Curse of the Celts

by Clara O'Connor

  It was unprecedented. No one of Marcus’s stature had ever taken the sands before. The usual measures taken to conceal the accused’s identity were never going to be enough to keep justice blind in this case. In a regular case, a handful of people might recognise the events unfolding on the screens before them and be able to deduce who the obfuscated person might be. But that identity would mean little to the broader populace, even if they were named before the mask came off. Not so with Marcus. The city now knew their favoured son stood before them to be judged. The noise reached a crescendo. I couldn’t hear the film anymore and had no way of telling what they were being shown. Our capture outside the city walls, possibly

  Typically, the mob would quieten now in anticipation of the public vote, but there was no lessening of the din. It was deafening; there was outrage and certainty in their cries. They knew who stood before them and proceedings had descended into chaos. The council must be having a fit.

  I sensed the sentinels push past me and I could hear Marcus struggling. What was going on? I felt something hit my feet. Marcus? Whatever was happening was quashing the mood of the crowd. There was a whoosh, like the sound of a thousand spectators gasping at once.

  “Citizens,” Calchas addressed the silenced crowd. “Kneeling before you is none other than Marcus Courtenay. Lady Justice prefers that her judgement be delivered blind. However, this time, one of your most privileged countrymen takes the sand. You have a right to know. A right to see who has betrayed you in this way.”

  Again, I could sense a scuffle in front of me. Had they unveiled Marcus? Were they making him stand? What was happening? The results of the vote were, as a rule, reflected in the sentencing. No capital offence had ever resulted in an execution where the public vote had less than a ninety per cent conviction rating. Would the city consciously vote to execute someone they knew? Was the council now cancelling the public’s right to speak in judgement?

  “Marcus Courtenay is a citizen like any other and his crimes will be voted on by you, the people,” Calchas’s voice sneered over the pandemonium. “Rise then, and face the justice of the city of Londinium. We will not call you doctor as that is the title bestowed upon the brave soldiers of science who stand as our defence against the illness they fight so bravely.”

  The crowd murmured at this. If Calchas’s rousing words were supposed to turn the mob against Marcus’s use of magic, then raising the flag for science which had been found wanting in its fight against the illness sweeping the city was not the way to go about it.

  “Magic has always been the enemy of our great city. We refuse to resort to the weapons of that enemy, no matter how desperate the cause,” the praetor quickly reframed, recognising his mistake. “Having used these methods, this coward tried to run from the lawful and proper judgement of the people of this city. It is a right that will not be denied. Friends and neighbours, vote now. Have you seen this man use magic inside these walls and then try to escape your judgement? The answer is a simple yes or no.”

  The seconds ticked by as the populace voted. There was no whispering, no anything, just a building tension as hundreds of thousands of people voted on the future of a boy they had watched grow to manhood in their newsfeeds. One who had lost his mother at a young age, who had grown into a man who chose medicine over taking his mother’s seat on the high council. One the praetor urged them to condemn, though it was not Calchas’s place to influence the crowd. Usually, the vote took place directly after the evidentiary film, before the accused was revealed. Oh no, the governor and the council would not be loving this. Calchas was not running the show with his usual aplomb.

  The gong signalling the end of the vote finally sounded. There was a long pause. The crowd grew agitated. I felt the same. What was going on?

  “Marcus Courtenay, you have been found guilty of breaking the Code through the use of magic, of attempting to flee the city and evade the righteous hand of the law, and of aiding others to the same end.” Calchas paused for far longer than dramatic effect required. For far longer than my heart could take. Was Marcus also to be executed? For trying to help others? The crowd began to murmur again, as anxious as I to hear the verdict. “The mercy and wisdom of the citizens of Londinium is indeed great. Marcus Courtenay, you are convicted of your crimes at a rate of 62.84%.”

  The mob erupted. My knees felt like they would no longer keep me upright. The praetor would have no choice but to grant clemency; with a conviction rate that low there was no way he could inflict the ultimate penalty. Calchas liked to use these moments to praise and flatter the wisdom and mercy of the vote, to verbalise the weighting of the sentencing. I seriously doubted he would do so today. If mercy were to be granted, it was because Marcus was a much loved and admired son of the city, and the citizenry had deemed his magic, when employed to aid them, was not something they would punish him for. The hubbub of the crowd was at least partially subdued once more, presumably at some signal to which I was not privy from behind my mask.

  “The sentence is fifty lashes.”

  Fifty lashes. Calchas was on the very edge of what would be deemed acceptable in light of a sixty-two per cent conviction rate, one of the lowest I had ever heard of for offences of this magnitude. The first and only time I had ever attended a Mete, Devyn had been flogged. Twenty lashes. This was more than double that. Could Marcus withstand such a beating? I wasn’t sure how. I felt lightheaded, the clamour of the mob roiling through me. Perhaps Marcus would be able to heal himself. The crowd was a shrieking furious hive. Only a flogging, half the crowd cheered, but even louder were those baying for blood.

  The use of magic was a significant offence and the punishment since the introduction of the Code centuries ago was singular: death by fire. Hatred and fear of magic was a central tenet of the Empire; sections of our society would be livid that he was being shown such leniency. But, given the low rate of conviction, there was no way Marcus could burn. Calchas’s hands were tied; a capital punishment could not be meted out against the expressed desire of the citizenry implicit in the result of the vote.

  Praetor Calchas was saying something, but it was impossible to hear over the cacophony of sound. He had to raise his voice to be heard across the agitated crowd, the most vocal of whom cried out for Marcus to burn, furious that one granted every privilege the city could offer had broken the Code in this way. Accusations of being a Wilder, a sympathiser, a coward for attempting to flee were hurled down from the thousands of people above and around us. Adding to the deafening din were pleas for mercy and objections against the harshness of the punishment.

  My arm was grabbed and I was pulled unceremoniously from the sands. The Mete was over. We were being taken back to our cell.

  “Citizens,” Lord Calchas attempted to address the crowd once more. I couldn’t make out what he was saying but, given the howls of outrage swirling over my head, it appeared the crowd was unhappy, and hungry for more. I was struggling to keep my feet as I was dragged across the arena to the howling of the masses at being denied immediate satisfaction.

  I would not be accused today. I stumbled. More than anything I just wanted it to be over.

  We were pulled and pushed, the sounds muffled as we presumably hit the tunnels under the amphitheatre until we were back in the holding cell from which we had been taken. We were released, footsteps sounded, and then the door slammed shut. I snatched the mask from my face as quickly as I could get it off. I couldn’t bear to be stifled under it a moment longer.

  Chapter Two

  They were going to kill Devyn. I saw again the specks of blood on the sand from his last visit to the arena. His blood would spill there once more. We had been so close. And now… I couldn’t think about it. I felt stunned by the noise and events in the arena.

  What had happened? Why had the Mete been halted? Did it matter? We had been given a reprieve. One more night.

  It took a moment for my vision to adjust after having been in complete darkness for so long, but the light in the cell
was dim enough. I pulled in a breath of air as I was grabbed from behind and spun around, the black skirt of my accused’s uniform swirling. Devyn’s hands framed my face, his dark eyes scanning me for bodily injuries before holding my eyes with his as he did the same for internal damage. Satisfied, he lifted his head and turned to our fellow cellmate.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say something?” Marcus finally burst out, clearly unnerved by the lack of reaction.

  “What do you expect me to say?” Devyn asked coolly, under no doubt as to which corner Marcus expected an attack from.

  “I don’t know. Aren’t you going to say getting off so lightly proves that I was in collusion with the authorities the entire time?” Marcus’s point had merit, especially given how suspicious Devyn was already.

  Devyn raised an eyebrow. “Were you?”

  “No. I don’t know how they were waiting for us. I was careful, but it was all arranged so quickly. I don’t know.” Marcus ran his hands through his hair.

  “I may not remember the twenty lashes I took out there, but I’ve been beaten before. Have you?” Devyn asked. “Believe me, fifty lashes isn’t exactly getting off lightly.”

  “Why didn’t they hold my trial?” I asked quietly. “What happened out there at the end? I couldn’t see.”

  “It looked like Governor Actaeon made Calchas call a halt,” Devyn explained.

  “After what happened with me…” Marcus trailed off.

  An extraordinary Mete, Calchas had said. That it had been. Some of our most fundamental traditions had been overturned. Anonymity had been thrown out, both the government and the Code undermined by the clemency granted by the citizenry despite Marcus’s conviction of the Empire’s most vilified crime. An accused found guilty of using magic wasn’t just burned at the stake, they were stripped of their citizenship; they were considered less than nothing.

  The council would be incensed at the mercy shown by the mob towards Marcus. If Actaeon had objected to continuing, then it was to make sure my trial didn’t repeat the leniency shown to Marcus.

  “I failed,” Devyn said, directing his soft words to me. My chest felt tight. He was blaming himself for this.

  “No,” I protested. “No. This is not your fault. You are not the reason we are here. They are. We shouldn’t be here. At all. We don’t belong in the city. We’re not even citizens. We were born free. We were born with magic. They don’t…”

  I couldn’t find the words to express that where we found ourselves was no fault of our own. They might as well condemn us for breathing. Our abilities were innate, the magic running through our veins the reason they had stolen me to begin with. We had been so close… We had been outside the wall with the smugglers’ door closed behind us, the freedom of the night lying before us with its canopy of trees and the open sky above.

  “Screw them.” I lifted his head and held his dark eyes with my own. “I don’t care. I would rather not live at all than live the lie I thought was happiness. I… We nearly made it.”

  Devyn pulled his head out of my hands, his fist clenched as he punched the stone wall. I could feel his frustration, his deep despair, pulse through the connection we shared.

  He looked back at me over his hunched shoulder. “I’m sorry, Cass.”

  I smiled at him, opening the connection as wide as I could and allowing my feelings to pour through. I loved him. Fiercely. I was angry, but not at him. I was mad at the world, at the Britons who had failed to keep me safe as an infant, at the city that had stolen me. But not at Devyn. If my twenty-two years had meant anything, it was the gift of the precious hours I spent with him and the evening we were together, knowing what it felt to truly live. In his arms.

  “Screw them,” I repeated. I had lived.

  Devyn grinned back. He always held back, always tried to maintain a distance between us. Now that we had nothing left to lose, now that it was all over, I felt what his true emotions were. They washed over me. They lit me up from within. They took my breath away.

  We stood there like idiots, smiling at each other, for another heartbeat. Then I was in his arms and his lips descended on mine. He kissed me tenderly, hungrily. Like a lover. Like a soulmate.

  “Cass,” he breathed.

  “Ugh,” Marcus groaned. “Could you two stop it.”

  I pulled away, heat flushing my cheeks. I might have been in the clinch of my short lifetime, but I was still relatively new to all this and Marcus was officially my match, so it was pretty bad form. Life and death notwithstanding.

  “Sorry, I forgot.” We had discovered the incredibly mortifying fact that the handfast cuffs conveyed my passion to Marcus, who wore the partner cuff to my own, even when that passion was directed at another.

  Marcus’s brows pulled together, and his eyes narrowed as he looked down at the charmed wristband I had given him, then back at the chain around my neck.

  “Actually, I didn’t sense anything. Last night I could still… It seems that if we are both wearing charms then I’m not affected with the burning in the blood roused whenever you two…” He waved a hand in the air to indicate the embrace we had just shared.

  “You couldn’t sense my feelings just now? But I was wearing my pendant when I tried to escape through Richmond…” The handfast cuffs employed a push and pull technique. Presumably, in a more normal courtship, the attraction and passion felt by the couple fed the fire in each, a reciprocal desire building between the couple which acted to pull them closer together. It also pushed them together by punishing them for parting; being too distant from each other could cause physical pain… as we had learned during my failed attempt to flee, though only Marcus had truly suffered the pain of our separation. Thanks to the triquetra charm, I only experienced some light pangs when we were at our most distant. I was glad my pendant had been returned for me, and I felt for it now. “If we’re both wearing one…”

  “It’s blocked,” he finished for me. For all the help this new knowledge was to us.

  “I don’t suppose anyone has any bright ideas for how we get out of this one?” I asked, somewhat hopelessly. At which point, the light went out.

  Marcus gave a short bark of laughter. “That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

  Fury at our powerlessness swept through me, a rage that usually found a response in nature since my magic had revealed itself. There wasn’t so much as a flicker of the lights.

  Why couldn’t I feel the elements answer my call?

  A snarl suggested Devyn couldn’t reach his magic either.

  “What?” came Marcus’s voice.

  “I can’t use my magic,” I said through gritted teeth.

  Marcus let out a humph. “You think after that display in Richmond that everything you’ve eaten hasn’t been laced with the pill they used to give you to suppress your abilities?”

  Devyn pulled me close. “Marcus, you’ve still been able to help people. You did a shift before the party, right?”

  He was referring to our pre-wedding revels, only yesterday. It felt like another lifetime.

  “Yes” came Marcus’s short answer out of the darkness.

  “Then whatever they’ve been giving Cassandra probably wasn’t served up to you.”

  “I suppose not,” Marcus replied grudgingly, a little less monosyllabic. He was curious as to where the Briton was going with this.

  “Then we can have light.” Devyn held me closer to his chest. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, I could do without the darkness. I needed some kind of outline, some relief from the dense black of our cell.

  “How?” Marcus asked. “Magic? I only know how to use my abilities to cure the illness.”

  “Well, it’s time you learned something a little more. With your bloodline, you should be able to do a great many more things than heal people. The Plantagenet line is one of the oldest and most powerful on this island,” Devyn informed him. “I need you to close your eyes.”

  Marcus snorted. “What difference will
that make? I can’t see my hand in front of my face as it is.”

  “It’ll stop you being distracted as the magic manifests itself. Trust me.”

  “Right, I’m going to trust you,” Marcus flashed back. I couldn’t blame him. Marcus didn’t know Devyn; they had barely met before last night. And Marcus would not recall their earlier meeting with fondness as it was the same night he had learned not only that he had the magic so reviled by citizens, but that I was hoping to run away from the city with a Wilder.

  Before Devyn came into our lives, Marcus and I had never been accused of so much as jaywalking; we wouldn’t have dreamed of doing anything to disrespect the Code. Now we were the accused in what was undoubtedly going to become the most scandalous Mete in a century. Or ever.

  “Close your eyes,” Devyn repeated. An exhalation of breath presumably indicated that Marcus had complied this time. “I need you to focus. The power is within you. We gain magic from without, from natural resources most of the time; this is how you pull in energy. Here in the darkness, behind the stone and iron, you don’t have access to that. You need to reach within to the power of your ancestors. Deep inside lies a light, a spark. I need you to bring that up to the surface. Raise it slowly, gently; it should be a delicate light.”

  As Devyn spoke, a glimmer appeared in the air beside Marcus. I stifled my reaction so I wouldn’t disturb Marcus, his now visible face creased in concentration.

  “The light is bright and true,” Devyn coaxed him, and the glimmer responded, growing brighter. “That’s it. Keep your eyes closed. Now, I need you to tie it off. Let it float free. Make it separate from yourself. You still control it, but it exists outside of you; you no longer need to sustain it.”

  The glowing sphere floated to the side, bouncing daintily in the air before steadying itself. It was beautiful, a manifestation of real magic, lighting what was quite literally our darkest hour. I was entranced. I watched as Marcus opened his eyes and took in what he had accomplished, his once ready smile tilting his lips and his green eyes widening at the thing he had created. His eyes danced to meet mine, the wattage dimming as he took in the sight of me in Devyn’s arms.