Dead Magic (10 page)

"I'm afraid not." She had to fight the annoyance out of her voice. A part of her understood that Lady Elsie couldn't trust her, especially given that she was a reporter, but a little more information would have been better.

"Well then. It's really very simple. The school needs teachers. Particularly in Engineering and Mathematics." Master Walters slouched in his chair, his lanky frame somehow shrinking with the movement. "Mrs. Hilden is a wonder, she truly is, but the school has room for many, many more children. We've already petitioned several of the orphanages across Magnellum to send us their overflow and we're expecting two dozen more by the end of the month."

"So . . . you want to place ads in a newspaper advertising job opportunities?" Valeda spoke slowly, her mind trying to discern what was going on. This couldn't possibly be as simple as writing an advertisement, could it?

"Not just a newspaper, Miss Quinlan. The
Tormey Regular
. Tormey is renowned for its engineering program."

"But . . . surely you can do that on your own. Putting out an article is really quite simple."

"Alas, I have no money. The banking of the school is done by Lady Feverrette, and she assured me that you would have resources to make this happen." Walter lifted a finger and stood up, moving to his desk in two strides. "I have a list of what we're looking for. There are specific requirements that the candidates must meet."

Resources
, she thought. Holding her shoulder bag in her lap, Valeda had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. House Witch Delgora's trust fund really did have a purpose, though the sum that had been transferred into Valeda's name was far more than what would be necessary to run an advertisement in the
Regular
. The other tasks she was meant to perform were low budget as well, unless the Lady meant for Valeda to travel in high style. Her travel to Lorant was a moot point since getting back to Tormey from Delgora required that she cross through Lorant lands.

She was always given an assignment in Lorant during the Winter Tournament and her newspaper normally paid for that, so the requirement that she meet with House Witch Feverrette wasn't a problem, either.
Fifth day of the first week of Winter Tournament, at Feverrette House lodgings in Lorant, at precisely three in the afternoon
, her mind recited. Documents would be sent to her prior to that date to carry to the meeting.

The meetings were the only tasks she'd been given that worried her. This meeting and the meeting with House Witch Feverrette were the only two, but neither of them had specified what they were for. Though Master Walter, who was circling and underlining the salient points in what he needed in teachers, wasn't near as intimidating as her imagination had made him out to be. She was certain Lady Feverrette would be more frightening.

Her third task was the one that would be difficult. She was to seek out the whereabouts of Lord Winslow Agoston and report his location to Lady Elsie immediately. Valeda was baffled about this matter because it was well-known that Lord Winslow Agoston and Lord Dorian Feverrette-Delgora were close friends. It seemed to her that two such friends should always know where the other was.
Or at least have a clue
, she thought.

"Here we are." Master Walter returned to the chairs and handed over a sheaf of paper. "I understand that advertisements cost per letter, so I'll leave it to your discretion on how it's done. It's imperative, however, that the Engineering teacher has a specialty in water pumps."

That statement drew her attention. "Water pumps?"

"Indeed."

He didn't elaborate further. In fact, something flashed in his eyes that told her not to question further. As she rose to leave, thanking him for his time and promising to see to the advertisement as soon as she got home, her mind flashed to Delgora Manor. To the night she'd stared out the window at the ridgeline in the south, watching the light rotate and overtake the darkness, she remembered.

The ark
, she thought.
By Fates, this was how the Lady was gathering the people she needed to build the thing.

Elsie growled in frustration and tried the summoning spell again. Salt and fire whirled around her, hiding from view the trappings of her bedroom. Though she couldn't see him, she knew that Dorian had entered at some point and was standing just beyond the whirlwind. Still, she had to try one more time.

"I, Elsie Varene Delgora, House Witch, call forth Magic to my side."

In answer, the swirl of flame and salt stopped, poised midair, and waited. Elsie could see Dorian now, a silhouette through the fog of orange-speckled salt. It was comforting to know he was there, and at the same time, she cringed. He knew what she was doing, or trying to do, and her failure would only cause him pain.

"Find for me Lord Winslow Agoston."

Her command sent the salt back to spinning, whipping through the air with the force of fire behind it. She concentrated, barely able to see an image forming in the chaotic swirl before her. But the image was a blur and the most she could make out was a vast forest of coniferous trees. There was no strain on her magic, though she knew there should be. Her union with Dorian stretched her Talent beyond the normal capacity of any Witch-Born. This was the main reason the Council had attempted to block their marriage. There was a different sort of power growing between Dorian and herself, something that frightened the noble Witches.

And yet, as powerful as she and Dorian could be together, Elsie could not clear the vision. She couldn't find Winslow, and no matter how long she stood there, the picture before her wouldn't change.

Flinching, she released the spell.

It's very likely
, she thought, as the flames returned to their candle wicks,
that Winslow is dead
. The blurred trees, the blobs of what she assumed were boulders, were probably his final resting place. And Fates forgive her, it was her fault.

"Still nothing?" Dorian asked. The grimness in his voice cut into her heart.

"Nothing. Just those cursed trees." Because she couldn't bear to look at him, Elsie turned away.

With one sweeping motion, she commanded the candles and salt back to their respective places. The candles swished through the air, stacking themselves neatly into a chest on her vanity table. The salt gathered and deposited into a small sack just beside the candle box, and then there was silence.

Dorian was debating what to say, she knew. The poor man was stuck between defending her actions and the prospect of a dead friend.
Dead
, she thought with a great deal of self-condemnation,
because of a silly order I made
.

In her defense, Winslow had been miserably restless.

"Perhaps Miss Quinlan will uncover something," Dorian said quietly. "By all accounts, she is a determined reporter. She won't rest until she has answers."

"As demonstrated by her appearance here at Delgora Court," Elsie murmured.

Another long silence cloaked the room. Elsie remained at the center of their room, staring at the cream and blue quilt stretched across the bed. Leona had commissioned it from a notable quilt-maker in Three Points, Broska. It had probably cost a year's stipend, which made Elsie vaguely uncomfortable. She was used to being the giver, not the receiver.

In fact, Elsie felt far more comfortable in her little old shop down in the township than she did in the Manor. Everything was on display in the Manor. She felt vulnerable, open, and not at all like a House Witch. Though, to be fair, Elsie wasn't certain how a House Witch was supposed to feel. Eight years in the position and there was still an awkwardness about her.

Dorian moved to stand behind her, pulling her into a firm, reassuring embrace. "This is not your fault," he said.

She felt the rumble of his voice and closed her eyes. "It certainly feels like it."

"Winslow needed something to do, even I know that. If he'd stayed here, he would have continued to mope."

"I'd rather he be moping and alive than missing and possibly dead."

His grip tightened on her at the statement. He didn't move, didn't try to contradict her, just held her.
That
, she thought,
is the remarkable thing about my husband
. Dorian had such control, such quiet command of himself that he could speak to her even in silence. He agreed with her, at least in the desire to see Winslow safe, but could offer no words of encouragement. What he could offer was strength, security and compassion.

Fates bless the man for his patience. True, he'd shouted at her earlier, finally demanding the truth of what they were fighting, but Elsie had expected that fight years ago. He had quite a lot of fortitude in waiting so long.

Seeming to sense her distress, Dorian ran his hand over her arm, barely hissing as the tattoos zapped him. Elsie knew the pinpricks of gold peppering her arm were defending themselves, she could even understand that Magic didn't like to be touched, but she needed to feel Dorian's hand in hers. There were moments it felt like the entire arm didn't belong to her anymore, and she needed the normalcy of this small act.

Sighing, she determined to enjoy the quiet moment and turned to face Dorian. He smiled down at her, though he looked more tired than anything else. Reaching up, she brushed his jaw with her knuckles and smiled back. It was unfair that she couldn't push the worry away from her mind. Dorian deserved a peaceful, warm life. He deserved better than the insanity she had put him through over the years.

"I can sense the regret in you," he said. "Quit it. I chose the woman I love over being pampered at court. Deal with it."

Elsie breathed a faint laugh. Sometimes she forgot that their Talents could communicate. He knew her on a deep, quiet level that spoke beyond the physical realm.

Giving her a real smile, Dorian kissed her. She leaned into him, forgetting about Magic and the ark and Winslow.

Winslow wasn't certain what bothered him more: the fact that he still couldn't heal himself, or the damned walking stick he was forced to use. By mutual agreement, they had decided it was time to move again, injury or no injury, and he clumsily negotiated the tracks with the thing. He'd never endured a wound for this long and he suddenly had a healthy respect for the Untalented.

Pain spiked through his leg and shoulder at every step, and he imagined his body was justifiably angry with him for the movement. Not even the verue plant concoction slathered over his shoulder was much help.

"Tell me about the Tre`ow," he grumbled, grunting as the toe of his boot snagged on a bit of rock. He over-corrected, jarring his body and intensifying the pain. "Mother, Maiden and Crone!"

"Do you need to rest, Lord Agoston?" Fayree asked.

"No. If I rest I might not get up again." Winslow continued forward and slanted a glare at her. "Distract me. Tell me who the hell you really are."

Fayree glanced down at where Mirabella kept pace beside her. The little girl's green eyes were wide with wonder. He got the distinct feeling that this was a story she hadn't been told before. That seemed a bit curious, but Mirabella was still very young. It was possible that Fayree was trying to shield her daughter from the revelation. Still, he couldn't feel any remorse for asking. Even at their slow pace they would reach Three Points by midday the next day, unless a rescue train came for them.

He wondered what was taking the personnel at Three Points so damned long to get out there.

"I'm not sure how to explain this to you," Fayree said after a long moment. "Your own history books cannot recall a time without the Pillars. You have no concept of the culture you come from, and even if you did, you wouldn't recognize it. Magnellum has grown into a culture of its own, with customs and traditions far removed from its origins."

Winslow kept hobbling forward, frowning as he digested her statement. "You mean to tell me that Magnellum was once a part of the Wild?"

"Yes," she said. "A very important part."

"Is the land sacred or something?" Winslow could picture some kind of religious motivations spurring the Wild to attack them.
It would explain why the Wild continued to assault the Pillars
, he thought. But it also meant there would be no end to that assault.

"No," Fayree said. "But there is something sacred to us here."

"Well, what is it?" he asked. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can return it. Anything for peace . . ."

"Magic," she said grimly and he faltered. "Magic itself is what we hold sacred."

"But . . ."

"And time."

"Time?"

"Outside the Pillars, time has stopped."

Winslow paused to lean on his stick some more. His shoulder flared with dizzying pain and he had to take several breaths to steady himself.

"That's impossible," he said. "You can't stop time. Life would cease to exist."

"Nothing grows," Fayree said quietly. "We live and breathe and consume, but nothing new grows. There are no new births. Our children do not age. If time has not stopped for us, then it is moving at such a slow pace that we may never see our old age."

Winslow felt a shiver crawl over his neck. Somehow, this seemed far worse than religious motivations.
But how?
he wondered.
How could they have lost time outside the Pillars and what good did it do them to attack Magnellum?

"How is that possible?" he asked.

"It happened the day Magic was taken from the Host tree," she said. "We were a great people once, the Tre`ow. Skilled farmers and tradesmen, much like Magnellum is today, but with a far simpler political system. We all used the Talent you Witch-Born possess, just in smaller portions. And we all paid homage to the Host tree . . . the place where Magic dwelt."

He didn't like where this story was going. Magic, according to Fayree, originally belonged in the Wild and the Wild wanted Magic back. There wasn't a Witch in Magnellum who would willingly give up their Talent, and even if there were, he doubted that would appease the Wild. Besides, Magic Himself had been stolen from them, too. They literally had nothing to give the Wild.