Modern Magick 4

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘And that’s why I came. You’re holding them here, aren’t you? You’ve got to let them go.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘George. They’re tearing themselves to pieces.’

  ‘They’ll tear me to pieces if I try it.’

  ‘If they do, so be it.’ Zareen was ice-cold. ‘You should never have done this.’ She swallowed, choked, and added: ‘Nine. Bob Malley, Kellswater. He wants to go home, George.’

  George’s reply, whatever it might have been, was drowned by a sudden blare of music from the hall. No, it was not coming from the hall, or not only from the hall. It was coming from everywhere at once. I might have suspected a complicated speaker system, except that the music — strings and trumpets, with something of the fanfare about it — seemed to explode from the very walls. Then came a woman’s voice. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ashdown Castle! Ancestria Magicka is delighted to make your acquaintance. Your presence is kindly requested in the main ballroom for the first of several scintillating surprises, so make haste! We begin in five minutes!’

  A look of utter horror flashed across George’s face, prompted by… what?

  ‘Ten,’ said Zareen. ‘Felicity Bennett, Ivybridge. Seamstress.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, straightening my spine. ‘Zar, you need to stop this. Shut them off. They’ll drive you insane, and there is nothing you can do for them at this moment.’

  Zareen nodded ready acquiescence, to my relief — but then she shuddered so violently she almost fell to the floor. The Baron and I caught her between us.

  I stared flintily at George, my heart pounding. ‘What is going on here?’

  But I was too late. He gave the same tearing shudder as Zareen, but while she had weathered it, George did not. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed.

  14

  The ballroom was already crowded by the time we arrived. We were among the last to squeeze our way into the vaulted chamber, and there was barely space enough for us. I was relieved to find Rob just inside the door, apparently on the watch for us. ‘Is she all right?’ he said at once, already reaching for Zareen.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Zar, and she was recovering by then, though still rather weak. She straightened up, shaking me off, and lifted her chin. Her eyes, thankfully, were normal again.

  Mercer had revived after a couple of minutes, but refused to come with us. He’d staggered off into the bowels of the castle, and we had let him go.

  Rob nodded. ‘Trouble?’

  Zareen gave him a quick account of the ten (or more) Waymasters she had sensed locked into the walls, and I watched as Rob’s face grew very grave. ‘Ten Waymasters ought to be enough to move a castle, wouldn’t you think?’ he said when she had finished.

  ‘Fair chance of it.’

  A small stage occupied the far end of the ballroom, raised up very high. A smattering of applause broke out as a woman strode out onto it, dressed in a dazzling gown that glittered like the night sky. When her identity became clear, the applause became thunderous.

  I was too astonished to move.

  ‘That’s Fenella Beaumont,’ I hissed.

  Let me tell you about the Beaumonts. They were a powerful magickal family some few hundred years ago, and Ashdown Castle had been their principal seat for many generations. But they’d withered away down the ages; their powers and their fortune had declined at about equal rates, and most of them had died out. Fenella Beaumont was one of only two surviving members of the family — and she had not been seen or heard from in so long, some had begun to say she, too, was dead.

  Well, she wasn’t. With her silvery hair swept up in a fairy-tale style and her still slender figure encased in sparkling velvet, she was causing a sensation up on the stage.

  ‘Welcome to my ancestral home!’ she said, when at last the applause began to die down. ‘It is a pleasure to see my beloved Ashdown Castle not only restored to its former glory but also hosting such a distinguished set of guests. I hope you have all been suitably supplied with champagne?’

  A roar of assent.

  ‘Her home?’ I whispered to Rob. ‘Ancestria Magicka bought this place last year.’

  ‘From Everett Beaumont,’ said Rob. ‘Her uncle.’

  Everett Beaumont was famously destitute, hence the appalling state of disrepair the castle had fallen into — and its sale. Fenella Beaumont was as broke as the rest of them, so what was she doing up there in a designer gown, diamonds flashing at her ears and throat?

  ‘Let me introduce you to Ancestria Magicka,’ Fenella was saying, flashing a charming smile. ‘Many have called for a progressive, forward-thinking organisation for the magickal among us. Many have chafed against the needless restrictions laid down by our sisters and brothers at the Ministry, among the Courts of the Fae, and the many other establishments tasked with the protection and preservation of our kind. And they do fine work, do they not? But it isn’t enough.’ Fenella began to pace back and forth across the stage. A good move, I had to admit: she had a fluid, graceful stride, and the sparkle sent up by her gown and her jewels had a nearly mesmeric quality. ‘It isn’t enough to be safe. It isn’t enough to be careful. If we want to regain what we’ve lost, well, somebody has to take risks!’

  She stopped, and looked seriously out over her audience. ‘We all know what we’ve lost, don’t we? Our arts have declined with every passing century, smothered by the relentless rise of modernity and technology. Even the greatest of our living practitioners has nothing to compare with the witches and sorcerers, the waymasters and necromancers, of ages long past. This isn’t right. Where will we be in another hundred years? Another two centuries? Will there be anything of magick left?

  ‘And that isn’t all. My friends, my colleagues, we have lost far more than any of you realise. More than that: it has been taken from us, hidden from us. You are all being lied to, every single day, by those you look up to. Our leaders have swaddled us in comforting half-truths and outright lies, all in the name of safety! Of miserable caution! In so doing, they collude in our destruction.

  ‘We cannot go on this way.’

  She paused here for effect, and you could have heard a pin drop in that room. Some of the people near me did not even seem to be breathing. The woman had presence, I’d give her that. ‘A year ago today, I founded Ancestria Magicka,’ continued Fenella. ‘To fight back. To find a new way forward. To reclaim our lost heritage. I see a brighter, more magickal future ahead and it is my dearest wish to share it with all of you.’

  The tension in the room became palpable, and I sensed that the first of those “scintillating surprises” was about to be dropped on us. (If we weren’t counting the involvement of Fenella herself. Even the purchase of Ashdown Castle, of all places, hadn’t tipped me off about her).

  ‘We may have left the best of our arts behind us, but what if I told you they are not lost? What if I told you there is a way to get them back?’

  It was my turn to stop breathing. I clutched the Baron’s arm so hard it must have hurt, but he didn’t move. His attention was riveted upon Fenella Beaumont.

  ‘Look at our world,’ said Fenella. ‘Half drained of magick, and what little is left must be hidden away. We are forced to hide in the shadows. Why, there is an entire Ministry devoted to no other purpose! But why? Why must we hide? Why has magick declined?

  ‘It is claimed that this is a natural and inevitable process — that there is nothing we could have done to slow or halt this decline. That as the world progressed, as technology improved, we and our magick must necessarily be left behind.

  ‘This is false. It is through our own poor choices, our own weaknesses, that modern magick has arrived at this condition. We, and our ancestors, have betrayed everything we have, everything we are, and we continue to do so, day by day. But it doesn’t have to be this way.’ Fenella stood dead centre of the stage, now, staring out at the audience. She stood tall and proud and majestic, glittering with magick, her eyes alight with fervour; every word she uttered struc
k me deeply. ‘What we have broken, we can mend. We can! And we will!

  ‘How do I know this? Because, my friends, I have seen the proof with my own eyes. Some of those around you have seen it. I have travelled far beyond the borders of Britain. I have travelled far beyond the borders of this world. And I have seen another Britain. Another world. One where magick has not declined. A world where magick and its practitioners co-exist, peacefully and without conflict, alongside the very same technologies we enjoy in our own reality.’

  She was obliged to pause, here, for the ballroom was by then in uproar. I felt like screaming myself. ‘What the bloody hell?’ I gasped. ‘What nonsense is this?’

  Baron Alban alone had neither moved nor spoken. He just looked at me.

  ‘It’s true? It cannot be.’ I was shaking all over, I wasn’t sure why. Shock? Horror? Awe? I wrapped my arms around myself and took a steadying breath, though it was difficult to muster a state of calm when everyone around me was losing their wits. ‘Explain?’ I said beseechingly.

  ‘Later.’ The Baron looked back at Fenella. ‘Methinks the lady isn’t finished with us yet.’

  He was right. Fenella raised her voice to shout above the tumult. ‘I see scepticism in many faces!’ she shouted. ‘Lies, I hear you call! It is a difficult idea to believe, is it not? It has been hidden from us, hidden by our own leaders, our own guiding lights. Well, the time for secrets has passed. I bring you truths, and I shall prove that this is no lie.’ Her lips curved in a saucy smile. ‘How, you ask?

  ‘Why don’t I just… show you?’

  With splendid theatricality, most of the lights went out, leaving the ballroom in an atmospheric gloom.

  And then, too many things happened at once.

  Zareen, at my elbow, began abruptly to babble, six or eight voices at once streaming from her lips. Her eyes had gone solid black again, and every muscle in her body was rigid. Her voices rose to a screaming pitch and she clapped her hands over her ears as though to shut something out; her gaze, locked on mine, was wide and desperate.

  She collapsed.

  ‘Zar!’ I fell to my knees beside her, but there was nothing I could do. She lay shuddering uncontrollably, still babbling in an endless stream of words, her hands clutching helplessly at me.

  Then George Mercer was there. He looked little better himself, and his lips moved in concert with Zareen’s, uttering the same words which poured still from her mouth. But he bent and hauled her up, steadying her somehow. They clung to one another.

  The ground began to shake.

  ‘We’re going somewhere,’ I gasped, and almost fell as the earth gave a convulsive shudder beneath my feet. A dull roar began as the ancient bricks of Ashdown Castle rattled and shook, as though an earthquake passed through.

  ‘We’re going a long way,’ said Alban grimly, and I was grateful when he took hold of me, for with his superior weight and bulk he was a lot more stable than I was. I clung to him like he was a tree in a storm and shut my eyes. How did I really feel, in that moment? Terrified, appalled — but afire with excitement, because, good gods, if Fenella spoke the truth… I had no words to express the impact her revelation would have upon everything I knew and cared for.

  Rob surged out of the crowd. His dark hair was dusted white with fallen plaster and he had a shield up, a field of magickal energy which flickered darkly around him as he moved. ‘Ves!’ he bellowed. ‘Where’s Val?’

  I pointed in the direction I’d last seen her, though who knew if she was anywhere near that spot anymore.

  ‘Take care of Zareen!’ he shouted, and plunged into the crowd in, hopefully, Val’s general direction.

  I summoned a shield of my own, taking care that it encapsulated Zareen (and George) and the Baron as well as me. Rob was right: at this rate, Fenella’s mad scheme would bring the roof down on us.

  The roar of rumbling brick and stone grew louder still, the earth rocked wildly under another tearing shock, and then — then we were gone, hauled bodily through space like the worst of all rollercoasters. Dizziness overwhelmed me, and Alban too, for we went tumbling to the ground and lay there stunned as the world broke into whirling pieces and faded away.

  It seemed a long time later when the tremors stopped at last, and the ground ceased to shudder and buckle beneath us. I opened my eyes, tentatively, to find my shield still intact around the dishevelled little group of us, toppled like bowling pins.

  ‘Are we alive?’ I croaked.

  ‘Breathing,’ said Alban from about three inches away. The pale bluish tint to his skin had developed more of a greenish air, but otherwise he looked hale. He managed, somehow, to smile at me.

  Zareen and George were twined tightly together not far from where I lay. Both appeared to be breathing, which was good enough for me at that moment. With a groan, I hauled myself to my feet, and looked around.

  The roof had not come down, but plenty of plaster had. Ancestria Magicka’s guests were liberally dusted with it, their splendid evening attire nicely ruined. Nobody appeared hurt, or not more than a little. All about me, dazed guests were struggling to their feet.

  ‘Any idea where we are?’ I muttered to the Baron.

  ‘Some,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out.’

  I looked at Zareen, but she waved a hand weakly at me. ‘Go,’ she whispered hoarsely, and her lips quirked in a tiny smile. ‘Save yourselves…’

  I rolled my eyes, and held out a hand to her. ‘Come on. Don’t you want to see this vision of magickal marvels?’

  ‘I do,’ she said, and began to shiver. ‘My legs don’t, and I’m really not sure about my stomach.’

  George dragged himself up and stood there for a moment, swaying slightly. When he did not fall, he held out his hand to Zareen. ‘We’re okay.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ But she rallied and got herself up somehow. Her eyes were still coal-black, which I tried not to notice, and a trickle of drying blood marred the blanched skin beneath her nose. At least they had both stopped babbling.

  I kept the shield up as we left the ballroom. Fortunately we had maintained a station near the rear door, and few people yet stood between us and the questionable safety of the outdoors. Our pace was slow, and I became aware of several hitherto undiscovered bruises as we staggered through the corridors of Ashdown Castle to its main doors. They were closed, but they swung slowly open as we approached, and fresh air rushed in. I took a great, grateful lungful of it.

  The sun was up, and it should not have been, for darkness had fallen by the time Fenella began her spectacular speech. We had somehow gone back (or forward) to the middle of the afternoon, or thereabouts, and that fact caused a violent fluttering in my stomach — part excitement, part anticipation, part terror.

  ‘What the fuck is going on,’ muttered Zareen, and I agreed whole-heartedly with the sentiment, for beyond the doors of the castle was a sight both unfamiliar and unfathomable.

  A sandy beach strewn with stones stretched before us, and beyond that came the deep blue glitter of a sunlit sea. A cliff rose in jagged stages to a height of some hundred feet, a winding roped-off pathway snaking its leisurely way up to the top. Little houses were tucked into nooks and corners at intervals up the cliff, and their architecture was mostly of a type I recognised: timber-frames, whitewashed walls, steeply gabled roofs covered in thatch. But one or two were odd. It took me a moment to realise that their pale, pearly walls were built from starstone, and they bore some of the same whimsical features as Melmidoc’s Striding Spire. One of them even had a short, round tower of almost identical design.

  My gaze made its way slowly up this bizarre and inexplicable cliff and when I at last took in what lay at the very top, I received another shock, for there was Melmidoc’s own spire. It stood casually at the edge of the cliff, a pale, elegant shape against the deep blue sky, and just to round the day off nicely there was a familiar figure coming out of the door at its base.

  Jay looked down at the group of us huddled on the beach, shading his
eyes against the sun. Then, curse him, he gave us a cheery wave.

  ‘What,’ I said slowly, ‘the fuck is going on.’

  Jay beckoned.

  ‘Right, then,’ I said, squaring my shoulders. ‘All ready for another dose of strange beyond all reason?’

  ‘Bring it on,’ said Alban.

  15

  ‘You made it!’ said Jay, smiling, once we had finally crawled our way to the top of the cliff.

  Fortunately for him, I was a bit too out of breath from the climb to make any immediate reply. I occupied myself instead with gazing out over the water. A town was distantly visible on the horizon, but I was insufficiently familiar with Scarborough to be able to tell whether or not it looked the same.

  ‘Uh huh!’ said Zareen brightly and added, with deceptive casualness, ‘And where exactly have we made it to?’

  ‘Oh, the fifth Britain. This is Whitmore, centre of magickal government for the North.’ He eyed me in my slinky evening gown and added, ‘Nice dress.’

  Faced as he was with four identically pole-axed expressions, I suppose he could be forgiven the smug smile. ‘There’s lots to tell,’ he conceded.

  ‘Wait,’ said Baron Alban. ‘The fifth Britain? Five?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jay. ‘There are —’

  ‘Five?’ Zareen and I yelped in concert.

  ‘Well—’ said Jay.

  ‘Five worlds like ours,’ I said, and folded my arms. ‘You cannot be serious, Jay.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, and folded his arms right back at me. ‘There are nine.’

  Nine that are known, came Melmidoc’s voice. The door to the Starstone Spire stood open, and we had all paused only a few feet away. Many scholars believe that there are more yet to be discovered.

  Zareen threw up her hands and took a step back, signalling her incapacity to cope with the conversation just then. I didn’t blame her. George Mercer hadn’t said a word; he stood a little apart from the rest of us, stony-faced and silent. From the look of him, I suspected his behaviour was prompted in large part by simple exhaustion. Zareen’s too, probably.