently, but he shrugs and sniffles and does his best.

  “Wasn’t my turn. Can’t heal me afore it’s my turn,” he says, his words slurring.

  I hand him a mug of hot tea and wrap his hands around it. “Hold this and stay here until I come back for you,” I say and stand up, clenching my fists.

  I try to stem my anger. There are at least ten Healing priests sitting in the Inquisitor’s building, staying in fine inns near the town square, but no one could help this boy. Here, where the worst cases of the Wasting languish, where babies wrap up their parents in linen and shiver from fever and cold, there are only three priests tending to the ill. And only one, I realize belatedly, who has the Healing blue surplice.

  Marching into the large sickroom, I see Julianna arguing with that priest again, near the large stone hearth. They turn at my entrance and I hurry to them, drop into a curtsey.

  “Your Highness, I ask your help with a matter in the kitchen,” I say.

  Julianna’s glance at me is not amused. “I have a matter to discuss here with Father Baudin. Pray do not interrupt.”

  Grinding my teeth in worry and frustration, I back off and glance toward the kitchen.

  Julianna is in high temper, and insisting now will only bring more attention to me. I stand behind her and listen to her lecture. “Now then, you shall tell me why this patient’s illness hasn’t been dealt with, when there are a plethora of priests taking their ease at the Eagle Inn?”

  The priest hesitates and grows red. Pulling at his collar, he attempts to answer irate royalty as if he were perfectly within the right. “You see, your Highness, the stricken here must wait their turn for treatment. There are others ahead of them who must receive the Healing spells first —”

  Julianna cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “Do you mean to tell me that here, where I can see very severe cases of the Wasting, there isn’t a need for priests to Heal the sick?”

  The man’s upper lip shines with sweat. His face, though red, keeps its blank expression, and I have to admire his control. “The priests with Healing training must conserve their strength for the worst cases, your Highness, and —”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, these people are the worst cases. I demand you send for more priests immediately and have them begin to Heal all the sick, not just those with money in their pockets.”

  I know Julianna itches to Heal those around us herself. She hates the constraints she has put on herself, that circumstances put on her. It shows in her voice.

  A commotion outside distracts us: the voice of a crowd of people talking, and Gantry sweeps into the room. Surrounded by young priests and wealthy merchants, he plays to the horde. Although his rich patrons are damp, none pay any mind to the mud and dreariness of their surroundings. His charismatic eyes draw the young man talking to him into gushing, stuttering adoration. With sickening panic, I recognize Francis, my fiancé. My former fiancé, rather, fawning over Bishop Gantry.

  Dropping further back, I nearly fall over Petey, who stands just at my elbow. My cloak droops around him like a massive rain cloud, dragging water on the floor. He leans exhausted on a cot where a young man lies, both unaware of the commotion around them. Their eyes are empty and hopeless with fever. I wonder if I will always see Keenan’s face in my memory with eyes like that: hopeless.

  I stay behind Julianna to keep out of Francis’ sight, and tighten the barriers around my magic, just in case. But even to my shielded mind there is a bright glow to the room beyond me, and I look for the source.

  Behind Gantry stands Orrin, silent and expressionless. Magic glows around him like moonlight through storm clouds, turbulent and murky. His eyes look empty, too. Bishop Gantry has many eyes to answer for.

  The crowd around Gantry stills as one by one people see Julianna quietly waiting. Many drop to deep obeisance, with a hasty “Your Highness,” on their lips. A few around Gantry do not, and I try to note whom.

  Gantry smiles benevolently, but his eyes turn me cold. “Your Highness, here you are in the hospice again. I had hoped not to find you here today.” A lie — I can sense how he wants to play to this crowd.

  “Ah, Bishop Gantry, you wound me. And here you are just the person I hoped to meet. How fortuitous for me that you have dropped by.” Julianna’s voice purrs over the mob, delicate and charming, as she moves around the cots to stand before him.

  Gantry jumps in before she can speak further, eager to defame her before these rich merchants. “Your Highness, I fear I must caution you yet again that your soul is in danger from these repeated attempts at Healing without the Star Lord’s blessing. I …” He trails off as he looks into Julianna’s eyes, his smug look dropping as she draws herself into full regal stance.

  “But my Lord Bishop, you did not allow me to speak my part,” she says mildly. She holds out her hand, and he must bow over it, by custom and rank.

  His eyes narrow as he rises. “Your Highness,” he intones, but his voice sounds less supple, more nasal, and I feel sweat pour over my body at that sound. I remember that sound. Struggling to breathe in quiet rage, I clench poor Petey’s hand until he whimpers in pain.

  “I am not, as you say, Healing without the Star Lord’s blessing. I merely offer comfort to the suffering, and such simples as will ease their pain. If my power does not truly Heal, then I shall leave that duty to those who can do so. But, as you can see, my Lord Bishop,” and her voice rings off the walls, “those who can Heal are not.

  “I have a dozen priests taking their ease at the expense of my mother’s coffers, here to combat this pestilence. And yet there is only one priest here, where the worst of the Wasting abides, where people suffer and die for what this priest describes as waiting their turn. Did you know of this, my Lord Bishop?”

  A subtle shift in the room. More of the merchants listen to Julianna, and worry for the town and their own people. And mentioning Duchess Marguerite makes everyone want to help her. I feel a stir of hope.

  “Your Highness,” Gantry begins, unsure of himself as I have never seen him. “I assure you that is merely an oversight. I am here to correct it. A grievous error indeed, if it has cost lives, but of no malice intended.” His bow, while perfectly executed, is not deep, and there is a twist to his pale lips.

  “Well, then correct it, my good Bishop! There are ill townspeople surrounding you. Heal, sir, and be an example to the people.”

  Gantry steps back, a hand to his chest. “Highness, I—”

  “You have the gift, sir, or am I mistaken?”

  I did not know Gantry was a Healer. I cannot fathom it. A true Healer should not be able to do what he does. But Gantry is searching for words, and Julianna searches for a patient.

  Looking at me, she pulls Petey forward. He whimpers when his hand leaves mine, and a wash of dread films over me. Julianna brushes his hair from his head, and smiles at him.

  “Here, my Lord Bishop. A young child, deep in the fever. Do you Heal him, with the Star Lord’s blessing, and let the priests under you know there shall be no slacking in any bishropic you would consider.”

  Gantry’s head snaps up from contemplating the boy. With a barely controlled sneer, he grips the boy’s wrist.

  I hear a harsh gasp from behind Gantry, and I see Orrin’s hood drop back from a face grimaced in pain. Purple sparks jump from him to the bishop, and Gantry’s eyes light with power.

  I feel a pulling, a rush of power. Orrin — Orrin reaches out with his magic, and mine answers. It hurts, and I gasp, too. Gantry fills with our combined power, and he gestures to Petey with a dramatic flair.

  But as he gestures, panic fills his face.

&nb
sp; I can feel it go wrong — too much power, he can’t control it. The Healing is awry — Gantry is not a good Healer, or he would stop the spell.

  I try to break off my power but I’m drawn in. I sink to my knees slowly, trying to fix it. I See a nimbus of amethyst haze surround Petey and Gantry. It darkens to ashes, and Gantry’s face pales as the Healing burns too hot, burns us all.

  Petey cries out weakly once and falls from Gantry’s grip, limp. I sway on my knees, try to find balance as I finally break the tie with Orrin. Julianna sweeps down in front of me; my view is blocked by her skirts.

  “My lord!” I hear the horror in Julianna’s voice, and I sink further down behind her, hidden in a warren of cot legs and ragged blankets. “He is dead!”

  The shocked voices of the crowd drift louder. A small hand, outflung and half open, is just visible next to Julianna’s kneeling form. I reach out to touch it, but Julianna’s skirts swing over it, and I let my fingers drop, numb, to my side.

  “I — he was too weak, alas, and dying. The Star Lord willed his small soul to the light. I could not keep him.” Gantry’s voice shakes, and I hear the crowd mutter at his explanation. Poor child. Killed by the Wasting.

  The murmurs around me rise and fall. I clench my hands uselessly in fists and jam them to my temples. Peter’s limp hand flops as Julianna lifts his body from the floor. Her back blocks out the sight of everything but his arm, resting on her billowing skirts. Another priest bends and takes the prone form from her.

  It is my fault. Gantry would never have touched him if I’d only left well enough alone. If I’d only kept him behind me when Gantry came in, or gone to the kitchen with him to make more tea. Julianna was taking care of things. I didn’t need to interfere. And now a boy with hopeless eyes lies dead because of me.

  I look up to see Orrin’s face — his hopeless eyes. He stares at me, the rest of his face blank as a death mask. He turns away as Gantry’s hand fastens on his arm.

  I drop my gaze, huddle behind Julianna. My cloak lies on the floor in a puddle of sodden wool. The air buzzes in my ears. I glance up to catch a glimpse of Gantry’s face, closed and tight-lipped, and the priest’s, frightened and backing away from the bishop. My head pounds; I can’t stand up, but I wish I had a weapon. I think, if I had the energy, I would kill him now, and consequences be damned.

  “The shock: it’s all too much for her. Have my carriage brought, and send a message to Lord Dorward. He’ll meet her at the stables.” Julianna pulls me to my feet.

  Hands and arms bundle me out of the inn, and into the waiting carriage. My hands still press in fists to my temples. I stare at nothing, dry-eyed, trying to make a sound, any sound at all. The carriage lurches forward, and I curl into the velvet seats as I bounce toward the castle.

  It was my power that turned the Healing too hot. My untamed power that filled Gantry. I don’t think he’d have helped Petey much without me, but he might not have killed him, either. I trail ruin behind me like a cape.

  The cold of the rainy day brushes in, and hands lift me bodily from the carriage. My legs don’t work, and I’m carried from the courtyard to the castle. Jumbles of voices buffet me, but I know Connor’s voice, and I curl into his embrace as if it could save me from my sins. Such carnage, empty eyes and broken necks, and I didn’t stop it.

  A sharp slap snaps my head sideways, and I look up into furious hazel eyes. I sit slumped on my bed in our room, my body aching, tense and cold. Linnet’s glare burns into my consciousness as I return to reality.

  “Linnet, what are you —” but she ignores Connor in favor of shaking me.

  “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare turn tail and run again! You coward!”

  My neck aches from the force of her shaking, and I reach up one balled fist and uncurl a finger to touch her cheek.

  She rocks back as if I slapped her.

  “It’s my fault he’s dead,” I whisper.

  “It’s your fault Mum’s dead, too.” And she is gone, sweeping out of the room like a thunderstorm.

  Connor stares after her, his face a granite mask. His arms are raised, as if he were about to grab her. He drops them, and steps to my side, lifting my chin. I can feel the skin rising from Linnet’s slap.

  “You needed to snap out of that, but I’d hoped to do it more gently.” His lips press into a pale line, and he turns to bring a tray over to my bedside. Tea and steaming towels lie on it; the one he hands to me, the other he applies to my face himself.

  I feel tremors start deep in my stomach.

  “Breathe, Rhiannon.” My lungs creak at the reminder, and I drag in gasps and try to swallow my tea. He takes the cup from me. “One at a time. Breathe. Now, drink.” He nurses me as gently as Julianna, only with dark eyes and no smiles and a bleak look to his mouth.

  When I have drunk all the tea, I feel a weariness fall over my limbs, like a potion, and I curl into a ball and ignore him. Connor covers me with a blanket and darkens the lamp as he leaves.

  My head pounds in rhythm with the burning along my scars, and my heart rages. The dead are mounting, and I fear there will be more. I must plan the death of this Bishop, to add to my crimes. This one I will do on purpose.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My resolve to end Gantry’s life lies smothering on my soul, a dense weight of stones. I wake in the morning to Linnet’s light snores, and a head on fire, my eyes gritty and burning. The gray light of another wet summer dawn does little to illuminate the dark corners, but this morning I like the dark.

  I slump out of bed, pull a gown out of the chest and struggle listlessly into it. The water in the bowl on the stand is cold and stale, but it shocks some of the cobwebs from my mind. I grope my way in the dark to the bathing room and water closet. I touch the lamp and a soft glow lights the room so I can see to relieve myself. Everything is quiet, and I try to think.

  Gantry has to die. The words rise up from my heart and choke me. He cannot be allowed to continue. He called for the deaths of my family. He signed the papers. He tortured me. He tortured Orrin. He called demons, and he is probably fomenting civil war. He used demon spells. I don’t care that he’s a link in a chain, that the kirche is too powerful. I don’t care that he isn’t even in charge. He needs to die.

  I make my way to the herbarium in the mostly quiet castle. Dawn is breaking, and some servants are beginning their days. I hear noises in the kitchen. My cold bare feet make soft sounds as I pass the door and head down the short flight of stairs.

  The packet I made a few days ago is where I left it. I put it in my pocket and start making simples in the glow of the lamps. I may as well be useful as long as I’m awake so early. I make myself tea from one of the restoratives, which helps my aching head some.

  I just need a way to get close to Gantry. To his drink, specifically. I’d rather not get caught — but if I am caught, after he’s dead, I will have done one thing right.

  I feel Linnet’s mind try to send to mine, and then Hugh’s, but I strengthen my barriers and ignore them. Linnet is easy to ignore yet — her sendings still aren’t very strong. Hugh is more insistent, but I have more power. I keep working.

  Several rounds of tisane later, the stairs creak and I look up to see Linnet staring back at me. I am straining an infusion of chamomile and elderflower into a storage jar.

  I speak before she can. “Is the princess awake?” Steam from the infusion wisps around my face, making it hard to see how far I’ve filled the jar. I blow lightly across the top of the jar to clear it, then fill it the rest of the way.

  “Everyone’s up and looking for you. His Grace can’t even find your shining magic glow,” she snaps, glaring.

  “I’m sorry if I worried anyone. I woke up early.” She rolls her eyes and turns to look at Hugh, who’s walking down the stairs behind her.

  “I told you she didn’t run away,” he says to her, and she shrugs his hand off her arm and runs up the stairs. He watches her go for a moment, then continues down to me. “That child is far too
angry.”

  “Who isn’t?” I say under my breath, and he sighs and pretends he didn’t hear me. I wipe the jar dry and turn to put it on the shelf.

  “Rhia, I came to check on you, see if you’re recovered. From yesterday.”

  “I know what from,” I say. He puts his hand out to me, but I dodge him. “I’m tired, but nothing permanent.”

  “Do you know what happened? Could you tell?”

  “Gantry overreached. He’s not a good Healer.” Hugh raises his eyebrows, but nods. “He overreached, and caught me. It burned too hot, and the magic was too much for Petey.”

  “Who?”

  I stare at Hugh, and he flushes. “The boy’s name was Petey? I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Rhia. That must have been terrible.”

  “Gantry has no dearth of crimes laid at his door,” I say, and I catch the worried frown on Hugh’s face, try to dial back my bitterness.

  “Did it harm you? I mean, magically?”

  “I think I’m … sore.” I don’t know how to describe the rest of it — the certainty of wanting to kill a man, the cold center of my chest. Is that a result of being exposed to demons? Am I losing my mind as much as Gantry? Does the magic have me as much in its thrall? These are questions I can’t ask aloud. I don’t know if I would, even if I were able.

  Hugh watches me pour another jar full of tisane. “I’m glad you aren’t more hurt. Do you think you could help me with something tomorrow, then?”

  I look up at him. He regards me with a wary expression, as though he isn’t sure he trusts my assessment of myself. Fair enough. “I can try,” I say. I reach for another jar.

  Hugh touches my arm, and I See him frightened, yelling, something about death, his face a mask of fury.

  I gasp out loud. “What is it? Did you burn yourself?” he asks as the tisane splashes.

  “No,” I say, blinking. “No. I just — I guess I am pretty tired.” I reach past him for some rags to mop up.