by Deva Fagan
A thorn of disappointment stabbed me, sharper even than my surprise. But it was foolish of me to think our alliance had been anything but temporary. No matter how nice it was to not feel so alone.
“Just because you can cast a few spells doesn’t mean you deserve it,” I said. “You can’t even—”
I caught myself as Moppe’s eyes went wide with alarm. No, I had promised not to tell, and I would keep my word. “I’m the one who knows over two hundred words in magespeak,” I finished instead.
“Just because you’re a walking grimoire doesn’t mean you deserve the crown,” snapped Moppe. “At least my spells actually work.”
“Enough!” Betrys’s single word silenced us both. “What you seek is a great and terrible power. To claim it would require more than simply knowledge and strength alone.”
Moppe and I exchanged glances, each of us standing straighter.
“I have no time for apprentices who value pride and potency over humility and understanding,” she said. “By rights I should expel you both.”
“No!” I cried, at the same time as Moppe gave her own agonized protest.
Master Betrys held up one slim hand, cutting us off. “I am, however, prepared to give you one last chance to redeem yourselves.”
Desperation pulsed under my skin. I bit the inside of my cheek, waiting for her to speak.
“Tomorrow night at the gala, there will be an exhibition,” said Betrys. “Dancing, music, and other entertainments presented by the young folk in attendance. You will join them. If you can cast a spell that demonstrates you understand the true power of wizardry, I will continue your apprenticeship.”
“And if not?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Then you will be expelled.”
6
WELL, ANTONIA?” My mother watched me over the rim of her wineglass as we stood beneath the glittering chandeliers of Lord Buccanyl’s banquet hall. He had spared no expense in the decorations for the gala. All around us, men and women in embroidered silks and velvet waistcoats paraded past frost-pale tables gleaming with silver and gold platters. But I had no attention to spare for these delectable sights. I felt as if a hive of bees had swarmed into my belly.
I took a breath, preparing myself. “I haven’t found the crown yet. But that’s going to change. Tonight.” I plunged onward, ignoring her dubious look. “Master Betrys does have a clue to the crown’s location. I just need to convince her to give it to me.”
Mother tapped one ringed finger against her goblet as I explained the situation. Well, really it was more of an… optimistic summary. Master Betrys hadn’t actually promised to give me the clue if I proved myself. But at least it would give me a chance, and I would have none at all if she expelled me. All that Mother needed to know was that that I was making progress.
“Very well,” she said, when I finished. “And you are prepared for this… demonstration?”
“Yes.” I had the perfect spell in mind, a variation of my smoke-shaping charm, but better. Grander. Something that would display my skill to an entire ballroom. Only a tiny needle of doubt pricked at me: How did such a public performance demonstrate the humility and understanding that Master Betrys wanted from us? Was I missing something?
“And what of this other girl, Moppe?”
I glanced across the room, finally finding Moppe in one of the palm-shaded alcoves. She looked like a cat in a dog kennel. Some part of me panged with sympathy, as I remembered how overwhelming my first grand gala had been. I wished I could march over and pull her off to Lord Buccanyl’s library with me, to ogle his collection of petrified bones and the pair of boots said to have belonged to Queen Meda herself. But that was impossible. I had to remember why I was here.
“She’s just… a girl,” I said. “She was the under-cook, then it turned out she had magic too. But she’s only been studying with Master Betrys for a week.”
“So you should have no trouble besting her.”
My enthusiasm for the smoke-shaping spell fizzled, shifting into something sharper and bleaker. Was that all that really mattered? I supposed Mother was right. It didn’t matter how wondrous and tricky and delightful my spell was. It only mattered that I was better than Moppe. But I hated it. It made me feel as if the magic no longer belonged to me. It wasn’t a secret to unlock, a mystery to unravel. It was just another tool in my mother’s political arsenal.
Mother tilted her head, reaching out to gently cup my cheek. “I understand that this is difficult for you, Antonia. But we all must do difficult things. We must honor your brother’s memory. The Liberation took him from us. Now it’s our duty to prevent them from stealing away even more lives.”
Even in death, it was Florian who held our family together. His loss was something Mother and I shared. Maybe the only thing. I leaned into her palm, to show her I understood, that I felt it too.
“I’ll try my best, Mama. I swear,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “I know, darling. But I need more than your best. That crown will determine the fate of our homeland. Your brother already gave everything for this cause. You must succeed, no matter the cost.”
Then her gaze shifted over my head, focusing on someone else. She pulled her hand away, leaving only a ghost of warmth on my skin.
I turned to see a man approaching us, his flawless black waistcoat and breeches drawing my eye like an inkblot on fresh paper. There was a purpose to his steps, and he had the air of someone who expected attention.
Mother straightened her shoulders, slipping a polished smile onto her lips as she bowed, extending her hand to the newcomer. “Lord Benedict, we’re so honored you could join us tonight.”
The man smiled, his teeth glinting. He was my mother’s age, I guessed, judging by the fine lines crinkling the corners of his brilliant blue eyes. There were threads of silver at the temples of his sleek black hair, which he wore short, in the mainland style.
“Ah, Councillor Durant, I’ve been hoping to find you.” He bent over her hand, kissing the air above it with a flourish, reminding me of the actors my brother, Florian, had befriended. He had loved parties; loved the color and the conversation and the card games.
“I trust you’ve enjoyed a warm welcome,” my mother said. “I know that here on Medasia we can offer nothing to compare to the delights of the court, but you’ll find we are not without some charms to entertain the imperial envoy.”
Imperial envoy? That would explain his manners and clothing. And from the sound of it, he’d only recently arrived from the mainland.
“Indeed,” said Benedict, his gaze roaming over my mother’s rich green gown with a freedom I didn’t care for. “It’s a blessing to find those such as yourself, who manage to preserve the dignity and refinement of the mainland even here on this desolate rock.”
Desolate rock? Was he really talking about Medasia? To be sure, it was nothing compared to the populous mainland, but it was hardly desolate. There were dense forests, acres of olive groves, herds of silver-spotted deer. My family had spent the summer on the slopes of Mount Pavos when I was younger, swimming in shimmering blue lakes and dining under arbors dripping with wisteria. Florian used to take me on hikes, telling me ridiculous stories about one of the nearby peaks, a funny bulbous thing he said was enchanted.
Mother must have seen my annoyance, because she spoke up quickly, saying, “You said you were hoping to find me? Are you in need of some assistance?”
“Yes. I’m concerned that Councillor Pharon is going to object to the new imperial shellfish quotas. I may need your help to convince him what’s in the best interest of Medasia. And please, if you have any mercy, tell me where I can find a decent Regian red? Buccanyl keeps insisting I sample his cursed local specialties.” The corners of his lips turned down, and he held up a goblet filled with a cloudy pale liquid. The scent was so powerful I could smell it even from where I stood: a delicious and enticing ambrosia of honey and licorice.
“That’s Milk of the Earth,” I told him. “
The legends say that it’s what the gods themselves drank.” I’d never had a full glass myself. It was potent stuff, brought out for weddings, funerals, and holidays. Florian used to secretly let me sneak a single sip from his cup every Feast of the Tides, when we’d go down at dusk to the cliffs and watch the fisherfolk push their great woven idols out into the dark waters, a sacrifice to the old powers of the sea.
The envoy’s blue eyes slid over me, faintly amused. “If the gods had only this to drink, it’s no wonder they all died.”
“Lord Benedict, may I introduce my daughter, Antonia,” Mother said. Her tone was smooth and serene as ever, but the faint crease between her eyes warned me to behave.
“Ah yes.” Interest sharpened his expression. “The apprentice wizard. You must have some considerable gifts, to be studying with Julien Betrys. Did you transfigure that gown yourself?” he asked, nodding to one of my sleeves.
I drew in a quick breath of dismay. “You can tell?” Was it so amateurish even a non-wizard could see that the pattern of leaping dolphins I’d added wasn’t true embroidery?
He gave me a reassuring smile. “Only because I’ve studied Therenval’s facsimile technique. That’s what you used, isn’t it? It’s excellent work,” he added. “I daresay even Master Therenval would approve, and he’s sour as a lemon grove.”
I must have looked like a beached blowfish, mouth open, eyes wide. Then the questions began bubbling out, too fast for me to stop them. “You’re a wizard? You know Master Therenval? Did he ever explain his notation on the final directional clause? I still don’t see why it’s even necessary. It feels off-balance somehow, don’t you think?”
Benedict smiled. “It’s meant to ensure that the print is spaced properly. But I’ve had better luck including that phrase just after the conditionals.”
I ran the words silently through my head, feeling them snap into place, seeing the spell take shape. My breath hushed out. He was right! Reworking the spell as Benedict suggested brought it into balance, pure and perfect as a symphony. “Thank you, Master Benedict!”
Something flickered behind his blue eyes, and he looked down, briefly. “I’m no Master, Miss Durant. Alas, my talents were not found… sufficient… to garner such a lofty title. But we all serve the emperor in our own way.” He gave a sort of bow, gesturing to the imperial insignia on his chest.
“We are, of course, honored by your presence,” said my mother, smiling one of her signature smiles—one I had tried to copy for years before realizing I simply didn’t have the grace to look both delighted and disapproving at the same time. “But I am sorry you came all this way for nothing. I assure you that our Council has the Liberation well in hand.”
“And yet Captain Porphyra remains free,” said Benedict, with his own sharp-edged smile. “And the rumors of rebellion spread like witchfire.”
Just then a shimmering gong sounded from the far end of the ballroom. I had been expecting it, but still it sent my heart racing like a panicked mare. Around the room, other young people began moving toward an area that had been cleared to serve as a sort of stage. It was time for the demonstration. My last chance to avoid expulsion and save my dreams. Mother’s green eyes found me one last time, and her words echoed in my mind. You must succeed, no matter the cost.
* * *
I fidgeted, jittering from foot to foot as I waited for Lord Buccanyl’s son to finish his performance. The lyre sang under his slim fingers, and the song itself was a beautiful old sailor’s lament that reminded me of my grandfather. But it brought me no peace. When he finished, I was next to perform. To convince Master Betrys not to expel me.
I leaned into the cool marble of a large urn, running the spell over and over in my mind. It was the only thing that steadied me. I could not fail. Magic was my life, my breath, the constant heartbeat pulsing through every second of my day. Without it, who would I be?
A burst of applause shattered my small calm. The lyrist danced merrily back into the crowd. I swallowed, glancing toward Moppe as she paced back and forth in the alcove where we waited, lips moving soundlessly. Preparing to display her “seemingly limitless potential,” no doubt. When she caught me watching, she lifted her chin, a glint of challenge in her eye.
Fine. I had to accept that the spark of camaraderie we’d shared facing the Furtive was long-since snuffed out. Middling potency or not, I’d show her I wasn’t going down without a fight. I marched out onto the stage as Lord Buccanyl announced my name.
Master Betrys sat cool and composed in one of the chairs that had been brought out for the exhibition. As her gaze settled upon me, I caught a flash of something like disappointment. I hadn’t even cast my spell, yet somehow I had already let her down. I hesitated, glancing back toward Moppe.
Had I misunderstood? Betrys had told us that knowledge and power were not enough. But what else was there?
My stomach buzzed. I forced myself to concentrate on the cup of steaming tea they’d set out at my request. I cleared my throat. This was it.
I spoke the spell.
Murmurs of expectant delight rose from the guests in the front row as the steam spiraled up, forming exactly the image I had described: a triple-masted frigate, just like the one Florian had meant to serve on. It bobbed on a silvery sea of steam. Every detail was perfect.
Except that it was only five inches tall.
The crowd began to grow restless, as my tiny frigate sailed in minute circles before me. I heard one man in the back ask loudly, “Is something going to happen?”
Then another: “Is that it? What is it? I can’t see anything.”
Every fiber of me urged the ship to expand, to fill the room with its magnificence. Surely my will, my desire, my hunger was strong enough!
“Isn’t it adorable?” one woman murmured.
I stifled a groan, then muttered the words to dispel the charm. The scattered applause was more painful than silence. I didn’t dare even look at Master Betrys, for fear the itch in my eyes would become something worse. The misery of my failure clenched tight around my throat. Why did nothing ever go as it should? I’d tried so hard. All I wanted was to do magic, but now I might have lost that chance forever.
Moppe met me as I fled the stage. I forced my shoulders back, blinking hard. I wasn’t going to let her see my misery.
“That ship was really—”
“What are you going to cast?” I cut her off, before she could pity or scorn me.
She flinched, then drew in a breath, as if bracing herself. “The grow spell.”
I glanced around. “On what?”
“This,” she said, brandishing a toothsome-looking cherry cake.
“How?” I asked. “Did someone tell you the magespeak for cake?”
She frowned. “I—I don’t need that. I already know the grow spell. I used it on that tree, by the cave.”
“Right. On a tree,” I said. “That’s a cake. And besides, cakes don’t grow. They’re not alive. You need to use enlarge if you just want to make something get bigger.”
Her mouth fell open, brows lifting in alarm. Then she huffed. “You’re just trying to throw me off.”
I shrugged. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
I was about to walk away when she caught my elbow. “Wait. What’s the proper spell, then?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I’m—” She hesitated, flushing. “You know how important this is for Medasia. The Furtive said Master Betrys would give her clue to her apprentice.”
“And you’re so sure it’s you? You’ve been an apprentice for a week!” A poisonous serpent slithered into my belly. All I could think of were the words of that letter. She will never rise above a middling level of potency. My dream was dying, right in front of me.
“This is too important,” Moppe said urgently. “I know you’re jealous, but—”
“Fine. I’ll do it.” Mother was right. Moppe was my rival, and it was time I started treating her that way.
&n
bsp; “You—you will?” Moppe stared at me.
“Enlarge is enlarge,” I said, squashing down my second thoughts. The crown was too important. It wasn’t just my magical future that was in danger. It was Master Betrys. It was all of Medasia. I couldn’t let some half-trained girl who talked like a Liberationist get her hands on it.
Moppe repeated the magespeak slowly. “And cake?”
I told her a word. “Be careful not to cast the spell until you’re out there,” I added, gesturing to the stage. “Or you’ll spoil the surprise.”
Moppe blinked uncertainly. “Oh. Well. Thanks, then.” She started off but paused to look back, lifting her chin with earnest determination. “You won’t regret this, Antonia. I swear.”
The crowd had hushed, except for one of my hecklers, who called out, “Let’s see some real magic!”
Moppe cleared her throat. She raised the cake before her, like a chalice of benediction. “Get ready to see something amazing!”
Then she spoke the words I’d given her.
At first it wasn’t obvious. Everyone except me was watching the cake. Then a little girl in the front row cried, “What’s happening to her nose?”
Moppe gave a screech of alarm, dropping the cake as she slapped her hands to her face. Her nose had begun to swell. To enlarge.
“It’s as big as a bread loaf,” said another man. “Look at it!”
The crowd broke into a babble of voices, calling out larger and larger items, giggling and laughing at the spectacle.
“Watermelon!”
“Pig!”
“Armchair!”
But I couldn’t laugh. The shame and terror on Moppe’s face turned my insides to quicksand. By then she could no longer speak and had been reduced to small, furious mumbles and sputters, muffled by her mighty nose.
The little girl cried again. “It’s going to squash us! Run!”
The guests began to flee as Moppe’s nose smashed into a nearby dessert table, knocking several fine chocolate tarts onto the floor. Shouts of alarm echoed around the ballroom. I pressed myself back into the hedge of potted palms, horrified by what I had wrought.
