Chapter Five
Be careful, my love.
If you show them how bright you burn, they will only seek to smother the flame.
The ghost of those words haunted my dreams as I struggled to sleep. The way my mother had whispered them, skin chilled and damp with fever. Her grip weak, fingers thin in my grasp where she’d laid her hand over my heart.
I touched the flushed skin of my throat as I lay in bed, feeling the rapid nature of my pulse as my magic rose in recognition of the painful memory. The peace in her features as she basked in the warm feeling of my magic. My father’s magic. Wanting to feel him one last time.
I wiped the tears from my sleepy eyes and exited the bed, refusing to be consumed by things I couldn’t change.
My new and unfamiliar bedroom was faintly illuminated by a small everlasting lamp I’d left burning on the desk, knowing Alma’s fear of the dark. Thankfully, she remained curled up in a tight feline ball on the pillow next to mine.
Sketching usually helped settle my restlessness but as I rooted quietly through my things, I wasn’t able to see my art folder.
No, I’d left it downstairs. Too distracted by Blackthorn’s manor and the impossible nature of my day. A frustrated sigh left me as I put on my badly knitted slippers, and my robe, stuffing my enchanted bag into the pocket just in case.
Then I looked to the stack of books Blackthorn had left me and gathered them up, hoping the library was easy enough to find to return them considering I’d already studied them all a few months prior.
Despite how archaic the house was, the floorboards didn’t creak as I closed the bedroom door softly behind me. In the darkness of the hallway, I let the small glow of a summoning spell claim the tips of my fingers. Imagining a guiding orb, letting the magic appear against my free palm.
I nudged it softly, directing it silently to lead the way. It bobbed before me, guiding my way down the long wood-panelled hallway, past trinkets and the peculiar objects that lined the walls and cast strange shadows. Against my better judgement, I let my fingertips trail across them, expecting to feel the sorrow that usually accompanied the history of such stolen things.
There wasn’t any sadness here. Just magic slumbering peacefully. Confused, I withdrew my hand and hurried to catch up with my own orb as it made its way down the stairs.
Only to freeze a few steps from the bottom.
The layout of the main hallway downstairs had changed, not a play of the dark, or my tired eyes. Where the front door had been now sat bookcases, various archways leading off down other dark hallways. The black and white checkered floor continued as far as the eye could see. Unfamiliar to me, and for a moment, I was worried I wasn’t in Blackthorn’s house anymore. However, the banister beneath my hand was the same, the stairs and the portrait that had caught my attention earlier was seemingly amused by my sudden panic.
A set of large oak doors, just beyond the foot of the staircase, stood open. They hadn’t been there before.
Be wary of old spells, they grow thoughts of their own over time. One of Master Hale’s warnings came to mind as I took the final step off the stairs, still holding onto the banister just in case the floor decided to change its formation too. I didn’t know magic this old, but if this was where it wanted me to go, I wasn’t about to fight with it.
Moonlight poured in through a vast glass ceiling, more fitting of a greenhouse than a library from what I could make out in the dark. A maze of bookshelves, with tall ladders leant against the intricately carved shelves; depictions of a forest and the woodland beasts that dwelled there. The rest was too shadowed in darkness to explore.
Every piece of furniture in the room was piled with texts, except two chairs sat before the cold hearth.
My orb bobbed impatiently at my shoulder. I reached up to extinguish it, knowing how strangely magic concealed in books could respond to new energy, like feral cats fighting for territory.
In the centre of the room was a large ornate table, legs carved to look like those of a griffin. Books rested against its clawed feet. The surface was overfilled, scattered with papers. Maps, mad scrawls of simple incantations and summoning charms. Crystals were strewn haphazardly with the skill of a madman trying to call on the dead for favours. Small carved bones related to ancient fey worship and dried flowers were amongst the mess.
My curiosity urged me to turn over the maps, cautious of how the pages crackled with their fragility. The sharp, smokey scent of beasam bark lingering in the air - an ancient summoning element that witches preferred. Moving the maps gently aside to reveal the volumes beneath, all coated in dust, which was pressed firmly into their peeling leather covers, pages curling inward like claws with age.
The gold embossing had faded, forcing me to tip them towards the light to see the titles. The Book of Mort . A book of ancient occult spells, most of which were now disallowed by the Council, including necromancy. A book that spoke of the Verr and the darkness beneath the earth.
Disturbed, I moved it aside, as a different tome caught my eye. It had a heavier leather binding than the rest, cracked and clawed by time. Thick straps with tarnished brass buckles encircled the text, as if stopping something from falling out.
I slid the clasps free, slipping my fingers beneath the heavy cover. My magic almost stinging as it flooded to my fingertips, curious and demanding.
‘I wouldn’t open that one,’ came a dark voice over my shoulder.
A cry of alarm left my lips. I turned, only to find my fingers trapped between the book cover and a gloved hand, cold leather against my burning flesh.
The fireplace roared to life behind me. A soundless panicked command I’d subconsciously given it. Illuminating the tall, imposing figure stood before me.
There was a stillness in his expression, oddly dark eyes set in a handsome, angular, but somewhat cruel face. A face that reminded me vividly of the portraits of the saints that mortals worshipped.
His raven hair was wet, as if he’d been caught in a storm. Longer than fashionable as it curled slightly against the collar of his grey suit jacket. A pale slash of scars ran through his eyebrow and down to his jaw, one into his lip, silvery in the firelight. The skin on his neck was nothing but a mess of damaged flesh. Like some monstrous creature had gone for his jugular … once it had finished raking its claws down the side of his face.
‘What are you doing hiding in the dark?’ I demanded, snatching my hand from under his touch, heart pounding wildly. William hadn’t said anything about another guest.
‘In my own library?’ His dark brow lifted arrogantly.
His library . My heart dropped to my slipper-covered feet.
Lord Blackthorn was standing before me, considering me with barely contained annoyance, and he couldn’t be a day over thirty.
I stepped back, flushed with embarrassment. This was his house; he could sneak about like a spectre all he wanted.
‘Did your snooping prove rewarding?’ he enquired, unmercifully. Undoing the buttons of his jacket with relaxed ease he moved past me to the chair before the now-blazing fire, spots of rain clinging to his shoulder, but as I looked to the glass ceiling above, there was no rain. Hadn’t been all evening.
‘I wasn’t snooping ,’ I insisted with annoyance, rubbing my hands together to ease the lingering sting of magic. Anything to hide my unease of how he was nothing like how I imagined him. Younger, colder and clearly disfigured by a horrific war that the world pretended hadn’t happened.
‘That’s what all snoopers say.’ He dropped unceremoniously into one of the chairs with so little decorum I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw his feet up onto the small table before him.
He didn’t.
‘William said I was free to wander the house,’ I said, aware I did need to impress this man on some level if I had any chance of staying here.
‘Of course he did.’ He pulled a pile of papers off the table next to him and into his lap, almost causing an avalanche of clutter.
With a careless wave of his hand, he indicated the chair opposite him. ‘Sit.’
The dominating nature of the word made me stand straighter.
‘I don’t follow commands.’ I informed him coldly.
His head turned lazily in my direction, his irises suddenly a pale grey that took on the warm hue from the fire. Maybe it was a trick of the light that they’d appeared so dark.
‘Please,’ he nodded respectfully, but something about it still held an aloof quality. As if the last thing in the world he’d want was company, despite asking for it.
Choosing to ignore the fact that proper ladies didn’t sit in dark rooms with men they didn’t know in nothing but their robe, I took the seat.
I surveyed him more closely now he was distracted with the papers in his lap. Too young and rugged, unpreened by the standards of the elite class. But I wasn’t foolish enough to be distracted by the sharpness of his jawline.
‘You were quick to accept the partnership. I see none of the other old fools were interested?’ He tugged off his gloves, revealing more scars on his hands, oddly shaped like thin vines wrapping around his long pale fingers.
‘I’m Kysillian. Unless you’re unfamiliar with the vulgar lies spread about my kind …’ Being fey was enough for prejudice; being Kysillian was another danger all together, one he should understand in his line of work.
‘I fought in the wars, Miss Woodrow,’ he replied, those otherworldly eyes taking me in. ‘I’m well aware of the lies spread to expand the King’s rule.’
‘A king your family once served,’ I countered. If he could be rude then so could I. My temper was getting the better of me. The Mage King had persecuted the fey.
Despite the bastard being overthrown, nothing had improved. I wondered how much of Blackthorn’s involvement he regretted. Those burdened with such guilt usually chose drink, denial or decided the world was better at war or in the grasp of a mad king.
‘As I’m the only one left, I see the price of their mistakes as duly paid.’ There was a genuine regret in his voice that eased me slightly.
I found myself too interested as to why Blackthorn had mud on his boots despite the lack of rain, and how he had appeared from the shadows without even a hint of magic to give him away.
‘Did you paint these?’ he asked quietly and I was horrified to see the papers in his lap weren’t papers at all. He was looking through my paintings.
Blurry watercolour memories of my mother, soft features filled with a sharp wit, her unruly dark hair and freckled skin. Next, the kind eyes of my father, the same colour as my own. The beauty of the village I’d grown up in, the endless magical wood around our small cottage.
Then came the dark ink drawings of the Institute, the city smoke and the sharp angled faces of the horrid creatures who lived there. The only softness in that section coming from small drawings of Alma as she worked, always pensive and staring off into the distance, wishing perhaps to be somewhere else.
‘Yes.’ I cleared my throat, watching helplessly as he continued to flick through my illustrations, turning and adjusting them to better see the detail in each one. Like peeling back layers of my very soul, seeing things I knew I shouldn’t have left unguarded.
I didn’t reach for the file, didn’t dare expose another weakness.
‘Master Hale said you came to the Institute at twelve years old?’ he continued in a tone no more intimate than if he were discussing the weather, and not my tragic childhood.
‘I came from a children’s home. Daunton Hall.’ I tried to keep my voice neutral, knotting my fingers together in my lap so they didn’t tremble.
‘Daunton,’ he pondered absently. ‘The records were always unclear as to whether anyone survived the fire.’
My magic simmered in my blood at the unease that rushed through me. The flames in the hearth next to us flaring before I could stop it.
I didn’t discuss Daunton. Not with anyone. It was nothing but a reminder of my grief. The bitter and all-consuming nature of it.
Daunton Hall. Where fey children were left to be forgotten, orphans from a war they’d rather not remember. There was no relief in knowing Master Daunton had been exposed and they’d found the unmarked graves of the children he made suffer. They were just bones now, with nobody left to remember they had ever existed.
‘I did.’ It was the only truth I offered. The only one I could stomach. ‘I was discovered not long after, my ease with spellcasting and summoning declared a marvel despite my lack of training.’
An entertainment for the Institute, after all, a free Kysillian was something the Council needed to keep an eye on. My control over magic was something they didn’t like, even if they’d been convinced I didn’t possess a spark of my ancestors’ magic, that any ancient flames in my blood had long been smothered and the Kysillian power was dead, just as their many mortal kings had wished.
‘The council suspected the fire was an act of rebellion, but they shut down the investigation when they saw just how guilty Master Daunton was.’ His innocently curious words pierced my chest with uncontrollable fear. The taste of smoke on my lips. Dark things I refused to remember.
Murderer. A voice hissed through my mind before I could shake the thought away.
‘That’s how Master Hale found you?’ He raised a brow, the fa?ade of aloofness lifting slightly for me to see that sharp interest in his eye. As if the details mattered.
‘The Council needed fey children to fill their quota for the peace treaty. That’s all that Master Hale said.’
There had been seven of us at the start. Fey children with perfect control of their magic, each submissive and willing to learn. Willing to be moulded by council rule, to prove it was possible for peace. All in the hope of being set free – back into the world we’d been stolen from.
Now there was only me.
A cold dread licked down my spine at the thought as I pushed my loose hair behind my ears, eager to get off the subject. ‘I was moved to the Institute for mere amusement.’
That truth I hated most of all.
‘Are they still amused?’ he asked, his gaze brushing over the sharp point of the ear I’d revealed without thinking.
‘No.’
His soft, curious gaze assessed every inch of my face, as if I were a riddle he was trying to solve.
‘The first act of a partnership isn’t usually to defend the applicant against corruption charges or dark summoning.’
I bristled at that, straightening the sleeves of my robe. ‘I’m certain Master Hale made you aware of my … situation .’
‘Cleaning up your mess in the ruins left me little time to converse with the old bastard.’ His smile was small with secret amusement. ‘If I was more vainglorious, I’d assume the whole production was simply to get my attention.’
My cheeks heated at the insinuation, mostly because that was exactly what it looked like.
‘I doubt there would have been much point in that, my lord, considering the Council records have you listed as deceased,’ I pointed out wryly.
‘The Council have a habit of trying to manifest their desires. Some would say it’s the only thing they’re honest about.’ He picked at a piece of lint on his sleeve, dark hair falling onto his brow as he glanced up with a small, almost teasing smile. ‘Any other nasty rumours I should be aware of?’
‘Something about a rotting disease,’ I added, cautious of his amusement.
‘If only my misfortunes were that simple.’ His smile remained as his focus moved back to that table across from us, littered with his cursed books and the ones I’d returned. ‘You didn’t agree with my reading list?’
Did this man miss anything?
‘I’ve already read and noted those texts.’
Those curious eyes came back to me. ‘Most senior mages haven’t even read those tomes.’
‘I have … peculiar interests when it comes to personal study.’ I cleared my throat again, not knowing any other way to explain my morbid curiosity. ‘I can produce my files tomorrow if you wish.’
‘I doubt I’ll have the time. That was quite a mess in the ruins you left behind. Most of the wards didn’t survive.’
‘The dust sprite—’ I began, watching a dark brow rise, the barest lift of his lips. I quickly changed topics. ‘I didn’t anticipate Ainsworth being foolish enough to let a demon out of a compendium. I also hadn’t anticipated how vicious they can be.’
‘Which compendium?’ He sat up with interest.
I couldn’t help the shudder that rolled through me at the memory of the book. Of that forsaken iron so close to my skin. ‘They have more than one?’
‘If the rumours are to be believed, there were seven in total that Commander Ainsworth possessed. Some more deadly than others,’ Blackthorn mused thoughtfully, a sudden distance in his tone. ‘Five I’ve managed to hunt down. The Ainsworth house sold them off two centuries ago to pay off family debts.’
How carelessly mortals handled such deadly things. ‘Well, they didn’t sell them all. One was in the ruins. It’s covered in forsaken iron and Finneaus’s blood opened it.’
‘Interesting.’ He pressed his knuckles against his lips in thought. ‘It appears we have our own questions for the Council tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ I frowned, a horrid unease slipping into my gut.
Blackthorn motioned his hand absently and then something small and white was suddenly fluttering on to the arm of my chair. I jumped, looking down at the creature, only to see it was a tiny bird made of paper. An enchanted message.
‘That was supposed to be delivered to you in the morning,’ he added, making me wish the overstuffed chair would swallow me whole with embarrassment at my reaction.
I held out my hand, letting the little message hop into my palm and unfold itself, trying my best to contain my childish wonder. I’d never seen an ink spell before, only read about them.
The Council request our presence in the grand hall at ten o’clock.
William will meet you in the entrance hall.
Blackthorn
Curt and to the point. Each word made my heart sink a little further as the small note folded itself up into a neat square without command.
‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Blackthorn commented sardonically. ‘The Council like to perform when they make mistakes.’
Easy enough for him to say in his grand house, with his title, and his ability to throw together partnership papers whenever he pleased.
‘I think they’d argue the mistake was including me in the treaty in the first place,’ I muttered darkly, watching his gaze move over the paintings again. ‘You have an interest in painting?’
‘My father used to paint,’ he said softly, the words appearing to have slid free against his will. I was reminded of the portrait on the stairs.
He closed my art folder with a sharp snap, pushing it unceremoniously onto the already overfilled side table – a move I took as a dismissal, so I got to my feet.
‘I’ll let you continue with …’ I paused, finding myself troubled by his words about the compendium and just what Ainsworth could have been up to. ‘The compendium had a warning on the spine in Salvor tongue.’
‘Not many take the time to learn the old summoning language,’ he observed quietly. ‘Are you certain you weren’t up to anything nefarious in those ruins?’
‘As I said, peculiar interests,’ was all I offered. If he asked Alma, she’d probably tell him nefarious was my middle name for all the hassle I caused her.
A clatter from the bookshelves made me turn sharply to consider the dark beyond us, wondering if William would emerge, or Alma. But there was nothing there.
‘The house doesn’t like to sit still,’ Blackthorn said, a reluctance in the reassurance he offered.
Mad Lords, manic houses and clutter. Alma was going to kill me when she returned to human form.
‘Those other compendiums, they’re here?’ I asked carefully, looking back to him. Surely he couldn’t trust the Council to keep them contained, but I didn’t know what to think of a man who kept such close quarters with evil things.
‘The house wards keep them contained, as well as a multitude of other spells.’ His words weren’t much, but I forced myself to remember that Master Hale trusted this man. That this was part of some plan.
I sighed, holding out my hand for my artwork he’d stolen, eager to excuse myself. ‘Well Lord Blackthorn. I’ll let you continue with — ’
Unexpectedly, he rose. The sheer size of him blocking out the weak fire, casting us in shadow as he held out my art folder to me.
‘Emrys,’ he corrected. His eyes seeming pitch-black in the darkness.
‘That’s improper.’ I was startled by the request. Especially after having such small rebellions beaten out of me.
‘Partner mages call each other by their first or last name. I thought you were here to be one?’ he challenged and I hated that he was right, but I swallowed down my unease.
‘Emrys.’ I nodded.
It felt strange on my lips, too intimate, but something about it made him withdraw, turning his attention back to the fire in dismissal.
I clutched the art folder to my chest like a shield, deciding it was best to make a quick exit. However, I’d only made it a few steps to the doorway before he spoke again. As if curiosity had gotten the better of him.
‘Why did you use an Insidious spell?’ The question startled me, but then again, so did everything about him.
‘How did you …’ I flushed, stumbling over my words. ‘They’re the strongest.’
‘And the most difficult.’ His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ‘They don’t teach Insidious Theory at the institute.’
‘No, but they have books on it, if you know where to look.’
‘In forbidden places I assume?’ His lips twitched. I was unsure if he was amused or mocking me.
‘Curiosity isn’t a crime.’ If the Council cared that much, they should put better concealment spells on the ruins, or fill it up once and for all.
‘You taught yourself how to cast a centuries-old spell on a gobrite from reading a book?’ Blackthorn seemed to take in every inch of me as he considered the weight of his own words.
Gobrite, an Insidious creature of blood bargains. That was what Commander Ainsworth had locked in that book. I was annoyed I hadn’t figured it out myself.
‘I explained the method in a paper …’
‘… the Myth of Insidious Curses.’ He finished my sentence effortlessly.
My lips parted with shock.
‘You’ve read it?’ It had been one of many papers I assumed the Council had burned upon submission, left to rot in a drawer or, worse, allowed to be plagiarised by an idiot.
‘Why did you save him?’ His voice was soft, as if we were sharing a secret.
There was no threat or menace in his strange crystalline eyes. Just genuine curiosity. I didn’t know what to do with that.
‘Letting him get soul-snatched is a harsh punishment for stupidity,’ I replied easily. For once not ashamed of my weak heart.
‘It would have taken yours.’ He frowned
‘I had a spell ready for that.’ Perhaps my confidence could be mistaken for arrogance. Those dark eyes moved from my slippers right to the top of my head, dipping to focus on the sharp tip of my ear for the longest moment before coming to meet my gaze once more.
‘I see,’ was all he said, a tension in his jaw, something else he wished to say lingering in his eyes before he turned back to that fire.
With that final dismissal, I left the room. Hoping I could think of something to calm the uneasy pounding of my heart before I got back into bed.
I see. Those two simple words chased me up the stairs and back to my room. Along with the fear that he did. That he saw too much. If that had been the first lesson in our mage partnership, I wondered how peculiar the others were going to be.