Chapter XXVII. Domenic
XXVII
DOMENIC
WINTER
That night, as the nation mourned the loss of land and lives, as refugees crowded into Gallamere’s train stations and camped in its parks, as overwhelmed magicians raced throughout the Citadel, the Council gathered solemnly in a conference room and locked the door.
“Well,” Iseul said gravely, “I’m not even sure where to begin.”
“So, not only have you posed that Living Wands and winterghasts are somehow equivalents,” Sharpe spoke through gritted teeth, “but that there is a traitor within the Order working as an agent of Winter?”
“Yes, I believe you get the picture,” Domenic answered flatly.
The frost over the lancet windows utterly obscured the gleam of Gallamere’s nighttime skyline. The sconces burned dim. An enchanted typewriter clacked from a darkened corner.
Flames crackled in the ancient stone fireplace, casting every profile in stark shadows.
Domenic braced himself for Sharpe’s outrage. Yet the President of the Magicians Order only chuckled. He leisurely withdrew Ballathim to light a cigarette, then held it perched between two wizened fingers.
From the opposite end of the table, Domenic crinkled his nose at the tobacco’s reek and scrutinized Sharpe with disdain. It would take a heartless magician to betray the Order, and undoubtedly Sharpe fit the criterion.
Behind Sharpe, gilded paintings of famous Order figures and wands decorated the wall in an imposing backdrop.
And for however much Domenic loathed the man, he couldn’t deny that one day Sharpe’s portrait would haunt the Council’s wing, glowering at pathetic new generations of magicians for all posterity.
Domenic and Ellery exchanged a glance. It ached to look at her, but he couldn’t dwell on the disaster of their conversation, not here, not now. They’d come to this meeting with a strategy.
As imperceptibly as he could, he shook his head.
Ellery’s jaw clenched. She hadn’t found Sharpe’s reaction suspicious, either.
“Glynn,” Sharpe said, his voice sinisterly relaxed in that way only he could manage. “What do you make of this notion that we’re all strolling around with monsters in our pockets?”
Glynn paused mid-pour, his grip throttling the neck of the whiskey decanter he’d snatched from atop the sideboard. “Wandlorists have always postulated about what makes a Living Wand truly living.”
“Oh, I see you’re taking this all in stride,” Sharpe quipped.
Though Domenic resented agreeing with Sharpe, he did. In less than twenty-four hours, the Council had shifted from strategizing an invasion to rethinking everything they knew about this war. And Glynn seemed far more curious than rattled.
Despite the weeks working beside Glynn and hearing countless stories of him through Ellery, Domenic didn’t know the Director of Education and Recruitment.
Not really. Domenic avoided small talk with him, lest he be held captive in a conversation about some mainland opera star or recent development in the riveting world of antique restoration.
Now Domenic squinted at him, trying to read his fine print. Glynn had to be ambitious to volunteer for a position no one else wanted.
Glynn capped the decanter and waved Aetherium. A glass floated over to Sharpe, amber liquid glinting in amber light.
“Under the circumstances, sir,” Glynn said stiffly, “I don’t see the merit in wasting time.”
Sharpe smiled as he took a drag of his cigarette. “So for discussion’s sake, let’s say we agree with Barrow’s and Caldwell’s suggestions about the Dire Three’s counterparts. Obviously, the corporeal ghast does suit this charmer over here.” He jerked his head at Hanna, who scowled.
“But are you quite positive Decibel’s counterpart is Ravfiri?” Glynn asked. “It could be Calynia.”
“I certainly hope not,” Iseul muttered as she rose to claim the two other glasses Glynn had poured. In one she dropped precisely two ice cubes. The second she left neat.
“It’s Ravfiri,” Domenic cut in. “I’m sure of it.”
“Then it would seem destiny’s on our side,” Peak said confidently. “Its vigil is four days away, isn’t it?”
“Assuming Ravfiri finds a wielder,” Glynn responded. “It hasn’t bonded with a magician in nearly five decades.”
Sharpe tapped his cigarette atop the ashtray. “So what do you think of this, Peak? You fought Kythion, Thundersnow—whatever the hell that thing is named. Would you call it and Targath brothers?”
For the first time Domenic could recall, Peak donned a formal uniform, a black mourning sash draped across his torso and his chest adorned in medals. His broad silhouette was burnished gold as he stared into the fireplace.
“Truth be told, I believe them,” Peak answered. “When Targath and I took that beast on, the scale of its magic, even its temperament…” He winced and shook out his left knee.
“You’d call your own wand a monster?” Sharpe’s grip tightened on Ballathim’s blackthorn hilt.
“I … Thanks.” Peak accepted the iced whiskey that Iseul handed to him.
“Don’t get me wrong—Targath is a great wand.
But that first time I took it into battle …
you’d have thought it’d gotten impatient, waiting for its next wielder.
Because when we went up against my first ghast, we didn’t slay it—we obliterated it. ”
Peak grinned crookedly at the memory, dimples creasing above his beard. And despite dubbing Peak valiant the night before, a bleak question crept into Domenic’s mind: Was it suspect that Peak had emerged from his battle with Kythion unscathed?
Immediately, he dismissed it. Peak had championed Domenic from the beginning. He was the entire NDC’s symbol of hope. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t.
“If Targath and Kythion are such behemoths…” Glynn swirled his glass thoughtfully. “What caliber of beings must dwell within Valmordion and Iskarius?”
Domenic and Ellery hadn’t confessed their suspicions that their magic and their wands’ magic were one and the same. But to pose their counterpart theory then immediately label themselves as exceptions—it sounded so arrogant, so preposterous as to undermine their theory altogether.
No doubt Sharpe would laugh himself into hysterics at the notion.
“I’m not sure any of us can really imagine,” Domenic answered blandly.
“As disturbing as all these ideas are,” Iseul spoke, “I’m far more disturbed by the idea of a traitor within the Order.”
“Yeah, I mean, I’m not one to question destiny,” Peak said. “But what motive would anyone have to side with Winter?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time in the Order’s history someone tried to take advantage of turmoil,” Hanna said flatly.
“Turmoil?” Peak repeated. “This isn’t some rigged election or bank crisis—this is war. What kind of magician would be corrupt enough to risk the whole damn country?”
Iseul brushed off her hands, dusted in the crumbs of vending machine crackers and jittery from too much caffeine.
Her appearance might’ve been pristine—her crisp navy blazer, her polished pearls—but Domenic wondered if she’d ever faced such a catastrophic day in her whole career.
Already, only half the whiskey remained in her glass.
“Motive aside,” she said levelly, “a traitor implies a degree of sabotage. How can we investigate the existence of a criminal without even knowing what crimes have been committed? Tenney, did you notice evidence of sabotage at the border?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Peak answered.
“Then could it have occurred here, at the Citadel?”
“There was the scurge in Mercester Square,” Sharpe said. “The first ever recorded in Summer.”
“Scurges are caused by ghasts, not magicians,” Peak pointed out.
“Then, what, we have absolutely nothing to proceed with? Nothing but the words of the prophecy?” As Iseul regarded them all somberly, Domenic forced himself to consider it, that Iseul had honed in so emphatically on finding the traitor to conceal her own wrongdoing.
After considering Glynn, it seemed only fair.
Yet the thought didn’t simply nauseate him—it didn’t make sense. Iseul might’ve possessed the cunning, the knowledge of performance, the wand of nearly unrivaled power, but she was the last person he’d accuse of lacking a heart.
“No, we do have something to go on,” Sharpe responded. “Mayes, how quickly could you investigate the Order’s ranks?”
Every gaze swiveled to Hanna. She was the only Councilor who’d maintained the same careful professionalism since the meeting’s beginning. Yet on her lap, she white-knuckled Syarthis. Its tip curled around the crook of her thumb.
“You’d have us, what?” Hanna rasped. “Interrogate every magician in the Order?”
“That’s quite the task for her, sir,” Iseul said nervously.
“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it,” Hanna said at once.
“Even if you can, to subject every one of our magicians to…” Glynn nodded grimly, though it wasn’t clear if he was nodding at Syarthis, or Hanna, or them both. “There’s the matter of their fortitude.”
“Mayes will be on her best behavior,” Sharpe said pointedly. “Seong, maybe you can do something about her hair. And those boots. You’re a member of the Council. Would it kill you to dress like a lady?”
“Oh sweet fuck,” Hanna muttered, then she ignored Iseul’s disapproving look and tore open a packet of bubble gum.
Automatically, she handed a piece to Domenic beside her, and for the thinnest sliver of a second, Domenic hesitated.
As Sharpe had just mentioned, Hanna was an equal member of the Council. She could be the traitor, too.
Immediately, he scolded himself.
Don’t be despicable.
“Surely interrogating every last one of our magicians is extreme,” Peak said. “Dom, you must agree with me, right?”
Before Domenic could answer, Sharpe laughed. “Oh, don’t be obtuse, Peak. As far as our Chosen Two are concerned, the interrogations have already begun.”
Domenic felt his stomach plummet to his feet. “That’s not—”
“The two of you, sitting there so silently, glancing at each other whenever we talk to decide if any of us betrayed the country. By all means, try to deny it.”