by Molly Ringle
One was an exo-witch—someone who could manipulate other living things, but not her own body. Merrick knew it from the magic paralyzing him, as well as from the yellow sash across her uniform coat. Endo-witches, people like Merrick who could only use magic to alter themselves, wore a red sash when working officially. That said, when it came to magic, working officially was not something Merrick often did.
The other guard, a thickset man in his fifties, wore a green sash—a matter-witch. He tucked his flashlight under his arm and reached out. The carved stick flew out of Merrick’s grasp and into the man’s hand.
“What were you doing at the verge this late?” the woman asked. “Trying to get fae-struck?”
“Trying to meet my mother. She’s a faery.” The fae half of him made it difficult to lie outright. He often wished his absentee mother had been one of the deceptive types of fae so he could indulge more easily in the human habit of dishonesty.
“This is a summoning stick.” The man held it up. “Got a license for it?”
“No. I found it. Just keep it and let me go, okay? I won’t try anything else.”
The exo-witch still had Merrick’s limbs frozen. “Afraid we’ve got to write this up. What’s your name? Can we see some identification, please?”
Merrick sighed. “In my back pocket.”
They found his wallet, read his driver’s license, and ran a check on a phone screen.
“Merrick Highvalley,” the man said. “Age twenty-nine. Perfumer, co-owner, Mirage Isle Perfumes. Endo-witch, registered with rare witch abilities—only human in Eidolonia with the power of flight. Huh.”
“I’ll just go home. I swear,” Merrick said, still immobilized on the ground.
“Sorry, friend.” The woman released her magic hold and replaced it with a hand around his arm. She pulled him to his feet. “Looks like this is your second offense. We have to give you a citation, and we’ll be escorting you home ourselves.”
They marched him toward the road.
“No—listen. I’m trying to help my father,” Merrick said. “He’s aging too fast, all because my mother took him into the fae realm a couple of times. No one’s been able to help him. She might. I just need her to come talk to me.”
“That’s not how to go about it.” The woman got out a small printing computer from the patrol car and began tapping buttons. “Use and possession of an unauthorized summoning charm is against the law.”
Merrick looked away, his jaw clenched. The woman printed out the citation and handed it to him. He ignored it a few seconds before snatching it.
Lightning flashed again, dancing across the curdled undersides of the clouds.
CHAPTER 3
WHAT DID YOU THINK WOULD HAPPEN?” CASSIDY sounded long-suffering rather than angry. Although a bit angry too.
Merrick had come home late last night, his car tailed by the police, who luckily had their lights and sirens off and thus hadn’t woken Cassidy. But he’d told his sibling everything this morning, since there was no hiding the fact that he had a court appearance in a couple of weeks.
“It was worth a try,” he muttered.
Cassidy leaned on the parapet next to him, on the rooftop deck of Highvalley House. A March mist lay on the forest. The air was still cool enough that they both wore jackets, though Eidolonia rarely got much colder than this. Snow usually only fell on the highest peaks, and all of those were in fae territory.
Where Merrick would apparently never, ever go.
“Our mom hasn’t come to see us our whole lives,” Cassidy said. “Why would she now?”
“Because someone forced her to with a summoning stick, I was thinking.”
“Look, either she doesn’t know about Dad’s condition or she doesn’t care. I’m guessing the latter, since they seem pretty good at knowing what we’re doing.”
The fae, they meant, were good at monitoring humans. Eidolonia had been entirely fae territory until the early 1700s, when the curious fae decided to let a few ocean explorers ashore, one ship after another over the years: Europeans, Hawaiians, Asians, natives of the Americas. To those humans who had consented to behave in a cooperative fashion rather than attempting conquest, the fae had extended an invitation to live on the island.
When it became clear that living on Eidolonia awakened witch powers in about half of humans too, magical innovation became another perk: for humans to experiment with and for fae to watch in amusement. But few humans ever doubted that the fae were in charge on this island.
“So where are we now?” Cassidy said. “One more offense and you’re in jail.”
“Yep.”
“You have to stop pulling crap like this. We can’t change what’s happening to Dad. He doesn’t even mind. He says it’s worth it, to have produced us.”
“He says that, but he also wants to have adventures, invent things, go places, and now he’s getting so frail he can’t, and … ” Merrick abandoned the diatribe. Cassidy knew all this.
They shot a glance at him, their eyes the same near-black as their father’s, though enhanced with a perfect double layer of blue and black eyeliner.
“What good would it do him to have his son in prison?” Cassidy asked. “Or Elemi, have you thought about how upset it would make her to have her uncle locked up?”
“Of course I’ve thought of it.”
“I’m not sure you have. You think you should get to do whatever the hell you want. Experiment with magic, sneak around, break laws, who cares; those laws weren’t in place for a good reason or anything.”
“Some of them aren’t,” he pointed out. “Especially with the current administration.”
“Well. True.” Cassidy squinted out across the hillside. “I know it’s been a tough year.”
“Two of my best friends moved away. I broke up with Feng. Who got into the Researchers Guild when I didn’t. And Riquelme got elected. Yeah, tough year.”
“You can try again for the Researchers. Then you’d get to experiment with magic if they accept you.”
“If. I don’t have those perfect test scores or that immaculately responsible record. Especially now.”
“Well, is it so awful being an awesome uncle—better than her dad who never wants to see her—”
“Asshole,” Merrick put in, which was all the conversation Cassidy’s ex merited.
“Exactly. An awesome uncle and an actually not too bad perfumer—isn’t it a good life?”
He tried to smile. It felt halfhearted. “I love Elemi, you know that. And perfume. Even though … sometimes it feels like perfumery is your vocation and I just tagged along because it was easy.”
“Excuse me. Perfumery is not easy. Very few have the nose or the interest for it. You do in fact have talent, idiot.”
“You just know it’d cost too much to hire someone with real skill. I’m cheap labor.”
“Obviously. So come to the lab and help us bottle up the festival scents.” Cassidy stepped back from the parapet. “Oh, meant to tell you—lightning hit that old cedar in the east garden last night. Pretty sure it’s a goner.”
“The one with the gargoyle under it?”
“Yeah. That might’ve taken a hit too. I had to get Elemi to school. Didn’t have time to haul branches around and look.”
Lightning. Which had flared up right after he’d activated the summoning stick.
Merrick’s gaze moved to the east garden below. “I’ll check it out.”
Merrick tromped through the garden, past statues, trellises, trees, and overgrown hedges. Rosamund Highvalley, the sister of their many-times-great-grandfather, had designed the gardens as well as Highvalley House. Rosamund’s father had been a Welsh mapmaker aboard one of the first ships, his name changed to “Highvalley” when his shipmates deemed his Welsh name unpronounceable; it had referenced a valley among the mountains of northern Wales. Her mother was an indigenous South American healer who had joined the voyage when the ship docked in her town for a few days. During those first disordered
years of settlement on Eidolonia, the pair negotiated a few impressive land-acquisition deals with the fae and thus became rich by island standards. Their ambition manifested several times stronger in their daughter, who was born with the most astonishing set of magical powers Eidolonia had ever known in a human, especially remarkable in someone with no fae blood at all.
Magical trinkets, accordingly, were still scattered all over her property. Cassidy and Merrick, along with previous Highvalleys, had turned over several such items to the Researchers Guild, since magic use was far more restricted these days than it had been in the eighteenth century. But some pieces, like the summoning stick, went unnoticed for years among the clutter.
Merrick swatted a drooping willow branch out of his way, knocking raindrops onto his head. Though he generally didn’t admit it out loud, he envied Rosamund Highvalley. In her day, witches wreaked all kinds of havoc, true, but at least they got to use their powers. Merrick was only allowed to fly during formal magical instruction, or if hired for the purpose by a licensed employer—often a governmental agency, such as rescuers who helped pluck people off sea-cliffs when they got careless in their rock climbing.
Flying took so much energy that he could only do it for about twenty minutes at a time, a couple of times a day at most. He flew anyway, every chance he got, because next to sex it was the most thrilling activity he had ever experienced.
Thanks to his thrill-seeking, he now stood one strike away from being jailed.
He shivered and cast his glance ahead to the lightning-blasted cedar.
Splintered green boughs lay all over the path, their ends blackened. With his foot he shoved at a low branch, which ripped free, releasing a burst of raw cedar scent. New perfume idea: Tree Killed by Lightning. Notes of Pacific island cedar, petrichor, moss, and smoke. Sounded pretty good. He’d run it by Cassidy later.
The gargoyle-like statue that squatted beneath the tree had sustained a deep vertical crack. He grabbed one of its stone wings and jiggled it. The statue broke in half, tumbling out of his hand, and he winced in regret.
Then he noticed its interior was hollow, and something was inside. Something about the size and shape of a shoebox.
After staring mesmerized for a moment, he pulled it loose, out into the daylight for the first time since … when?
The box was wrapped in a thick cloth—he guessed it was what they used to call oilcloth—with a pattern of strawberries and leaves, faded and grimy. He unwrapped it and dropped the cloth with a twitch when several root-beetles and centipedes came squirming out of its folds. The plain metal box seemed intact beneath the cloth, its lid tightly fitted.
On an island like Eidolonia, and especially on a property of Rosamund Highvalley’s, it was unwise to open mysterious boxes you’d found inside garden statues.
All the same, maybe she’d hidden a second Lava Flow charm here, or something else that could help Merrick’s father. Maybe his mother somehow knew about it and had broken open the gargoyle to give it to him. Lightning was more often associated with fire fae, but many air fae could conjure it too. Besides, booby-trapped boxes weren’t the kind of thing that happened often or anything …
Willing to take the consequences, he pried at the lid with a stick until it popped off.
Nothing happened, and nothing inside moved. He sat on a fallen cedar branch with the open box in his lap. It contained a leather-bound book and a jumble of items of metal, wood, glass, and stone. He lifted the book out and opened it.
A sheet of paper was stuck in the front. Merrick unfolded it and deciphered the handwriting in purplish-blue ink.
This box with these items of Rosamund’s was left for me upon our roof, presumably by fae, the day before yesterday, more than six months after she disappeared. She had taken the box with her on her expedition into their realm. I have received no word of what became of her, and perhaps I never will.
I do not think anyone can do what Rosamund proposes in this book when she herself could not. All have accepted the loss of Prince Larkin. Let him rest. She was nonetheless a noble witch for seeking a way to free him, and I know that it tormented her to have done what she did. Let the Lord, Lady, and Spirit alone judge her, and may they bring peace to us all, including His Highness, whether he sleep forever or wake again one day.
To honour her I hide this book and her possessions rather than destroy them, whilst still hoping that no one attempts this dangerous endeavour should they find this.
Philomena Quintal
Oct. 3rd, 1804
CHAPTER 4
MERRICK SMOOTHED THE BRITTLE PAPER, frowning. Philomena Quintal had been Rosamund’s wife, and a witch as well. He didn’t remember all the historical details, but he knew Rosamund had fallen out of favor with the court after the war with Ula Kana, then some years later, had set out on a research mission into the fae realm and never returned.
The letter suggested Rosamund felt tormented for putting Prince Larkin into the sleep. Merrick had never heard that interpretation. Why should she regret it? Larkin had volunteered. Confining Ula Kana into an enchanted sleep and doing the same to a royal was the only deal the fae ambassadors had been able to bring to the table. Larkin’s lover had been killed in the attacks, so he had opted to go to sleep forever to save the island. Such was the tragically romantic story, at least. Merrick couldn’t imagine why Rosamund would have wanted to wake the prince again and break the truce.
Merrick began reading Rosamund’s journal, deciphering each scribble, abbreviation, and sketch as best as he could. It took long enough that his leg was starting to fall asleep from his perch on the branch. But he stayed, staring at the pages with a chill spreading around his heart.
A letter from Rosamund to the prince, written in the middle pages of the journal, told it clearly enough.
HRH Prince Larkin
Your Royal Highness,
There is little I can say to express my chagrin at the injustice I did you. As I told you when placing the spell upon you, I did it only to save all who remained of our people, all those we loved. Ula Kana needed to be stopped. But as I also told you then, and meant with my whole heart, I do not intend to leave you in this sleep forever. That is a fate no human, and possibly no faery either, should suffer, not unless he should volunteer himself willingly, which we both know you did not.
I am working to free you. I have put measures in place to do so. But given the nature of the agreement with the fae, this is a most difficult endeavour. It requires confining Ula Kana some new way, and if I could have done so before, I would have, but time was running out. She had already destroyed much of the city and would return any day to demolish the rest. You remember everybody’s panic and fear, and I hope you understand why I acted thus.
I am beginning to despair that I will ever achieve the task of imprisoning her in some alternate fashion. Most of the fae will not work further toward any common purpose with me, and I cannot do it without them. Too many resent the way I have used magic to acquire land for humans—unfairly, as they see it.
It therefore may be, noble friend, that I do not live to see this plan come to fruition. If this is so, then it is my wish that some other witch undoes what has been the greatest shame and most egregious crime of my life, and awakens you, once they have solved the problem of Ula Kana.
I cannot at this time trust the palace or government with this knowledge or this task. I have thus arranged it so that you can be rescued without their involvement, if need be. They and I have between us too many strong disagreements and irreparable ruptures. Indeed, as you will know now if you are awake and reading this, they have ended my tenure as court sorcerer, largely due to their bitterness over losing you along with so many citizens. There has been much dismay with witches among the general public, and you will have found that your views on restricting magic use are the more popular by now, and that you have very nearly won our long-ongoing debate.
I may regret that fact and still strive for more magical freedom, but all the same, f
riend, I hope you believe me when I say I do not excuse myself, and never have, for what I did to you, and if you are reading this letter, then I am most sincerely glad you have been rescued.
I remain, even in spirited opposition, your faithful subject,
Rosamund Highvalley
Merrick’s gaze drifted up from the page, settling on the broken shards of statuary.
Larkin hadn’t volunteered. Rosamund had forced him into the sleep. And no one had ever known, except Philomena, and Larkin himself. Who still lay in Floriana Palace in Dasdemir, trapped asleep in the bower for two hundred and twenty years against his will.
Sweet Lord and Lady.
Rescue him!, Merrick’s heart shouted. Not that he knew how—the journal didn’t seem to address that. Surely he should at least inform the government and the palace? Let them free their long-imprisoned relative?
He made himself take a deep breath and began leafing back through the journal. No, nobody could just free Larkin. Even if it were easy—even if the palace did know how, which they probably did—they weren’t going to, because waking the prince would free Ula Kana too. She would rise up from her sleep, in her guarded cell in Arlanuk’s realm, and undoubtedly resume terrorizing humanity. Still, the injustice nagged at him.
This was silly. It was only because he’d been thinking about Larkin recently, trying on his face for the festival play. Larkin had been asleep for over two centuries. The issue could wait.
As for Rosamund: this piece of the historic record definitely didn’t improve her already-problematic reputation, but she hadn’t been a complete villain either. She did want to free Larkin, but had disappeared before she could accomplish it.
On some pages, Rosamund had sketched maps of fae territory. She had also drawn what seemed to be the items in the box, but what they were for, he couldn’t tell. He’d need an expert in magical history, such as Sal, to decipher Rosamund’s shorthand. Somehow all of it added up to a plan to contain Ula Kana after breaking the sleep spell, he assumed.
He rummaged through the box. There was another summoning stick, like the one the verge guards had confiscated. He also found three triangular obsidian blades, a dark blue polished stone sphere, a pink crystal egg, a small silver hammer, a clay ball with a wick, and a wooden bead carved into a flower.
