The Magic Council (The Herezoth Trilogy)

by Grefer, Victoria

  Yes, he told himself. It was his parents’ influence, but not in the way Laskenay imagined. It had nothing to do with his blood. It was the presence of his parents as represented by the authority figures of Vane’s youth: Teena, proving the claims of Laskenay’s letter by describing how the mother, distraught and weakened after fleeing Podrar, had begged her to save her child; Rexson, when Vane asked why he had named his eldest son what he had, revealing that Valkin’s warnings the day of the coup had saved Rexson’s life even as they cost Valkin his; Kora, who swore up and down that Laskenay’s shame on Zalski’s behalf was so heartfelt, and Laskenay so meritless of the burden, that Kora herself had nearly broken into tears on multiple occasions because of it; Zacry, who once had said in passing he wished he could have met Vane’s father, that the man Laskenay would marry must have been “an impressive bloke” and “someone who understood the things that really matter.” Laskenay and Valkin had lived selflessly, had made sacrifices, and through their actions forged a legacy among those close to them that was by far the greatest inheritance they left their son, one Zalski never could have confiscated. Even had Zalski survived to raise Vane himself, preventing his nephew ever coming in contact with Rexson, or Kora, or Zacry, even then there would have been a sector of the nobility to reach out to the boy and pass on the truth of his origins.

  Vane thought back to the one time he could remember being near his mother: the night referenced in her journal, two years or so after she had left him with Teena. He remembered gazing up into ice blue eyes as he lay curled in her lap and she stroked his hair to help him fall asleep. He imagined, for the first time, shallow wrinkles in her brow as she debated whether she should strip him of his magic.

  I still could cast that spell. I have it with me, I have her letter. I could take away my sorcery, and no one could object to me taking up my father’s title.

  But could Vane take that step, any more than his mother could? His magic had rescued three children that very day. Surely nothing that drastic would happen again. But then, how could he know? Sorcery was an asset, not only to him but to others, and he felt he would be self-centered to give it up.

  Another part of Vane thought, had always whispered in the back of his mind, that he had an obligation to do away with his powers. It honestly seemed the only decent thing to do from time to time, considering his uncle’s murders. Especially should Vane decide to live in Herezoth, especially if he wished to become a public figure and join court: could he live with himself if he accepted his inheritance without casting that spell? That was what he needed to discern. The nobility would coexist with him either way; no other dukes or counts knew about the spell’s existence.

  I don’t need to decide just yet, not about the spell, and not about the title. Maybe I could talk to Zacry. Or August.

  The thought hit Vane with a constriction somewhere in the area of his chest.

  Zacry wouldn’t understand how I feel a duty to cast that spell. He couldn’t, but August would. She’d get it, what with Ursa….

  A business-like rap on the door, succinct and brisk, disrupted Vane. Clumsily, he closed his mother’s diary. A man from the kitchens was waiting in the hall with a covered tray; he looked some years older than Vane, with hair almost black, a nose that came to a point, and deep dimples around his mouth when he talked.

  “The king sent your dinner. Said you had business to attend to and needn’t bother eat with him.”

  Vane glanced back to the desk, to the water-spotted diary, and nodded. The servant entered and placed the tray beside it. “What’s your name?” Vane asked.

  If the stranger was taken aback by Vane’s informality, he made no show of it. He turned and introduced himself as Treel. When he had gone Vane pushed the food to the side of the desk, ignoring it for the moment, determined to finish reading Laskenay’s last entry.

  No matter. It is the future with which I must concern myself, not a past forever lost. If I am to die two days from now—and I feel fated to—I shan’t suffer my brother to survive me. I have contemplated, but do I dare?

  I realized yesterday that with Zalski in sight I need only cast one spell, the single incantation to bind two lives, and…. Yes, I shall summon the nerve. I shall cast that spell and kill myself afterward if need be, destroy myself to ruin him. That duty falls to me: our lives began together, and together they will end. I can fathom no other way to ensure his death. This spell he cannot block, for I may cast it on myself, on either party according to that book, as long as the second is present. If I aim to kill, without the bind, and he kills me instead…. No, I will not have that. That beast will keep his distance from my son.

  Kora holds no suspicions. She does not realize I remember that incantation, for we never copied it from the Librette, never spoke of it at any length. She would protest my determination, and vehemently; the entire League would. Well, the poor girl will recover from her shock at my death, and Rexson will reign—I will see to it he reigns, by God! I will put him on that throne and though I may be gone, he will see Zalski’s wife hung if she escapes me somehow. She will know I triumphed, know

  The final words were smeared, as though someone had surprised Laskenay while writing and she had shut the journal before the ink could dry. She had never completed the final sentence, and never, her son knew, cast that spell upon her brother. She never had the opportunity; Zalski had bound Laskenay’s powers before she could utter a first incantation against him. Her sister-in-law had slain her in the end, Vane knew that from Kora.

  At that very moment, Kora could have no idea of what Laskenay had sought to do; neither Rexson, if he had not lied when he claimed he never read the journal. Vane knew his mother would have wished them ignorant, and knew that he himself would keep her confidence. She had sacrificed so much for him that he felt validated, even liberated, to think he could do something small for her in turn.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Treel Warrell

  Treel Warrell chose not to live in the servant’s quarters, mainly because he and his sister took care of their grandmother. No one else in his family could devote living space to the old woman. His older brother and cousins had heaps of children, whereas Treel had none and, most of the time, enjoyed having the matriarch around. She was far from senile, merely weakened by age, and wise as well as able to crack a joke like the best of them.

  When Treel returned around midnight to a little cabin not far from the Landfill, he knew both its female occupants were asleep because there was no light, no fire gleaming through the curtained windows, only the lantern his sister had hung on the door for him. In its glow, from a distance, he made out the silhouette of a man waiting, leaning against the cabin and examining his hands. The master of the house had expected as much. He rushed his step.

  “Rexson has the children,” Treel told Dorane as he drew near.

  “I know that already, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Listen, Dorane.” Treel walked right up to the sorcerer, masking his insecurity with a swagger that bordered on aggression. “I helped you because we’ve been friends since before we could walk. Because when we were kids and you saved me from that pack of dogs I told you I owed you a favor, no questions asked. You waited close to twenty years to call me on it. You swore the princes wouldn’t get hurt, and I kept my word. The point of you saving my life only to ask me to risk it, I couldn’t say, but I kept my word. I told you where to find them. You got your favor.

  “The weird thing is, the royals made up all kinds of stories. The queen fell ill, unfit to receive anyone, but never called for a doctor. News travels fast in the Palace. I would have heard it if a doctor came. Later, people started saying her sons had gone to Yangerton, since they’d never been there, and then to the farmlands ‘cross the river. Not a peep, not the smallest peep of the truth got out, even though two guards disappeared. Just vanished. They’d gone with the boys, people said. I realized you must have killed them, that you made me an accomplice to murder. I realized too you must have
threatened to do in the princes. That was why the royals were so tight-lipped, you see? You flat-out lied to me. You’re a bastard, that’s what you are. I don’t know what happened to you when you took up with those Enchanted Fist maniacs, but you’re not who you were, not if you would have killed those boys, and I think you would have if you had to. Like you killed the guards. You used me, Dorane. I won’t be helping you again, do you hear me? Get away from my home!”

  Dorane listened to the tirade, waiting for a chance to interject. When it came he produced a letter. “I need you to get this to the king.”

  “Are you deaf?” asked Treel. “I said to get away from me!”

  Dorane leaned forward. “Did you notice a girl arrive at the Palace today? Seventeen or eighteen, something around there? She’s in danger unless the king receives this letter. It’ll tell him what to do to keep her safe.”

  “Safe from what? From you?”

  Treel snatched the parchment. He made as though to shred it into pieces, but Dorane ripped it from his hands. “You don’t want to do that,” said the sorcerer.

  “How do I get it to the king without alerting him you have someone in the Palace? He might already know that.”

  “You’ll figure something out.”

  “Why should I trust you?” Treel demanded. “I can’t read the note. You know I can’t read.”

  “I’m not lying this time. The girl’s safety….”

  “Go to hell,” said Treel. “Go to the Giver’s hell and rot there. I’m done with you.”

  Dorane called after him but made no effort, physical or magical, to prevent Treel unlocking his door and slipping inside. Treel would have slammed it behind him but refrained, not wanting to wake the women. He had grabbed the lantern on his way in, and its light cast shifting shadows on the drab kitchen as his hand shook.

  Treel couldn’t help sinking into, even losing his footing in the past, just as he’d lost his footing at the age of eight on a brisk autumn morning. At the time, he’d been running with Dorane through the woods north of the capital where they’d gone to look for branches to whittle into swords. They had not yet had luck when three feral dogs found them and charged, snapping their jaws, so the boys tried to run, but Treel slipped in a patch of mud.

  Both youths carried bows, in case they found a rabbit to bring home for dinner. That allowed Dorane to fire at the dogs. Two of them gave horrid-sounding yelps that still rang from time to time in Treel’s ear; they never made it to Dorane, but the third one did. It barreled over Treel and tore into Dorane’s shoulder before Treel could right himself and shoot the rabid thing. Well, it hadn’t really been rabid, he told himself. Dorane would have died if it was rabid. Or had Dorane’s sorcerer father kept the disease at bay with magic? Treel couldn’t remember the dog foaming, or tossing frothy drool. The animal sure had seemed mad, though; as big as he was it had been, and black. More than anything, Treel remembered the contrast between the coat and the snarling mouth, the jet fur and the white teeth glistening like sharpened knives.

  Hang yourself, none of that matters now! You need to figure out how to get free and clear of this mess.

  Treel felt danger pressing in from more than one side, as though he were eight again and Dorane, instead of helping him, transformed into a fourth hairy beast to come at him from a different angle. The other dogs were the king and queen and army. Treel plopped himself on the kitchen’s only stool.

  I can’t provoke Dorane. I’m a lucky bastard he didn’t just kill me. I should watch out at the Palace too—if the royals figure out what I did, they’ll hang me. That I can’t have, I won’t have. I’d rather Dorane do me in.

  His best choice at the moment was to lie low. Dorane didn’t seem to resent Treel turning against him, so that was good. With the Giver’s blessing, the cad just might stay away. If he came back, Treel would keep refusing to get involved, and that was that. He felt strongly there, both because of his conscience and because he needed to avoid the king’s attention. As for now, Rexson had no reason to suspect Treel, no knowledge of the kitchen servant’s childhood pals. Treel had no cause for panic, not unless he did something idiotic, something like getting Dorane’s letter to the king.

  Treel gave his heartbeat time to steady, then headed off to bed. He took the lantern with him in a hand that trembled. He couldn’t control what Dorane might do, not in any respect, but Treel wouldn’t help the man again. At least in that he had some kind of plan. Some amount of power over his own life. His grip on the lantern strengthened, and its light cast shadows that grew less and less volatile in their movements as he entered the room where he slept.

  * * *

  When Dorane transported to his log cabin in a village just north of Podrar, the first thing he saw, by lantern, was the back of his wife’s head bent over a mended travel bag in the sparsely furnished, rugless, and curtainless main room. Her cropped scarlet hair swung with a slow, lazy motion as she lifted a stack of dresses and children’s clothes piece by piece to pack them.

  The hour was past midnight, but the tired ache in Dorane’s limbs fell away. He looked to the closed-off bedroom, where his two-year-old son was asleep, then to the top of Drea’s head, which was bent over her bag. The woman had glanced at him when he appeared, doing her best to point her rounded nose up in a huff before she returned to her work without further signs of recognition.

  “What are you doing?” Dorane asked.

  Drea’s high-pitched voice sounded distant. “What’s it look like? I’m going to Yangerton.”

  That meant to her sister. Dorane had returned to tell her to do precisely that. The princes were gone; if the king should send soldiers to his home, or if Dorane should have to reveal Rexson’s magic…. That last would endanger his son just as much as the first, and precautions must be taken. Drea must go, and her child, but to see her walking out on her own instigation….

  He called Drea’s name. She stuffed three dresses at once in the bag, telling him, “Reeta came by today.” A friend of hers, also Dorane’s boss’s wife; Dorane worked at a pulp mill on the river, unloading timber from the barges that delivered it. “She started talking about how you’d taken an unpaid leave. How you could end up jobless because of it. Said you hadn’t been to work for a good month. A month, Dorane! I knew you hadn’t been home because of some business or other with that cursed group of fools that like to piddle around with magic, but I never thought you weren’t working!”

  “I only meant to be away for a day or two. It’s like I told you, a project with the Fist ran out of hand.”

  She hurled the rest of the clothes at him. “I don’t care about your blasted Enchanted Fist! I care about my fist. I care that when I dip it in the coin tin, I have to draw it out empty. Your ridiculous group, your obsession with sorcery, because that’s what it’s become, an obsession…. I’m not sitting here alone while you desert me and let your son starve. They dismissed you from university for failing exams, because you missed lectures, because all you cared about was magic. Now the mill. The mill, Dorane, in the Giver’s name! You can’t hold down a job at the mill?

  “It’s perfectly clear what matters to you, and that’s not us. It’s not your family, so I’m taking Zate to my sister. I’ll find some kind of work in Yangerton, and you will not hear from us again. You won’t poison my son’s mind with your lunacy. You….”

  Dorane asked, “And how are you getting to Yangerton, exactly?”

  “Reeta’s going down tomorrow. She’s had the trip planned for weeks and has a carriage rented, all the stops and inns laid out. She agreed to take us with her, at dawn.”

  “And if I decided otherwise?”

  If he decided otherwise, she couldn’t stop him. She had no more magic than a toad, but she laughed, a scornful laugh that bit into his soul.

  “You wouldn’t dare harm me. You wouldn’t dare, not Zate’s mother. I’m all he has. The boy hardly knows you anymore. He belongs with me, and he’s leaving with me, and you….” She threw herself in front
of the bedroom door as he turned toward it. “Don’t force me to fend for myself and for the boy without my family, in some backwoods excuse for a village. Don’t make me do that to the child, because I will, if I have to. If that’s what it takes to ensure you won’t meddle….”

  Dorane could have transported past her into the room where his son slept, but he chose not to. He figured he would have to expose the king within the week, would have to foment unrest that would threaten his boy as surely as all the magicked, and feared he would lack the strength after looking at the tot. As for Drea, he felt so torn in such varied directions that any explanation or excuse he tried to give her would prove incomprehensible. He could not mention how the pained resolve in her gaze made him ache; how he loathed himself at that moment more than ever before on account of the deadened look in her eyes for which he, he alone, was responsible; how that child in the next room over was far and away the best part of him; how, if he had known his marriage would come to this, he never would have walked into that tavern outside university limits in Podrar the night he’d met Drea seven years before. He simply asked, “You want my word I won’t follow you?”

  “I want your word you’ll never contact me again, or I swear on my son’s life I’ll take Zate someplace you’ll never find us and do what I can to scrape together a living. Do what I can, and most likely fail. So what is it, Dorane? Do I go to my sister or strike out on my own?”