Excerpt from the introduction to Mind & Magic: A Treatise on the Existence of Deities by Agnes Whidford
From the Cornelian Tower Archives, single printing. Lent to the private library of Lord Heron IV, and subsequently lost in a house fire in 1303 AH.
There has always been a certain set of scholarship that argues in favor of the existence of gods. I refer not to the temples in various states of disrepair throughout the Continent, nor to those who pray, whether at home or at chapel. I refer, instead, to recorded histories. Unexplained events have occurred with some regularity throughout the course of human history, and only until recently, with the growing popularity of the concept of science, have scholars begun to dismiss such texts as ‘fanciful.’
I find such dismissal troubling and seek to refute it. There was a time when all of Navenie, in addition to its more superstitious neighbors, believed in gods, magic, and monsters. While the existence of flying lizards with webbed wings was never confirmed, evidence of the gods’ interference in human lives is vast, largely consistent, and, based on the various accounts I will discuss here in great detail, undeniable. Take, for example, Festra, a particularly meddlesome deity, whose most notable act was to set several towns on fire, as legend has it, simply to prove a point. If we are to take these accounts of violent interference with mortals at face value,
assuming one has read the relevant text,* Festra seemed to have a fascination with passing on his power to mortals and setting them loose upon the world.
And so, when we look at the diary of Festra devotee Winifred Castlecombe, who awoke the morning of January 24, 279 BH, with the ability to shoot fire from her hands, we ask not, ‘What does the concept of Winifred’s fire represent,’ but rather, assume that the fire is real and ask instead, ‘What did Festra want her to do with his fire?’
* See: Divine Atrocities by Julian Dacre, publication pending.
Prologue
Simon Delara was late.
Usually, he arrived precisely on time – at least, he made certain to appear as if he did. In fact, he typically arrived early, hiding in some alcove or outside a door, with the express purpose of eavesdropping. It was fascinating the things people gave away when they were waiting, thinking themselves alone or with trusted company.
If Simon were to arrive late, it would encourage a client’s mind to wander toward him, his doings, what might be causing him to tarry.
So he was never late.
Well . . . rarely.
The delay had been a sudden interruption from someone unavoidable. Irritatingly scruffy and brooding, and decidedly unwelcome, but not avoidable.
He went as quickly as he could without appearing to hurry. His step was jaunty, the heels of his silk slippers tapping a staccato on the marble floor of Regent Sigrun’s great palace. His copper hair, styled to unnatural heights and impeccably coiffed, bounced jovially in the lamplight. And a finely tailored frock coat, embroidered with green and fuchsia, swung daintily as he went. Under one arm was tucked a case of black leather lined with wine-colored velvet. And nestled inside was, of course, his beloved lute.
He knew he looked a delicacy as he flowed through the halls, brushing intimately past courtiers in lace and velvet, some
whose secrets he knew and some he didn’t. But every face was familiar to him, every name filed away in the banks of his memory, orderly and precise. This was the craft of a minstrel –to know everyone’s business and use it to his best advantage.
Outwardly, he swept along with carefree ease, his sensuous lips curved upward invitingly. But he was late. Inside his impeccably formed ribcage beat a restless heart. Inwardly, he ground his teeth, swore, bit at the inside of his mouth – a habit he had fought long and hard to drop and in which his beloved sister continued to indulge.
Ru . . . he couldn’t spare the time to worry. Not now.
At last, he came to his client’s chambers, a sprawling suite in the royal wing of the palace. Not for the first time, he wondered how the woman had managed to secure such opulent and – frankly, presumptuous – rooms. She was somewhat new to the regent’s court, having only arrived that year, but somehow, quite quickly, she had come to ingratiate herself with the most influential members of the aristocracy. Even Simon hadn’t been able to learn a single detail about the woman, and there was nothing that aggravated Simon more than not knowing everything about everyone.
And more than just the usual personal details, Simon was desperate to learn not only how this woman had climbed the social ladder so quickly, but why.
Yet after weeks of prying, she remained a mystery to him, a bit of toffee stuck between his teeth, a wayward lock of hair he couldn’t quite tame. No matter who he questioned, manipulated, or overheard, there was only this answer: she’s just that charming, I suppose.
When Simon had nearly come to the end of his quickly fraying rope, the woman herself, Lady Bellenet, had summoned him to perform for her. In her private rooms, no
less. But now, by the cruel hand of fate, Simon had been held up. And in doing so, he’d missed his opportunity to hover at the edges, lurk in the shadows, to overhear things not meant for him.
Fucking hell, he might have said, had he still subscribed to the oafish idioms of the middle classes. Never mind that he held no title, that as a merchant’s son, he had come from a family situated firmly in the middle. He was a minstrel, a dealer of information to anyone who paid the right price. That in itself was title enough.
Fucking hell.
He would exact his vengeance on the man who had delayed him later – for this and several other reasons. But now, he had work to do.
The painted doors to Lady Bellenet’s suite were ajar, a welcome invitation as much as a warning – break my trust, and the doors slam shut.
Simon paused at the threshold, hearing voices within. He was already late; let them wait one more moment. This might be his only chance. He made a practiced show of checking his hair, fluffing his neckcloth, and smoothing every wrinkle in his attire. To anyone passing in the hall, or perhaps even sensing his presence from within, he was no more than a vain musician ensuring he looked impeccable for a performance. And though his cunning reputation preceded him, he liked to think that at his best, he fooled even the most astute members of court.
Because this was part of the performance itself, a step in a dance he knew well. As he ran long fingers down the front of his waistcoat, as he adjusted the delicate gold chain of a pocket watch so that its drape was just the right length, just the right amount of curve . . . he listened.
Voices drifted out from Lady Bellenet’s room, but they were so low that he couldn’t make out a single word. He was about to push through the doors at last, when a name caught his ear. The sound of it pierced him dully.
‘Ruellian Delara . . . ?’ The rest of the sentence was an incomprehensible murmur, but he had heard enough for his hackles to rise. Why should this lady, or anyone, be interested in his sister? Perhaps she was interested in archaeology, but it wasn’t terribly likely. Only abominable bores like Hugon D’Luc cared about such dull things as ancient pottery.
Simon craned his neck, trying to hear more, but it was useless.
‘Where is that cursed minstrel?’ a deep and feminine voice said, loud enough now that Simon could hear quite clearly. ‘He’s three minutes late.’
And Simon was through the doors, breezing in like a confection of silk and charm. As he sashayed in, he nearly collided with a woman on her way out, dressed in finery.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said, bowing.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, her tone distant and uncaring. Simon saw now that he recognized her – Countess Odeline. He had performed for her often in the past, though not recently.
‘My lady,’ Simon said, treating the countess to his most inviting smile, ‘how long has it been? I do so miss our musical evenings. Please, don’t hesitate to call upon me when the mood for melody strikes.’
He had known the countess to possess great humor, and she dearly loved to laugh. But she merely blinked in response, her gaze glassy and far away. As if she’d never seen Simon before in her life. He turned and watched her depart, unable to keep his brows from drawing together in confusion.
Blinking quickly, Simon revived himself – he was not here for Countess Odeline. He turned, smiling brightly, and dropped a hideously intricate bow before Lady Bellenet. When he straightened, he caught her gaze and held it. He knew that he radiated warmth, an unassuming beauty, despite the strange encounter at the door.
Everything about Simon Delara was practiced. Rehearsed.
‘My lady,’ he said, ‘a thousand apologies for the delay. My lute was afflicted with a string that simply refused to sing true. If you must have me executed as punishment, I should warn you that I would enjoy it terribly. Facing eternity at the hands of such a lovely woman . . . how could I complain?’
Lady Bellenet’s cupid’s bow lips curved in a slight smile, a froth of gold-brown hair piled above her youthful face. ‘God willing, we won’t need to go so far as that. And how is the string now, Mr. Delara?’
His smile widened, and he bowed again. ‘She sings with the utmost purity, my lady.’
‘Good,’ said Lady Bellenet. ‘I expect nothing less from Mirith’s most recommended minstrel. And what will you be performing for me?’
‘Whatever will please your ladyship most,’ said Simon, setting his lute case on a velvet bench and flipping it open with deft fingers. The instrument gleamed within, shining honey wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl flowers along its curves. Removing it gently from its velvet case, he hefted the lute with practiced ease and strummed a chord.
‘You may not be familiar with the song I crave,’ Lady Bellenet said, lily-white hands folded in a taffeta lap. She was perched in a throne-like armchair, her back facing a tall window that looked out over a red-drenched sea.
Simon knew the sunset illuminated him strikingly, setting
his coppery hair afire. But even that couldn’t free him from the barbs in the lady’s eyes.
She tilted her head ever so slightly, her sharp gaze trained on Simon’s face as if she expected to find something there. But greater women than she had attempted to see through his mask, and all had failed.
‘Tell me the name of the song,’ said Simon, playing a soft chord as he spoke, ‘and I shall do my utmost to ensure that your ears are caressed with the tune you so desire.’
She smiled faintly, her eyes devoid of any pleasure. ‘Tell me, do you know The Song of the Sun Gate? A traditional Mekyan folk tune, nothing I’d expect anyone here to have heard.’
Her expression was all soft apology, but Simon felt the sharpness in her tongue as if it were steel against skin. He had expected the mysterious Lady Bellenet to be fierce, a force to be reckoned with, but there was more to her than a simple gift for charm.
‘My lady,’ he said, ‘you underestimate me. We Mirithans may have an obsession with science and progress, but only the hardest of hearts could not be swayed by the stories of the ancient gods. The Song of the Sun Gate . . . I haven’t heard it in years, let alone played it, but I’d be obliged to hang up my minstrel’s hat if I didn’t know the tune like the back of my hand.’
Lady Bellenet inclined her head slightly, a silent acknowledgment and the cue for him to play.
So he did. The notes came effortlessly as always; he was a skilled musician, his fingers deft, his musicians’ muscles blessed with long memory. As he played, he schooled his features, kept his eyes light, his smiles soulful and indulgent. But on the inside, his gut churned, his heart hammered, and
try as he might to stop it by sheer will alone, a sweat broke out on the back of his neck.
Lady Bellenet knew something she wasn’t telling him. Simon wondered whether the woman hadn’t known he was waiting, listening. Wondered whether she hadn’t left the doors ajar just to ensure that he heard his sister’s name.
Worst of all, this was no simple song request from a bored lady of the court. It was a brutal song, a vengeful song of death for those who disobeyed their betters. Simon had spent enough time at court to know that every song he played, every request from a noble, alluded to something bigger. This one was a warning. And Ru was in danger.
Lord D’Luc came in the mornings.
When they first returned from the Shattered City, Ru had been eager to prove herself impervious to him, to make it clear that she couldn’t be cowed by his threats or manipulations. She had called herself Destroyer, taking up the mantle in a moment of anger, spurred by a thirst for vengeance.
But as time passed, she found that her rage was beginning to gutter.
Because Lord D’Luc came in the mornings.
His arrival was always heralded by a sharp knock on Ru’s door, his very presence a reminder that this was not her room – it was his, just as the artifact was his, and the Tower. The professors, the academic leaders and keepers of the Cornelian Tower who had sat at the head of the kingdom’s scholarly pursuits, were bedridden, all afflicted by a mysterious sickness. And who but Lord D’Luc was so conveniently placed as to keep the Tower in their stead?
Ru was already awake and dressed when the knock came that morning. She had attempted to do something with her hair, which amounted to pulling it out of her face and securing it with a piece of velvet ribbon.
‘Good morning, Delara,’ said Lord D’Luc, smiling brightly in the haze of morning light.
Ru hated the way he affected her, even now. His beauty was simply unavoidable, a fact of science. Anyone seeing him in that moment, with the rising sun reflected in his pale
gold hair, would have been struck by the vision. There was an air of ethereality about him, and while he was tall, he remained trim, elegant, angelic. Full lips and a sharp jaw, light eyes, and a dimple when he smiled – these were the trappings of a man whose soul, Ru believed, was rotten through.
She wanted to slap that dimple off his perfect face.
‘Good is subjective.’
‘Charming as always,’ he said, holding out his elbow for her to take. She did, already knowing the moves to this dance. They had played it out each morning since returning from the Shattered City, less than a week ago.
Less than a week since Fen’s disappearance, since Lord D’Luc wrested the artifact from her and claimed it as his own. Ru’s pain remained so present and acute, Fen’s betrayal lying so heavy on her heart that it could have been only yesterday.
As the pair moved through the front vestibule, Ru frowned. ‘Not your rooms today?’ she asked. Thus far, their breakfasts had been taken in Lord D’Luc’s private quarters.
‘I thought we ought to enjoy summer’s last gasps,’ he replied, rings flashing as he pushed open the Tower’s great front doors.
‘Aren’t the others coming?’
‘You mean the Children?’ he said. ‘Not today. I want you to myself.’
Ru bit the inside of her already-raw lip, tasting the tang of blood.
He led them out of the front courtyard through an arch in a hedgerow, along a curving path of flagstones, until they came to what appeared to be a picnic. A blanket was laid out on the browning grass of Ru’s least favorite courtyard, and the usual array of breakfast foods was arranged pleasingly
in a tableau. Ru imagined Inda, Ranto, and Nell – the trio of Children who served as Lord D’Luc’s ever-present servants – unfolding the blanket, laying out all the food, even arranging cushions to sit on. The image would have made her laugh had she been with anyone else.
‘It’s a bit cold for a picnic,’ she said, her woolen skirts whipping in a stiff breeze.
‘The sun will warm you,’ he said, in a tone that put an end to the matter. ‘Sit.’
He held out a hand to help Ru onto an overstuffed cushion. She settled herself fitfully, her nose and fingertips already uncomfortably cold. The bright sun hung low on the horizon, and it was far too late in the year for any warmth to be found in its light.
Lord D’Luc settled himself across from her, seemingly unperturbed by the chill air. Even lounging on a cushion, he managed to appear immaculate.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you balancing precariously on a pillow?’ Ru asked.
Hugon’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. ‘So disagreeable when hungry, Delara. Do eat.’
‘Why are we having a picnic?’ She reached reluctantly for a jug of coffee.
‘I’ve told you.’
It was always like this – a stalemate, a stand-off. Ru poured herself coffee and took a small sip. It was lukewarm. Likely on purpose, to upset her. Everything Lord D’Luc did was to upset her.
Lord D’Luc watched her movements, cat-like.
‘Well?’ she said, setting down her coffee. ‘What probing questions do you want to ask me today?’
His lips quirked. ‘I think I’ll start with a reminder.’
Wind rustled the hedges, the carcasses of dried-up flowers breaking free and billowing outward across the courtyard. Ru shivered. ‘Of what?’
‘Your purpose here. With the artifact.’ His lips curled upward as he spoke, his tone mirthless. He reached for a pastry and took a delicate bite.
Ru narrowed her eyes. He was well aware she would never forget what he expected of her. ‘When you lie to me,’ she said, ‘You say you want me to bring about a scientific revolution. Isn’t that right? Thinking somehow that if you push me to breaking, the artifact will reveal itself to you. And then you’ll be at the forefront of some intellectual movement in Navenie. But when you’re being honest . . .’ She paused, waiting for an admonition, but he only watched her thoughtfully.
‘When I’m being honest, Delara?’ The question was soft.
‘A cleansing fire. A new Destruction. All in the name of some ancient god who doesn’t exist. Festra. Do you really believe –’
He lifted a finger ever so slightly, cutting her off. ‘What I believe is irrelevant. These are the facts. You will use the artifact to bring about a great scientific breakthrough. A cleansing, just as Taryel Aharis once did at the Shattered City. As you did not long ago, an echo of his ancient deed. And I will continue to lead you in this direction, no matter how you rail against me. Fate has spoken for you.’ He studied her with sharp eyes, as though trying to see past her walls. ‘Why not accept that Festra’s will cannot be ignored any longer? That this artifact was shown to you, and you accepted it. That you were made to burn the world and bring about its rebirth. The circumstances lay it out so clearly.’
‘Festra is a character from myth,’ she said. Frustrated, wanting distraction, she popped a blackberry into her mouth
and bit down. It was overripe and too soft and tasted of earth. ‘I wasn’t made for anything.’
Lord D’Luc made a noncommittal humming sound. She crossed her arms, hugging herself against the cold. I decide my own purpose, she wanted to say. But even that seemed to be a dream long abandoned since the artifact would not free her from its grasp. Even now, she could feel it in her mind, a distant hum, a whispering echo of its true nature. It was a constant reminder of Fen’s betrayal – it was his heart, after all. And Ru was connected to it, unable to escape it, though lately, the artifact’s voice had been quieter. As if it were sleeping.
It was enough to ruin anyone’s appetite. Surveying the spread of food, Ru found she was no longer hungry.
‘Delara, have you ever been in love?’
She leveled an incredulous look at Lord D’Luc and saw that he was serious.
‘Well?’ he said.
Ru couldn’t fathom how she was supposed to answer the question, or why he would ask it. Up until now, their breakfasts had been one of two things: a painful interrogation, or a heady scientific discourse. It was all about the artifact, naturally.
He seemed determined to make Ru feel terrible. She often left their breakfasts with tears in her eyes, questioning her own motives, her intelligence, her place in the world.
Lord D’Luc had never asked about love before.
‘That’s a pointless question,’ Ru said finally.
The lord leaned back, bracing himself with a hand on the blanket. ‘I’m a man of science,’ he said. ‘But I’m also a man of faith. I know that you are intrinsically joined to the artifact, even though I cannot see it. So why not ask of love? Is
it not another sort of joining?’ He popped a piece of fruit into his mouth and chewed.
Ru wracked her brain for some hidden meaning. Surely he couldn’t guess that she had loved Fen, or been close to something like it. With knowledge like that, who knew what emotional torments he might devise for her? And anyway, Fen was gone. Her throat tightened.
Then, apparently oblivious of her inner turmoil, Lord D’Luc said, ‘Solve an equation for me.’
Ru sipped her now cold coffee, waiting.
‘Tell me, how does one differentiate between science and magic?’
‘One doesn’t,’ said Ru, unable to hide her exasperation. This was a topic they had covered many times in the past few days. ‘We lack the tools to quantify magic, but as you know, my theories point to it being rooted in physics. The movement of particles we can’t measure with our technology.’
‘And how,’ said Hugon, his hair lifting and falling about his ears in the chill wind, ‘would one differentiate faith and magic? Love and science? Are they, by necessity, separate entities, mutually exclusive yet existing in harmony?’ His neckcloth, usually starched and stiff, had loosened in the breeze and ruffled against his chin. ‘And if they were laid out before you, would you know the difference?’
Ru stiffened. ‘That’s conceptual.’
‘The artifact itself, I’d argue, is a concept.’ Hugon’s blue eyes were lighter in the sun, and his smile remained. ‘So is joy. Love. Death. I know you’re familiar with the latter.’
The lord had never ceased to be magnetic, despite the darkness that rose often in his eyes. And even this, a jab at the deaths Ru herself had caused, felt to her like a beautiful knife in the ribs.
She sighed deeply. Her nose had gone numb. ‘If I participate in this obscure banter will you let me go inside?’
‘Naturally,’ came his elegant reply.
She glowered; at least she could be petulant if nothing else. ‘I’m not sure my answer will even make sense to you. I don’t believe you’ve ever been in love. You lack the required selflessness.’
The lord’s eyes flashed. ‘Tread carefully, Delara. My methods thus far have been gentle.’
Gentle. As if his cruel words, being under constant guard, Children monitoring her every move, were gentle.
In some twisted way, Ru almost liked pushing him, seeing how close to danger she could get before one of them backed down. It was a rapier dance, a thrilling game that left her breathless, tripping on the edge of a tumbling dark.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if I’ve been in love. Love isn’t quantifiable, anyway. I suppose you think we can measure feelings if we try hard enough, assign an emotion to the artifact, conduct studies in that way. ‘Oh look, it’s feeling a bit peckish this afternoon! Ah, how joyful the stone is feeling this morning.’’ She glared heartily at Lord D’Luc. He smiled right back. ‘As always, you seem to know my thoughts before I speak them,’ he drawled. ‘Why not? Why shouldn’t we hypothesize that the artifact, inanimate as it is, might feel emotion? I know you have some connection to it, though you continuously evade me when it comes to the details. Couldn’t such a connection be based in emotion, in love?’
Ru remained impassive. Only her breaths gave away her true feelings, the fact that she had wondered the same. ‘Speculation doesn’t become you.’
‘Evasion isn’t your strong point,’ Lord D’Luc shot back
with a half-smile and a tilt of his head. ‘The stone reacts to you, and you alone. I’ve held it, touched it with bare skin. What you share with the stone is more than physicality. And as a man of science, I mean to understand it. Furthermore, I mean for you to harness it. You’ll succumb to me regardless.’
‘How do you intend to manage that?’ Ru asked, her tone clipped. But even as she spoke, her breath quickened, and the picnic spread began to smear into a colorful haze. Her fingers clenched in her skirts, curling into fists. ‘Needles under my fingernails?’
Breathe in, then out. She shouldn’t be afraid of this man, and yet he filled her with a growing dread that wouldn’t abate. Every morning she woke with a curdle of fear in her belly, and every night she lay awake with visions of his sneer, his sapphire eyes, kaleidoscopic in her mind’s eye.
‘Needles?’ said Lord D’Luc, his gaze heavy. ‘I shouldn’t need to go so far as that. Your friends are very loyal.’
It was all he had to say. The meaning was clear. Ru could fend for herself; she could take anything he threw at her. Because she had to. But Archie and Gwyneth . . .
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Ru tried to wrap her mind around the thought, her friends in danger. Cowering at the tip of a blade that Hugon D’Luc wielded. He was a monster in the trappings of an angel.
In, then out.
Would Hugon D’Luc go so far as to harm students of the Cornelian Tower? She had to believe he wouldn’t, not yet anyway. Surely there was a limit to how far he’d push her before he broke himself instead. Her heartbeat slowed, and her mind began to clear. The threat was a ploy. Just words. A desperate man, grasping at straws.
She had to believe it.
Ru held the lord’s gaze defiantly, refusing to show her fear. ‘And what about you?’ she said, conscious of every one of his movements, the set of his jaw, his hands. He was a viper lying in wait in the grass, likely to strike at any moment. ‘Have you been in love?’
He smiled bitterly and stood, elegant as ever. He held out a bejeweled hand to Ru, and she took it. She had no other choice.
‘I thought you said I lacked the selflessness,’ he replied, and they stood facing one another, close enough that Ru could see flecks of grey in his blue eyes. She studied his face, looking for a threat. But all she saw in those fine features, just for a moment, was a young man in pain.
Ru said, ‘I can’t take you seriously when you talk about love.’
He offered her his elbow, leading them back to the Tower. ‘Immaterial. I have never needed you to take me seriously. I only need you to acquiesce.’
The Tower mess hall was off-limits to Ru. Not by any decree, but because she couldn’t bear to face the other academics en masse. Their gazes followed her and stuck to her like burrs, screaming silent judgment. In their minds, she was the reason things had gone wrong. She was the reason the professors lay sick; she was the reason Children and King’s Guards roamed the halls of the Tower as if it were Hugon D’Luc’s personal estate.
Ru Delara: first, a laughingstock, and now, a harbinger of some unknown doom.
Skirting past the mess hall on her way up to her room, Ru avoided the unfriendly glances from her peers. She kept her head high and her eyes straight ahead, but their unseen
gazes, the jarring cold of their disdain, felt heavy on her heart. Some even hated her, she could tell. Grey Adler, her longtime academic nemesis, was chief among those who wanted her removed from the Tower. The academics might even have done it if it weren’t for Lord D’Luc’s official takeover, signed and sealed in a letter by Regent Sigrun herself.
Lyr, a tall and large-featured King’s Guard, met Ru just inside the Tower. He was her bodyguard now, whether to keep her safe or to watch her movements, Ru couldn’t guess. Likely both, but at least his intimidating presence kept the academics at bay.
‘Want me to grab you breakfast?’ he asked, when it became clear Ru wasn’t going into the mess hall.
She paused. The smell of toast and sausage, eggs and jam, filled her nose. Her stomach, at long last, began to grumble.
‘Don’t you want a cinnamon roll?’ suggested Lyr, raising his eyebrows. ‘Warm, sugary, nasty –’
‘Fine,’ Ru said, unable to resist. ‘A cinnamon roll, then.’
‘It’ll give you a stomach cramp.’
‘My stomach is used to it.’
Lyr shrugged. ‘Not very good for the brain, all that sugar.’
‘Lyr,’ Ru said, almost laughing, ‘Don’t suggest cinnamon rolls if you don’t intend to deliver on them.’
He grinned. ‘I’ll bring some up to you.’
Once back in her room, a plate of gooey cinnamon rolls in hand, Ru settled herself on the bed. She ate methodically, fingers sticky with icing, and tried to forget about the artifact, Lord D’Luc, and Fen . . . no, Taryel. The unspoken name filled her lungs like black smoke.
If she could forget him, she might feel peace. At least for a little while.
Summer was waning in the kingdom of Navenie. Warm nights had given way to chill evenings, and flocks of waterfowl cut southern-facing Vs across dusky skies. Clouds of fireflies in the Cornelian Tower’s courtyards diminished by the day until there were only a few left, dancing sparsely under the night. The trees caught fire slowly, some yellow, others hinting at a bright flaming red soon to come.
Inside the Tower, fires burned longer, and hot drinks became the new favorite. Mulled wine, toddies, and cocoa reigned supreme where once fruit cordials held sway. The loss of daylight wasn’t a reason for sadness in Navenie; it was a time to gather blankets, candles, and lamps; to pull loved ones closer, and enjoy the warmth of a long evening by the fire.
But such homey comforts were lost on Ru. They couldn’t push back the cold dark that threatened her heart, storm clouds boiling up from a horizon, inching across her sky.
‘Stop it,’ said Gwyneth, slamming a book shut to release a cloud of dust.
Ru coughed. ‘Stop what?’
Gwyneth narrowed her eyes, an expression that didn’t quite seem to fit her sweet, soft features. She set the book irreverently on top of a row of shelved tomes. Her full attention was focused on Ru. Many young men would have given plenty to be at the center of Gwyneth Tenoria’s attention. She was delicate, beautiful, and nonthreatening, with brown eyes, curling blonde hair, and a nose that belonged on a porcelain doll.
Gwyneth said, ‘You know what I mean.’
Ru retrieved the book from where Gwyneth had haphazardly placed it, tucking it under one arm. ‘Terrible library etiquette,’ she said. ‘If any of the professors caught you . . .’
‘Well they wouldn’t, would they?’
Ru turned her head sharply at the change in her friend’s tone, remembering when she had tried to visit Professor Obralle. It was not long after their return to the Cornelian Tower. She had been watching the professorial wing, taking note of when the Children were likely to be gone, tending to unknown tasks about the Tower. And when she was sure that the professor’s rooms were unattended, Ru had slipped inside. Professor Obralle had seemed to be asleep, her eyes flitting nervously behind closed lids. Pink hair lay in tangles over her pillow. But her pulse was steady, and she had no fever.
Ru had only enough time to wonder what could make a person lie unwaking and helpless for so long before she heard voices in the corridor and fled.
‘Yes,’ said Ru, vaguely aware that she was meant to be carrying on a conversation. ‘I suppose not.’
‘You’re doing it again,’ Gwyneth said, almost apologetic. ‘That empty, terrible look in your eyes.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ru, ‘I suppose being emotionally tethered to the cursed heart of a murderer takes a toll.’
Someone on the other side of the library sneezed.
‘Keep your voice down,’ Gwyneth hissed, hunching over as if they were being hunted through the stacks.
Ru made a noncommittal sound. She had nothing to hide, not from the academics anyway. They had already decided to hate her, or they hadn’t. Ru rambling wildly about Taryel’s heart in the library wouldn’t change much of anything with no Children nearby to overhear.
Ru had done her best to put an end to the artifact’s hold on her. What had it ever given her but pain? Where once the tether to Fen’s heart had felt something like tenderness, now it was only a reminder of his loss. She had tried night after night, alone on the parapet walls or wandering the courtyards in the small hours, reaching out to that unseen thread and hoping to snip it in two.
But it was impossible. Always the thread slipped from her imagined fingers, unbreakable. As if some part of her, a part she refused to fully acknowledge, wanted to keep the connection in place. Perhaps that lonely part of her was comforted by the artifact’s presence, its soothing hum against the fabric of her mind.
Sometimes, when Ru was teetering just on the cusp of sleep, her mind about to free-fall into the abyss of unconsciousness, she was glad to have him there with her. The man she’d lost forever.
‘Some people,’ Gwyneth hissed, snapping Ru out of her reverie, ‘might prefer not to broadcast the fact that we’ve brought Taryel Aharis’s crusted-up heart into the Cornelian Tower.’
Despite herself, Ru smiled. She hadn’t laughed much lately, and the urge to do so surprised her. Her always downturned mouth had become a constant frown, as if finally reaching the pinnacle of what it had been created to do: brood.
‘Sorry, Gwyn, I’m distracted.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘What are you two doing back here?’ another voice cut in. It was Archie, strolling between shelves of books as if he owned the place. Hands in his pockets and an impatient expression on his aristocratic features, he came to a stop at Gwyneth’s elbow.
‘We’re looking for books, genius. How else are we going to unravel the mystery of the professors’ cursed slumber and wake them from it?’ Gwyneth was in a mood now, Ru could tell. ‘And be careful, Ru’s brooding.’
‘Old news,’ Archie said airily. ‘Anyway, haven’t we read every last book in the blasted Tower by now?’ He spoke in the clipped, elegant manner of the Mirithan highborn upper crust, which he had never been able to shake despite his efforts to get rid of it. He was continually embarrassed about the fact that he had been born wealthy and privileged, when all he really wanted was to live a bohemian life of scholarship. ‘What’s new, is the artifact acting up? That bastard Fen Verrill weighing particularly heavily on your heart?’
‘Arch!’ Gwyneth’s admonition was hushed but fierce. He shrugged.
‘He’s right,’ said Ru, self-consciously pushing a dark tuft of unbrushed hair behind her ear, her hair hanging in disheveled waves down her back. She no longer put thought into her clothes. Today she wore a simple dress and a woolen waistcoat that she hadn’t noticed was buttoned up crookedly until Gwyneth pointed it out. ‘It’s everything. Fen, the artifact. And . . .’
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Gwyneth, laying a soft hand on Ru’s arm. ‘What happened at the Shattered City . . . none of it.’
‘He betrayed me.’ Ru’s voice was low and hoarse. ‘I let him . . . I let him use me. His heart called me to that dig site, and I didn’t do a thing to resist. I murdered people. I’ve failed at every attempt to make things right. And now they’re going to make me do it again, and I can’t . . .’ her eyes burned.
‘Yes, we’re all aware,’ Archie said, clipping her jovially on the shoulder with a fist. ‘Good ol’ Ru, our own little Destroyer.’
Gwyneth’s glare could have melted a glacier.
‘What?’ Archie said. ‘She needs more laughter in her life.’
‘Of all the jokes to make.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Ru, pushing past them, suddenly impatient to get back to her room, back to reading. When she wasn’t working to stop Lord D’Luc and his control over the professors, to stymie his plans for her and the artifact, she felt worse than ever. She could only continue on if she believed, somehow, that she was actively trying to fix what she had broken.
As if she could bring Lady Maryn, the archaeologists, and the King’s Guards all back to life. It was too late to save them, but if it were within Ru’s power, she would do whatever she could to prevent more losses.
Ru heard Gwyneth and Archie exchanging hurried, hushed words behind her as she left the library. It was a familiar sound, the murmur of caring friends who didn’t know what to do or how to help. It is fine, Ru reminded herself as a surge of loneliness took her. You’ll think of a way out.
As Ru came into the hall, Lyr peeled away from the wall and began to follow her. The steel of his chest plate clanked softly as he walked.
‘You look like shit,’ he said.
‘How kind of you.’ Ru didn’t bother to look back at him.
‘I have news,’ he said, his voice low. ‘You won’t like it.’
Ru turned sharply. ‘Simon?’
The guard shook his head. ‘D’Luc. Called me to his office yesterday. Asked me to . . . spy on you.’
‘He what?’ Ru stopped in her tracks, causing mild chaos as a cluster of academics nearly collided with her and Lyr and had to veer around at the last second.
Lyr glanced around, presumably for any nearby Children.
They were fixtures in the Tower now, come from the palace and seemingly only loyal to Lord D’Luc. Lyr glowered down at Ru. ‘No need to yell. I’m not going to. Just thought you should know.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Ru, staring into the middle distance. The Tower had once been a bastion of education and study, free from the societal rules that confined those outside its wall. But for Ru, it was now little more than a prison. The regent was in Lord D’Luc’s pocket, or compromised in some other way. There were no other reasons she would have signed the Tower over to him.
It made sense that Lord D’Luc would want eyes on Ru, to keep her in line. She was an asset, the only one who shared a connection with the artifact, the only one who could use it. But he underestimated the loyalty of Ru’s friends.
‘I’ll feed him false information,’ Lyr said, leaning down, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘You can trust me.’
Even though she didn’t need it, the reminder was a balm.
‘Thank you, Lyr,’ she said. ‘I do trust you.’
They began to walk again toward Ru’s room in companionable silence. Ru had grown accustomed to the guard’s gruff silence, his disapproving grumbles. He was one of the few comforts that remained to her now.
‘Do you sleep anymore?’ he asked, as they approached the dormitory wing.
She did sleep, but it was restless. Shallow and hot, and full of dreams. They were painful dreams, or tragic ones, or simply re-enactments of events that had already happened and Ru wanted to forget.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not really.’
‘You want a strong spirit,’ he said. ‘Knocks you right out.’
Ru paused, considering the possibility of a rum or brandy,
her hand on the doorknob of her room. At that moment, Gwyneth and Archie caught up to them, their arms laden with books. They were breathing hard, eyes bright.
‘You can’t just run off without us,’ Gwyneth said, shifting under the weight of several heavy tomes. ‘We’re here to help.’
Ru said nothing and unlocked her door, ushering her friends inside. She gave Lyr a small nod, then closed the door behind her.
‘Right,’ said Gwyneth. ‘I’ve brought all the books I could find that might explain the professors’ shared state of catatonia.’
‘She found two books that mention catatonic states in medical patients,’ said Archie, setting down his stack of volumes before he set about lighting a fire in the hearth. ‘In passing, might I add. Because, and I told her this –’
‘Arch.’ Gwyneth cut him off. ‘Discounting books out of hand just because they’re not scholarly –’
‘You could have gone for any number of books about, I don’t know, trepanning. Instead, you picked up the ones about dreams.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but we’re experiencing a bit of an unprecedented moment in history –’
‘Yes, well, if we’re ever to find out how in the hell D’Luc and the Children managed to turn the professors into living vegetables, if we even believe that . . .’
Ru let the sound of her friends’ argument fade to background noise. She had heard it before. She quietly picked up the nearest book, settled herself in a chair by the fire, and began to read. Rather, she tried to read. She found it difficult to focus on anything for long. It had only been a few weeks since the revelation of Fen’s true identity, but every time Ru was alone, she thought about him. Every moment in solitude was a slow and subtle agony.
The recollection of Fen in the spectral city, holding the artifact, telling Ru it was his heart . . . it stole air from Ru’s lungs. She bit the inside of her lip where an angry sore had developed from her anxious tic. But where the artifact’s touch had once been so vivid in the past, its comforts warm, it now lurked at the distant edges of her consciousness. It was almost silent but for the occasional, distant thrum of energy to remind Ru of its presence.
She hated that she missed the stone’s loudness, the way it had always pushed past her emotions and made its presence known. And she hated that she missed him.
Taryel, the Destroyer, a man who had flattened an entire city in a rush of dark magic, centuries and centuries ago. A man who had, inexplicably, survived the blast and become frozen in time, a twenty-six-year-old whose memories spanned centuries. No – she missed who she had thought he was, Fen Verrill, the man whose heart had called to hers, who would have protected her, maybe even loved her, if given a chance.
When Archie and Gwyneth grew tired, when they were finished reading and concluded that nothing productive would be achieved that night – if ever – Ru would wait until she knew the Tower corridors would be mostly empty, and she would wander somewhere lonely. Somewhere isolated, where no one could ask her what she was doing, or exude disappointment when she failed. And with Lyr at her heels, she would try again.
She would try desperately, anguished and enraged, to sever her bond with the artifact. And she would, as she always did, fail in the attempt.
Lord Hugon D’Luc had a depthless capacity for cruelty, but Ru was violently stubborn. And both were reaching their limit.
It happened in the morning, six weeks after that hellish night at the Shattered City. Instead of Lord D’Luc, Ru opened her door to see the staring, empty gazes of Inda, Ranto, and Nell. Lyr stood behind them, looking apologetic. ‘You have been summoned to demonstrate,’ said Inda, her tone as devoid of emotion as ever, and that was all.
Ru followed the Children with a sick knot in her stomach. Lyr had been dismissed, and she was alone.
She hadn’t been asked to demonstrate these six weeks. She had thought that maybe Lord D’Luc had given up on it as a means of understanding the artifact. But she’d been wrong. She remembered how it had been before, how speaking to the artifact with her mind had led to a loss of control. But without opening that line of mental understanding between herself and the artifact, Ru could not make it do what Lord D’Luc no doubt wanted – destructive darkness.
The dungeon was horribly cold. Lord D’Luc waited there alone. He smiled when Ru and the Children arrived, holding out a hand in a facsimile of a warm greeting. ‘Good morning, Delara.’
She walked to the small wooden table that stood, as it always had, at the center of the dungeon. On its surface lay a smooth black stone, slightly misshapen, the size of a man’s
palm. Ru couldn’t help but move toward it, this beautiful thing that had brought her so much pain.
‘Now,’ Lord D’Luc said, ‘I’d like you to summon darkness from it. Like you did at the dig site, like you did here, once. Ranto, stand over her. If she loses control, if the darkness begins to spread unchecked, knock her out.’
Ru spun, her heart racing. ‘You can’t –’
But Lord D’Luc’s dark eyes flashed. ‘It was not a request.’
Ru swallowed hard and said nothing.
For the first time since learning what the artifact truly was, since losing Fen, since becoming a prisoner in her own home, Ru placed her palms on either side of the artifact. She closed her eyes. And she pretended to attempt to summon darkness from the artifact.
‘You’re not trying,’ Lord D’Luc’s sharp words cut her like jagged glass. It had been days since the first failed demonstration. Half a dozen Children stood in the dungeon, watching. ‘You’re useless, Delara. A disappointment. A failure, a joke.’
‘I’m trying,’ she gasped. A lie. Every day, she lied; every day, she made him believe that she was trying. But even that was painful, even that cut deep gouges into her psyche. The artifact was distant, almost petulant, and when she closed her eyes so close to it, she could feel it at the edge of her mind. Waiting.
‘It’s no wonder Fen Verrill abandoned you,’ hissed Lord D’Luc. ‘What could you have given him? In what world could you hope to please a man?’
Ru choked back a sob. He was right; he was right. Fen might have stayed if she were better, if she were more. But he had left her.
A week into the demonstrations, Lord D’Luc hurt her with his hands. He came at her like a predator, his fingers tight on her wrist, as he spoke low and threatening in her ear: ‘Do not test me, Delara. I know you’re holding back. Accept that the artifact is your fate. You are no archaeologist. You are nothing. The artifact is all you have. Bring it to life.’
She held back. She refused to give him power over her.
The next morning, Ru woke to find blue-black bruises on her wrist, and she wondered whether she hadn’t already given up what little power she had.
Ru’s teeth rattled in her head. Spots of white light burst in her vision. Lord D’Luc’s fingers were tight on her throat, her skull throbbing. He pushed her toward the dungeon wall and slammed her against it.
‘You will not fail me again,’ he said, his words cold like blades. Then he dropped her, and she crumpled.
But even then, as she gasped and sobbed, trying to soothe her own skin with chilled hands, something in the lord’s gaze caught at her. A wildness that wasn’t cruelty, but fear. A reckless desperation. As if he, too, were being pushed to his limit.
They were feral creatures in the dark, threatening and cajoling until one of them lost their nerve or drew first blood. But Ru refused to be the one to do it.
Lord D’Luc could be the villain if he wanted it so much.
Ru stood at the table in the center of the dungeon, her palms pressed to cold wood on either side of the artifact. In the lamplight, its smooth black surface shone like a warning beacon. At least two dozen Children watched from the shadows. This silent audience had increased in number by the day.
Their emotionless gazes seemed to bore into her skull, and even when she turned away, she could feel them watching.
She closed her eyes, willing herself not to show fear. Her throat still ached where Lord D’Luc’s fingers had closed over it, her head still throbbing from its collision with the wall the day before.
Lord D’Luc, meanwhile, appeared angelic that morning. His white garments and golden hair almost seemed to glow, even in that dank room.
‘Well,’ he said, venomous. ‘What are you waiting for?’
So Ru pretended, as she always did. She made faces, clenched her teeth, and curled her fingers into fists. But as ever, she did not speak to the artifact. She wouldn’t risk reopening that connection. Even so, it was still quiet, distant to her, as if Fen had taken some part of it with him when he’d left. Sometimes, she missed it, that rush of strange energy that might soothe or encourage her, depending on the moment.
Ru caught the lord’s gaze across the dungeon, and in it, she saw a reflection of her own growing rage. He circled her, a cat stalking prey, until he stood just behind her. His breath warmed her ear. ‘You are still not trying.’
‘I am.’
‘I see clearly that you’re holding back.’ He spoke quietly, but Ru caught the warning in his words. ‘How will you cleanse the world if you can’t even darken a room? Again.’
So, again, she did her best to pretend. The artifact remained sullenly dormant.
He moved quickly then, so quickly that Ru had no time to react, to fight back. Hooking his hand under her chin, he pulled her back to his chest, pressing his palm against her throat and tilting her chin so far back that breathing took
effort. His chest heaved behind her; she felt every rise and fall of his lungs, every twitch of muscle.
‘You disappoint me, Delara,’ he crooned. ‘I thought perhaps, after yesterday’s fiasco, and the disaster before that, you might give up on this farce you’ve been trying to sell me.’
‘Farce?’ she gasped. She was becoming lightheaded, her breaths increasingly labored.
Not bothering to reply, he spun her so that she faced him, meeting his chill gaze with defiance. Her instincts told her to lash out, to strike with fists and feet. But he was far too strong and far too fast. Again, he shoved her to the wall. His fingers tightened below her jaw – a dance she was beginning to memorize.
‘Let me show you,’ he said, his face twisted into a mask of white-lipped rage, ‘what will happen each time you fail me.’
With that, he released her, and she slid to the floor in a sad heap. She held her burning throat delicately, her fingers cold and her eyes hot with tears.
She watched as he strode across the dungeon, footsteps ringing in the silence. She watched as he drew a knife from within his frock coat, glinting in the lamplight; as he took one of the Children by the collar, drawing her away from the rest. Things happened too quickly after that, a blur of events.
There was a flash of steel, a spray of blood on white robes. Thick arterial blood came down in hot gouts from the woman’s throat until she was splayed on the floor in a pool of red. And Ru, cowering on the other side of the room, watched Lord D’Luc clean the knife. Watched him put it away and wipe his hands on a dainty handkerchief.
He came to crouch before her then, his eyes level with hers. His gaze was not steady; he was untethered, feral, ready
to break. ‘Every time you refuse from now on,’ he said, taking her chin in his elegant fingers, ‘someone will die.’
‘Kill them then,’ she croaked.
Lord D’Luc was a monster, but even the most depraved had their limit. She believed he had just reached his.
Wordless, he yanked her roughly to her feet, his hands under her armpits. Then he held her tightly against him as her body shook, her knees too weak to hold her up, and waited. As soon as she could stand on her own, instinctively pulling away from his disdainful embrace, he took her by the shoulders, spun her around, and steered her to the table at the center of the room. To the artifact. She was too weak to fight him, too shaken to break loose from his grip.
‘I gave you a choice in the matter,’ he said, thumb and forefinger tight on her chin, his other hand forcing hers toward the artifact. ‘I don’t relish needless death. But you will comply, Delara, and I –’
But his words cut off, replaced with a sharp intake of breath.
It wasn’t Ru’s fault. He had pushed her, forced her. She had no choice but to stretch out her hand and pick it up, to feel the cold stone against her skin. Her body shook violently, and tears streaked her face. The artifact lay heavy in her palm.
‘Good,’ he said, relinquishing his grip on her.
‘Make me do it again,’ she said, enraged, her voice a warning. As she spoke, dark rivulets of inky blackness seeped from the artifact. ‘You so desperately wanted a Destroyer of your very own, Hugon. And now you’ll get one.’
He said something, a bark in her ear. Ranto, hovering nearby, surged forward. But Ru heard nothing. All she knew was blood. Blood on the floor, pooling near her feet. Blood on white robes. The sharp tang of iron. And the blank
