Alesha Escobar
In a kingdom where magic is outlawed, it’s dangerous to be a shaman. And when dark mages sense someone’s power—it’s downright deadly. Corabelle Lansing is thrust into the middle of a secret battle among mages and must avoid a zealous witch-hunter when she performs a spontaneous healing on a friend. If it were up to her, she’d live out her life as a simple servant in the king’s kitchen, but now that her hidden magic has come to light, she must accept who she is and make it to safety, or fall into the hands of those who would destroy her.
A cool breeze swept toward Corabelle as she stood in the doorway of the back entrance to a large kitchen. The wind blew refreshingly cool air into her face—she was reluctant to return to the sweltering heat emanating from the oven.
She thought about last night when her window shattered and how unsettling it was. How did it break into a thousand pieces? What was that weird feeling she had inside her? Ever since she could remember, whenever she had that sensation, something odd would happen around her. An object would mysteriously break, or the weather would suddenly change. A merchant’s cart full of goods exploded when she was angry about the tradesman cheating her adoptive father, George.
What was wrong with her?
Seth slouched on the steps beneath her, tracing his short sword in the dirt.
“Is this what they teach you all day at the military school?” Corabelle asked.
Seth looked up at her, trying to conceal a smirk. His brown eyes squinted as they adjusted to the lack of light.
“Do you want me to leave?” He stood up and placed his sword in his scabbard. Corabelle leaned against his side and draped her right arm around his shoulder.
“Don’t leave. You’re the only friend who visits me. You’re probably the only friend I’ll have left by the end of summer.” Corabelle took a kerchief from her apron pocket and tied back her long black hair. Her almond-shaped eyes squinted in response to the dark.
“Are you sure you won’t get into trouble Seth? Shouldn’t you be training with Master Hale?”
Seth turned to face the sky. “I know enough.” He smiled and grabbed her hands. “Here, let me show you.” He pulled her down the steps and brought her into the small courtyard.
“What do you want me to do?” Corabelle asked as Seth placed his sword in her hands.
“I want to teach you a form.”
“I don’t own a sword,” Corabelle said, “and when am I ever going to use one?” She menacingly pointed the weapon at Seth. “Although, I do think I could use it on an ungrateful lout who forgot my birthday last week!”
“Yow!” Seth yelped as the sword came dangerously close to his rear end. “Watch where you’re pointing that thing!” He broke into a sprint as Corabelle chased him in a circle.
“Didn’t I bring you a gift?”
With a fervent swing of the sword—but not too close so as to actually hit him—Corabelle retorted, “Do you mean that hideous cake?”
“What was wrong with it?”
“You ate half of it!”
As Corabelle paused to catch her breath, Seth put his hand over hers—the one that held the sword. “I’ll do better next time.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “I can’t wait.”
“Oy!” a voice from the kitchen called. “Are you bothering my kitchen-girl?” A large plump man came into view. He wore a dirty apron and an intimidating scowl.
“Mister Brenner, this is my friend, Seth.”
The young man had already placed his sword back in his scabbard and stepped into the light of the doorway.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Seth Radnor, a Legionnaire in training.”
Unimpressed, Brenner ran his fingers through the last few hairs he had left on his balding head. “Well then you ought to know this is the King’s kitchen, and I need the new kitchen-girl to help out in here, you understand? Now off with you.”
Seth exchanged goodbyes with Corabelle and jogged toward the courtyard exit. Corabelle approached the kitchen door wearing her sweetest smile.
“Aww, don’t give me that innocent look. Next time he comes around, I’ll give him what for! Come along then, Sira needs help with the cake and—”
Suddenly a loud clatter came from the kitchen, followed by a scream. Both Corabelle and Brenner rushed into the kitchen to find his daughter writhing on the floor clutching her right arm. A broken wooden slab and a steaming pan with its contents lay scattered around her.
“Sira!” Brenner rushed to her side to examine her injury. Her right forearm blistered red from the hot oil. “Hold on!” The large man ran out of the kitchen, motioning for Corabelle to stay with his daughter.
Unsure of what to do, Corabelle held Sira’s shoulder with one hand, careful to avoid the girl’s hand and forearm. The girl sobbed and cried for help.
“Don’t worry,” Corabelle said. “Your father’s bringing help.”
But what if he didn’t come in time? If only something could be done now. Suddenly, Corabelle felt that odd sensation in her stomach, the one that caused her window to shatter last night. But this time, it radiated through her chest. She felt sick.
The sensation spread to her arms and reached her fingertips. For some inexplicable reason, she instinctively knew to grab Sira’s scorched arm. A light silvery mist surrounded where their hands met, and the burnt flesh healed until all that was left was a tiny scar.
Corabelle’s first reaction was to cry out in shock. All she wanted to do was help Sira, but she never meant to…
Brenner finally burst into the kitchen with the medic, Ethan, at his heels. “Here! My daughter’s been burned badly.” He made way for the medic who bent down to examine the whimpering girl.
“Which arm did you say it was, old man?”
“Her right arm sir…I think,” Brenner replied.
After carefully looking at Sira’s right and left arms, the medic helped the girl to stand. “Are you all right girl? Were you burned?”
“It was…not bad as I thought, sir.” She lowered her head.
The medic rounded on Brenner. “You made it sound as if the girl was dying.”
Without waiting for an explanation, Ethan stormed out of the room as if a cruel joke had been played on him. Sira threw herself into her father’s arms, apologizing for almost getting him into trouble.
“Everything’s all right.” He held her tightly in his arms.
“But I was burned,” she whispered in his ear.
He faced Corabelle. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she answered in a low voice. “I was holding her arm and…” She paused, unable and unwilling to explain further.
Although Brenner seemed to have guessed what happened, and surprisingly responded with an expression of understanding, she knew it would be foolish to say anything more.
“I don’t know what you did, but you helped my Sira. I won’t go fussin’ to anyone—your secret is safe with me.”
Secret? Corabelle thought, I can't even explain to myself what happened!
Did he think she was a magic-user? How could she be? She was just a servant among many in the royal palace. She wasn’t even educated in such things—magic schools didn’t even exist anymore.
This wasn’t a good thing to talk about or be associated with.
Tears welled up in Corabelle’s eyes. She had to explain to Brenner that she was not a mage.
“Jus’ go and help Lenny take the cake into the dining room,” Brenner gently commanded. She nodded and switched her dirty apron for a clean one.
Lenny, a boy of about ten, helped her place a large cake onto a serving cart. It was white with blue trimming and topped with cream and fruit. Corabelle pushed the cart out of the kitchen so fast, she almost sent little Lenny flying.
“This cake is delicious, Niles!” Augustina Ordurin squealed with delight. “Please give the chef my compliments.”
“My lady,” the head servant, Niles, answered, “it would be a pleasure, except you t
erminated him six months ago.”
The man sitting next to her—Prince Marcel—spoke up. “Sweetheart, I believe Aldus Brenner has been doing most of the cooking.” When no sign of recognition dawned on her face, he added, “He’s been with the family since I was a child. Do you remember he also made our wedding cake?”
She leaned back in her seat. “No dearest, I don’t.”
Marcel grinned at Corabelle, who stood in a corner next to the serving table. “Tell Aldus everything was wonderful, and that you have been a delightful server this evening.”
With the best curtsy she could manage, Corabelle muttered thanks in return. She gained just enough courage to peer around the room and take in the scene. Near the head of the table sat a middle-aged woman who wore a purple silk shawl over a lavender tunic dress and an antique silver ring on her right hand. Her caramel skin gleamed against the color of her clothing, and her dark brown hair was pulled back to the nape of her neck.
Corabelle had seen her dining with the Ordurin family many times before. Hedda Shardar was King Henrick’s chief royal advisor, and as rumor put it, an ingenious scholar and politician. Despite Hedda’s stern exterior, Corabelle could see a warmth and light in her eyes that actually made her approachable. Hedda always had a playful jest or interesting comment to make to Corabelle whenever she passed by.
Corabelle shot a quick scowl at Augustina who, she had to grudgingly admit, was gorgeous. Her golden hair fell down in delicate curls past her shoulders. She wore a dark-yellow embroidered dress and several exquisite jewels on her fingers.
Her husband seemed almost plain compared to her. The prince wore simple black formalwear and his dark hair looked as if he had hastily brushed it back. His father’s seat remained unoccupied. Hedda had explained that the king still suffered from an illness that originated three weeks ago.
Marcel faced Hedda. “Have the doctors discovered anything new?”
“I’m afraid not. Doctor Benethor did send us new medicines that we plan to try.”
The other empty seat at the table belonged to General Lorenc Wyle of the Enforcers League. Thank the Guardians he stepped out, Corabelle thought.
It was scary enough that he was an Enforcer, but he also seemed cold to her and downright dangerous. He flouted the custom of leaving one’s weapon with the House Armsman and swaggered around the palace with his silver long sword hanging at his side.
His lanky figure belied the incredible physical strength he possessed. Corabelle had seen him several times in the courtyard sparring with Legionnaires. He could shrug off blows that would send other men to their knees and deliver slashes with uncanny precision. Corabelle hoped she would never have to face the tip of that sword. She turned back toward the serving table and abandoned these thoughts, fiddling with trays and napkins when she noticed Hedda staring at her.
Lorenc entered the dining room, pausing to offer a half-bow to the prince and his wife. He promptly sat in his chair.
“Is there anything I can get you, Lord Wyle?” Niles asked.
Lorenc waved his hand as if a fly buzzed near him.
Hedda cleared her throat. “Forty-five minutes is a long time for a man to go freshen up, Lorenc. Hopefully you didn’t get lost.”
Lorenc had imposed his presence on the palace so many times that he probably knew the entire place by heart. “Mistress Shardar, you are so…jaded concerning my motives. I was only conversing among the lowly kitchen staff.” Now it was his turn to stare—only he was covertly doing so at Corabelle. “They have quite interesting stories.”
Corabelle’s insides twisted. Did he find out about the healing?
“But I’m sure,” Prince Marcel said, “that your stories are far more adventurous, Lord Wyle.”
He wore a smug expression. “Well, a few months ago I was in a small village in the southern region of Félen. The town suffered from an inexplicable drought. I traced the problem to its source—a young witch named Agathé, who had been ravaging the land with her curse for profit. She had stored up water in casks, and sold the containers to the villagers. When I confronted her, she claimed it was only temporary, that she was only trying to acquire enough money to help some ill relative or some rubbish. However, she must have had a guilty conscience, because she ran from me! So, I cut her pretty little head off.”
Hedda glared at him with the utmost contempt. Prince Marcel’s face went pale. Corabelle’s insides knotted. Whatever she did in the kitchen, why did it have to happen tonight? There was no one to stop Lorenc if he wanted to apprehend her that very moment.
“Tell me, kitchen-girl,” Lorenc snarled at Corabelle, emphasizing her title as if she were an imposter, “is the cook’s daughter all right? I heard the old man was in an uproar about her.”
Corabelle’s heart pounded in her chest and her brain felt feverish. She would have given anything to melt away and disappear right then and there.
“Just as I said, Lorenc,” Hedda cut in, “you dishonor your hosts by your meddling. Any affairs in the Ordurin household will be brought to the proper person’s attention.”
Lorenc sneered. “Perhaps I am the proper person.”
Corabelle swooned. As Hedda raced toward her, Augustina let out a nervous giggle and rang a small bell that signaled for more wine.
“Going around scaring young girls, Lorenc?” Hedda asked in a dangerous tone as she grabbed hold of Corabelle. She hoped the older woman would keep a firm grasp and not give her up to Lorenc.
“Come with me.” Hedda gently pulled her away.
She escorted Corabelle to an adjacent room and sat her on a plush sofa. She couldn’t tell if Hedda was worried or simply agitated.
“What is your name?”
“Corabelle Lansing.”
“How old are you?”
“I just came of age last week. Please don’t let him take me away, I didn’t mean to—”
“That fool won’t harm a hair on your head!”
“But I…earlier in the kitchen—”
“I know—I sensed it.”
She knows? But how? She was just about to admit for the first time that she really did perform that healing, and Hedda brushed it off as if it were nothing.
“Have you done this before?”
“Never,” she flatly replied.
“What about visions? Or a severe illness? Have you ever had these?”
Corabelle shook her head. Hedda studied her for a minute. “Most unusual. I wonder if you are a shaman?”
Corabelle remained silent—she could hear Lorenc’s and the others’ voices in the next room.
“I will help you, Corabelle, if you help me.” Hedda’s gaze held her attention.
“What is it?”
“You might have heard that King Henrick is ill, but that is only part of the truth. He’s been cursed with a disease by a dark mage, and everyone is too cowardly or too foolish to do anything about it. And he must be a powerful dark mage, else I would’ve uncovered him myself. I am not a healer, so it seems I will have to take a chance with you.”
She grabbed Corabelle by the wrist and pulled her off the sofa. With her free arm, Hedda lifted her hand and made a gesture as if pointing, except that she pointed with both her index and middle fingers. A stream of light along the wall mimicked the movement of her hand and forced the wall open, forming a perfect hole they could step through and into the hallway.
“We’ll want to avoid being seen,” Hedda explained, “so let’s take this corridor.”
“Mistress,” she asked, trembling. “Where are we going?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know—we’re going to heal the king.”
With that, they vanished into the dark hallway, the magic hole in the wall diminishing until it disappeared.
After running and turning down several corridors, Hedda finally stopped at a large door with the Ordurin coat-of-arms symbol engraved in the middle. She released Corabelle’s wrist and paused to catch her breath.
“Quickly,” Hedda whispere
d as she turned the handle and pulled the door open. “Few know this, but his health fades by the hour.” She held out her palm, and with an incantation produced a small red flame that illuminated the room.
They stepped into the king’s decadent apartments. Tapestries and paintings of Ordurin patriarchs and matriarchs lined the walls, and just ahead stood the door to his bedchambers. As they reached the bedroom door, they heard the first outer-door open.
“Go inside,” Hedda said. “I’ll meet whoever’s coming.”
Corabelle’s hands trembled as she opened the door and slipped inside. A fitful cough came from King Henrick’s canopied bed. The sheer silk drapes of the canopy were drawn back and a small oil lamp sat on the nightstand next to the bed, emanating a soft warm glow.
Corabelle paused and realized this was the first, and probably the last, time she would be this close to the king. He was kind and generous, and in many ways simple—which made her even more in awe of him. On her birthday, when she had gone to the kitchen to pick up her present from Mister Brenner, she found King Henrick out of bed, against the doctor’s orders, eating pastries and drinking “to the birthday girl’s good health.”
She was so shocked to see him—the king himself—just sitting there with the cook, she ran back into the courtyard and wouldn’t go back inside the kitchen until he had departed.
Now she was at his bedside to restore him.
She smoothed her skirt and approached. Kneeling beside the king, Corabelle hesitantly took his right hand in both of hers.
“Your Majesty,” she whispered in a soft voice that stirred him. Henrick’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of her. “Hedda Shardar sent me. If you let me, I’ll try to heal you.”
Henrick’s surprised look turned into one of recognition as he clasped his left hand over hers and attempted to smile, but his face was pale and sickly. She panicked when Hedda’s voice rose in the next room. Whoever came in wasn’t a friend.
Corabelle concentrated as hard as she could. Perhaps if she felt the way she did when Sira was hurt, she could duplicate the healing spell. Before she could puzzle out what to do next, a whoosh and a crashing sound shook the room. Hedda flew backward into the bedroom, thrown by an invisible force. She hit the wall with a loud thud and collapsed onto the floor.
Hidden Magic Page 76
