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Royalty and Ruin
(Modern Magick, 5)
by
Charlotte E. English
Copyright © 2018 by Charlotte E. English
All rights reserved.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold.
Preface
Modern Magick is an ongoing web serial. You can also read online at: http://www.modernmagick.net
1
Right, crash course on troll culture.
Ye Olde Historic Record shows that they originated up Scandinavia way (at least, so it’s claimed. This is academia. Naturally there are those who strenuously disagree). If that’s the case, they wasted no time in spreading across the rest of Europe, and rather beyond. The oldest known troll enclaves in Britain date back to before the Roman conquest.
The brutal truth is, they are a bit cleverer than we are. A truly embarrassing number of magickal developments have been fairly laid to the trolls’ credit (for example, anyone who tells you that humans developed the flying chair trick is either misinformed or a liar — and my pretty Sunstone Wand was most certainly a troll masterpiece).
Still, at least we have the Book. Dear Mauf, or Bill as he was previously known; that marvellous construct that absorbs knowledge like a sponge, and then spits it out again in exquisitely refined nineteenth-century English. The creator of said book might have been a shady character, but at least she was human.
Then again, the Troll Court-that-was, Farringale, managed to purloin that one, and already I hear people adding Mauf’s invention to the trolls’ record of marvels. Maybe this is really how it works. It isn’t that they are so much brighter than we are. It’s that they have really, really good PR.
Anyway. Trolls are clever, and steeped in magick up to their enormous eyeballs. They’re physically superior, more sophisticated than most people think (and by an order of magnitude), and — a point which will ever endear them to my heart — they are spectacularly good at food. Mandridore, the Royal Court of the Trolls since the mid seventeenth century, is the most powerful of the Fae Courts by a wide margin, too.
And they know it. Some would accuse our troll compatriots of possessing just a smidgeon in the way of arrogance. And they would not be wrong. But, well, with so many advantages as they enjoy it’s hard to blame them for being self-satisfied. I mean, wouldn’t you be?
I may be a cosmopolitan woman of the world, with over a decade of high adventure behind me, but I admit to experiencing some small sensations of trepidation upon departing for my introduction at this particular Court. Meeting royalty hasn’t been part of my general duties to date, and these royals…! I’m a mere human. I am not up to this.
‘Yes, you are,’ said Jay, informing me of two things at once: one, that he’s a good sort, ready with the kind of staunch back-up one needs at a time like this. Two, that I had been talking to myself like a ninny.
Good start.
‘Of course I am,’ I said stoutly, and stood a bit taller. ‘And so are you.’
‘Naturally.’ It was fifty-six minutes past four in the afternoon and we were waiting for the Baron to arrive. Jay had taken up a lounging posture in an oversized armchair which had, apparently, appeared in the great hall at Home just for that purpose. I didn’t recall seeing it before. Jay flashed me the firm, confident smile of a man who knows no fear.
‘You’re petrified, aren’t you?’ I said.
‘I had to sit down. Somebody’s replaced my kneecaps with jelly.’
I subjected him to a swift, professional survey. I’ve learned that Jay tends to overcompensate; the more nervous he is, the more confident he appears. But if you didn’t know that about him, nothing about his languid posture would tip you off.
He was wearing a suit. Jay in a suit! Wise man, he had gone for a muted blue colour, with a waistcoat and everything. It set off his dark skin handsomely, and he’d done something intriguing to his black hair.
‘You look dishy,’ I told him.
‘Dishy.’
‘Yes.’
‘No one has used that word since about 1953.’
‘And you are insufficiently quiffed to merit the term? I see your point.’ Actually, the Danny Zuko quiff-and-jacket combo would suit Jay down to the ground, but I kept that thought to myself.
He grinned at me, and eyed my dress, then my hair. The former was a violet silk confection with a subdued (for me, anyway) knot work print in bejewelled colours. The latter was golden — not golden-blonde but actually pale gold — and loosely piled up on my head. Well, if there is a day for looking respectably drab and anaemic it certainly isn’t the day you’re whisked off to the heights of royal luxury.
‘You look bonny,’ said Jay.
‘Which no one has said since 1927.’
‘I am absolutely certain they did not have dresses like that in 1927.’
‘Says who? They were wild back then. Short hems and everything.’ Not that my dress was short. It was swishily long — I prefer that term to the soulless “maxi dress” — but it did leave me just a bit bare about the shoulder area.
Gravel crunched on the driveway outside as a sizeable car purred to a stop by the doors. A flash of glossy mulberry-coloured paintwork caught my eye.
‘Here we go,’ I said, collecting my shoulder-bag.
‘You aren’t taking that?’ Jay did not move.
I hefted the bag. ‘This? Why wouldn’t I?’
Jay just looked at me.
All right, perhaps it is inconsistent to deck myself in colour and silk like a gilded butterfly and then sling my faithful old satchel over my shoulder.
‘I need it.’
‘You need what’s in it. Surely we can find a better solution.’
I laid the bag back on the floor and looked at it. It is a purple cloth thing, a bit scuffed around the edges, and sturdy. It has a single dragonfly embroidered upon the flap. I put it there myself. Just at present, it was bulging with soft things for the pup to sleep in, underneath which lay Mauf-the-smart-mouthed-book, my Sunstone Wand (apparently I’m really not taking that back to Stores), and a variety of other necessities.
‘I could make a smart suitcase of it if I had a bit more time,’ I said doubtfully. I’d need to dig out the Wand, and then I’d need about half an hour. The process is a bit delicate. ‘And then the flying charm — the one we use on the chairs — should take—’
I stopped talking, because with a wiggle and a shimmy my bag was changing. It flexed its seams, and with an audible pop it became a neat oblong case, stacked high, and tinted a soft heathery-purple. The dragonfly embroidered had become an embossed design spanning the top from edge to edge.
I rapped on the top and the lid bounced open. My tiny sunny-yellow pup smiled at me from inside, and rolled onto her back. The underside of the lid revealed a scattering of tiny air holes, invisible from the surface. ‘Pup travels in style,’ I said, patting her soft head before gently closing the case again.
‘Nice work,’ said Jay, as he sprang out of his chair (which promptly melted back into the wall).
‘But, not mine.’ If Jay hadn’t done it, then who…? We were alone in the hall. ‘Did you do that, House?’
There was no answer, precisely, but as I watched, my new case rose three feet in the air and began to glide slowly towards the door.
‘You’ve got style, House,’ I said, following my jazzy new luggage. ‘Thank you.’
A sprig of gilding blossomed around the case’s edges.
Baron Alban stood leaning on the bonnet of his car, arms folded, his bronzed hair gleaming in the late afternoon sun. I was encouraged
to see him wearing a suit not a million miles in style from Jay’s; apparently we were on the right track, at least sartorially.
His brows went up as my suitcase sailed gracefully over to the car and ensconced itself in the back seat.
‘Wasn’t your car green before?’ I said.
The Baron smiled. ‘Wasn’t your hair blue before?’
‘Fair point.’
‘How far are we going?’ said Jay as he joined my case in the back seat, having stashed his own, less airborne luggage in the boot.
‘Far,’ said Alban, opening the front passenger door for me. ‘And not far.’
‘Helpful.’
‘I do try.’ Having settled me in the lap of automobile luxury, Alban returned to the driver’s seat and off we went. His lovely car pulled smoothly away from Home, and I permitted myself one long, wistful look back at the familiar contours of the sprawling, craggy old building before it disappeared from view. Bathed in golden sunglow as it was, it appeared to me as a vision of paradise.
We’ll be back, I told myself.
Even Milady had implied as much, though she was responsible for our general expulsion from the property. ‘I am in no official position to grant you leave to attend Mandridore,’ she had said earlier that day. ‘But I grant it anyway, upon a strictly limited basis.’ In other words, come back soon.
Val had been more demonstrative. Never one for overt affection, she had fixed me with a gimlet stare and said frostily: ‘So you’re abandoning us for royalty.’
‘Only for a bit,’ I had protested.
‘A bit? How long is a “bit”?’
‘A while?’
Val’s eyes had narrowed dangerously.
I’d broken the unspoken rules so far as to lean down and kiss her cheek. ‘I’ll miss you too.’
‘Hmph.’ Val had gone back to her laptop, ignoring me utterly.
I’d felt loved.
There had been a text from Val a bit later. Tell the Baron. Either he brings you back in one piece, and soon, or I break his kneecaps.
I didn’t really doubt that she meant it literally.
So, the Troll Roads. These were but a recent discovery of mine. They are another of those brilliant magickal inventions the trolls are responsible for, a mingling of Waymastery magicks and goodness-knows what else. On the face of it they are not that exciting: you drive along much as normal, pootling happily down wide, well-kept roads lined with tall, flowering hedges, the boughs of an occasional overhanging oak enlivening the view. But something whooshes you along much faster than it seems, and a journey that ought to take two hours might take less than one. This was what the Baron meant by “far, but not far.”
The likes of Jay and I are not normally permitted to use them; they are strictly troll-only. But in the Baron’s company, all options are open. We cruised down these beautiful highways at a leisurely pace, and within an hour we turned off onto the M25. It should’ve taken hours to make it so far south.
‘This is the London area,’ I observed, at my most scintillatingly intelligent.
‘So it is.’ The Baron was noncommittal.
‘So Mandridore’s down London way?’
‘One could assume that.’
‘One could indeed. In fact, one has.’
No answer.
‘So am I right?’ I pressed.
‘Wait till we stop and I’ll get you an annotated map of modern Mandridore, together with a route plan down from Yorkshire.’
‘Really?’
His grin flashed. ‘No.’
Jay spoke up from the back seat. ‘I’ll remember the way.’
‘Like hell you will,’ said Alban.
‘Watch me.’
‘I’d have to kill you.’
A pause. ‘All right, don’t watch me.’
Mercifully, we were not condemned to linger long upon the M25. People have been known to lose patience, hope, sanity and their immortal souls by such foolishness (or ill luck) as that. The thing is, I couldn’t quite say when we left the motorway, or how it happened. One minute we were flying over tarmac at ninety miles an hour; the next we were swanning along a wide, white-paved road at a much more leisurely pace, low walls of pale stone flying by us on either side, with the scents of honeysuckle and lemon hanging heavy upon the air.
‘Curse you,’ muttered Jay.
Baron Alban chuckled. ‘I’ll tell you one thing for free. Those who have pleased Their Majesties have been known to walk away with a special boon by way of a thank you. Usually you’re allowed to choose.’
‘Right,’ said Jay. ‘Challenge accepted.’
2
I was in no way surprised to find the Royal Court of Mandridore tucked away so close to London. Back in the bad old days of a few hundred years ago, London was rapidly becoming the centre of England and beyond, even if geographically speaking it was nothing of the kind. (And really, what’s changed?). If you had to found a new centre of government in a hurry, where else would you put it? And it wasn’t so far from the site of old Farringale, either — no more than sixty or seventy miles.
The more interesting question was: how did it fit? For London has sprawled out a long, long way over the centuries, swallowing everything in its path. But the magickal Enclaves and Dells are funny like that. It’s like they occupy their own little bubbles of space, which aren’t quite on the same plane of reality as the rest of Britain. There’s a way in, or two, and once over the magickal threshold it’s like you are in a different world.
Maybe you literally are. We’ve been making some odd, and enlightening, discoveries in that sort of direction lately.
Anyway. Being a magickal Dell (I guessed) as well as a Troll Enclave, Mandridore had all the usual hallmarks. There was that tantalising scent in the air, of the before-mentioned fruit and flowers, together with some indefinable but glorious aromas that made my head spin, they were so intoxicating. The air shimmered with the soft, silvery glow of twilight on the approach, though Britain proper was still bathed in bright sunshine. Tall, shapely shrubs occupied nooks just off the road; they looked like topiaries, posed in the shapes of animals or well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, but I think they were more than that. I could swear I saw one wave at us as we passed. We drove under perfumed arbours twinkling with starry lights, wove through a maze of rose-scattered hedgerows, and by the time we drew to a stop the sky had settled into a most intriguing configuration: one half was sunlit day, and the other lay dreaming under a silver moon.
‘I may never leave,’ I said as the Baron drew the car to a stop. We had passed several sets of ornate, silver-or-gold gates rising majestically into the skies; the Baron had paused at the sixth or seventh of these, waited as they slowly opened for us, and turned in to a sweeping, paved driveway before a handsome Elizabethan mansion. The place was built from brick, as was common for fine houses of that period; but these bricks were faintly bluish, which wasn’t at all. The house had two spacious wings poised either side of a central hall, with big diamond-paned windows and those fabulous twizzly chimney pots. And it was, of course, enormous — not just in the sense of the ground it covered, but in the height and breadth of the doors, too. This mansion had been built by trolls, for trolls.
‘Is this the Court?’ said Jay as he got out, and stood staring doubtfully at the house.
I saw his point. Handsome as it was, it was by no means a palace, and had none of the imposing grandeur one would typically expect of a royal residence.
‘No,’ said Alban. ‘This is Their Majesties’ private home.’
‘What?’
‘They asked that you be brought here first, for a private audience. You will see the Court later.’
‘So it’s a secret assignment.’ Jay did not sound pleased.
But I was. ‘The best kind,’ I told him.
He frowned at me.
‘Oh, come on. All the most exciting things happen when you’re doing things you aren’t supposed to.’
The Baron spoke firmly. ‘Their Maj
esties would never ask you to do anything lawless.’
I patted his arm. ‘You said that with such total confidence. It’s beautiful.’
He grimaced. ‘The life of a diplomat.’
‘Hobnobbing with beautiful people, swanning around in gorgeous cars, prancing from mansion to mansion, and strutting your stuff in expensive clothes? Really, a spot of lying-through-your-teeth here and there isn’t so much to ask.’
He gave me the side-eye. ‘Prancing?’
‘Prancing.’
He squared his shoulders, making his admittedly splendid muscles ripple. ‘I wouldn’t dream of prancing.’
And he didn’t. What he achieved on his way from car to front door was more of a manly mince.
Jay rolled his eyes, and retrieved his luggage from the boot. Mine, of course, sailed airily over to the door by itself. ‘It’s already a madhouse and we’ve been here five minutes.’
‘Chin high,’ I said, lifting my own by a couple of inches. ‘We’re important people now.’
Jay put his nose in the air, and in we went.
The door was opened to us by a towering butler. He might have been on the skinny side for a troll, but he was taller than the Baron. Little me found him plenty imposing.
‘Their Majesties are in the Topaz Parlour,’ he informed the Baron.
I had assumed we would have to wait. One did not expect immediate audiences with royals. But to my surprise, Alban led us smartly off into the east wing — doors swinging open by themselves as we approached — and rapped lightly upon an ornately carved door that looked like teak.
‘If that is Alban, he may enter,’ proclaimed a woman’s voice from beyond. I don’t use the word “proclaimed” lightly. I swear the voice had its own, ringing echo. She spoke in Court Algatish, which for some reason I am not ignorant of. Considering I had zero expectation of ever attending the Troll Court, why did I learn it? Purely because Farringale and Mandridore are, or were, major centres of learning and there are a lot of lovely old books written in that tongue.
Modern Magick 5 Page 1
