Chapter 4
“The Dread Mark is hereby banned. Any Magicals bearing such a terrorist marking, contributing to the perpetuation of any such marking, will be found in contempt of treason and held to the standards of the law.”
Orator Moon stood at the podium in front of the massive tapestry that held the Double O’s new emblem. It was hung from the ceiling and covered the three stained glass windows of Magic at Vaukore. Hellming Hall glowed in the morning light.
Moon wore a tailor-made, pale blue suit, nicer than any she’d ever seen him wear. The fine rings on his fingers were worth more than a year’s worth of the Orator’s salary. At his side was Doggbind, the new Premier and former head of Magical Law.
He wore a shiny new Premier badge, vastly different from her father’s. Though rumor had it, the new Premier was outraged when the pin her father had worn, which was centuries old, came up missing. The new design matched the Double O’s new branding and insignia: two connecting O’s that slid together like a narrowed set of eyes.
And eyes there were.
Doggbind had not been voted in the way her father had. In light of recent events, stemming all the way back to Kietel’s grip on Magical society, The Orator’s Office declared Militia Decree. The assassination of a Premier was more than enough reason for their panic. So they said.
Under such emergency actions, no election was needed. The Bellator were given law enforcement positions, and the Committee of the Sacred now occupied Orator Moon’s cabinet of advisors and legislators.
Mal’s coronation, and the subsequent death of her father, had been deemed an act of terrorism.
The Dread Prince was enemy number one.
His face was plastered on every newspaper, day in and day out, and in the windows of bookshops and tea parlors. The Magical Antiquities Museum published an editorial on the dangerous and deadly Dread Artifacts he “stole” from Magical society that were now at his disposal to destroy Magicals entirely. The only positive byproduct of their smear campaign was that Jema, Vetus Willus’ Elven servant, was never charged with murder. Out of pity, guilt, or perhaps just for publicity’s sake, the Double O ordered her Enslavement Curse be broken, and she was freed.
Maeve had never felt so relieved that her own plan for ensuring Jema was acquitted and freed was no longer necessary. Her Magic was weak as of late. And casting a spell to alter the minds of many in order to atone for her sins had seemed a daunting task.
Despite the fact that Doggbind spit each time Malachite’s name was said or the fact that posters of him with “beware” written across his face were plastered across the door of her favorite tea shop, there was a constant rumble of sympathizers.
None of their rules and regulations stopped Magicals from rebelling against the Double O. His Dread Mark was found scarred in Magic on the doors to the Double O Headquarters. The Magic was so deep, they had to replace the entrance altogether.
And so, the Dread Mark was banned.
For the Orator’s speech, Maeve was dressed in all black, tactical, Bellator attire. The Optimum pin still gleamed on her chest, though she had not deserved it in months, a fact which earned her many nasty glances.
Doggbind kept it on her all the same.
It was a bribe. A token of guilt. A consolation prize.
It was anything other than earned.
Maeve found it difficult to duel, to fight at all was a battle within herself. The power she awakened in her father’s death, if it was ever real at all, now lay dormant once more, stifled by grief and loneliness.
She was weaker than before Mal trained her.
Moon’s voice flooded back into her ears as his speech boomed out across Helming Hall.
Being there was torture. A sacred place of knowledge and exploration. Where she had become a Supreme. Now trampled with memories too precious to recall.
Moon gestured back at her, and she stepped towards him, reminding herself that her facade was part of a greater plan. That it was necessary to ensure the Magicals left on Earth were safe until Mal’s return. Until they knew who poisoned The Dread Goblet.
Moon continued his speech to the students of Vaukore with her at his side.
“The falsely self acclaimed Dread Descendant is nothing more than a delusion of grandeur. This man named Malachite Peur committed treason by executing the murder of our beloved Premier, Ambrose Sinclair. His daughter, Maeve Sinclair, has turned away from her vows as the right hand of this imposter after he brutally murdered her father. He manipulated her mind with the power of the Dread Artifacts. She stands here today to denounce her ties with this sad attempt at rebel alliance and encourage all Magicals to trust their Orator. Trust their government to protect them from these radicals that seek to destroy everything we have worked for here on Earth.”
Moon took her hand in his and held it high.
Dirty fucking politician.
Maeve smiled and repressed the thought of how easy it would be to reach over and slit his throat with just two fingers.
She wondered every night who it was that poisoned that goblet. The possibilities were endless. The Orator’s mind was completely closed to her, not that she had the strength to dive into it, regardless.
The crowd at Vaukore cheered as his speech ended.
Moon released her hand and clapped her on the back. She stepped away from him, letting him and the Premier pass by her as they were ushered off the stage. Arman, once her father’s captain and now Doggbind’s, trailed behind the new Premier.
Maeve did not look at him.
Zimsy shook Maeve’s shoulders, waking her from her nap.
“Roswyn is here,” said Zimsy quietly.
Maeve looked over her shoulder. Roswyn stood in his Magical Militia uniform.
“What?” Asked Maeve, dropping her head back to the soft pillow of the couch and closing her eyes.
“Get dressed.”
Maeve did not move.
“It wasn’t a question, Sinclair,” said Roswyn.
“I don’t answer to you,” she replied lazily.
“You forget I am not the one commanding.”
Maeve’s eyes popped open and she stared straight ahead at the wall. Zimsy sat next to her and took her hands. Maeve didn’t look over at the beautiful Elf.
“Go,” she whispered. “You need to get out of the house.”
Maeve rolled her head towards Zimsy. She smiled softly and squeezed Maeve’s hand.
Freedom was immaculate on Zimsy. Her skin glowed more than it ever had at Sinclair Estates. Her silky hair was shorter now, the way she always wanted it. But Clarissa had always insisted long hair suited Zimsy best.
Her pointed ears were jeweled with earrings she picked from Maeve’s personal collection. Fine stones that she had never been allowed to wear.
“Is that my blouse?” Asked Maeve sleepily.
Zimsy looked down at her and smiled. “Peach is not your color.”
She squeezed her hand once more. “Go,” she urged, “and when you return, we can go to that new tea shop.”
Maeve pushed off the pillow and stretched. “You only want to go there to look at that Human who makes the special teas.”
Zimsy looked away from her and smiled triumphantly. “He likes to look at me, too.”
Maeve grabbed her overcoat from the chair. “Well, he makes horrible tea.”
“You’re awfully quiet,” said Belvadora in her normal, monotonous tone.
Maeve looked up at her. With a sigh, she shifted her gaze to Roswyn. “This isn’t my meeting.”
Mumford scoffed. “Since when does that prohibit you from speaking your mind?”
Maeve didn’t look at him. She stared at the paintings and tapestries that hung in Roswyn’s manor. “What’s the point of this? It’s the same thing over and over again. Recruit. Move in secret. Repeat.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Mumford fired back, “there are three new Bellator here tonight that have joined our cause.”
“Whoo-hoo,” said Maeve dryly.
Mumford’s mouth fell open as he geared up to chastise her.
Roswyn spoke before he could. “Shut it. Both of you. Maeve’s right. This isn’t her meeting.”
Maeve nearly laughed. Only Roswyn could side with her and take a dig at her in the same breath.
“If I may?” Asked one of the new faces.
The girl looked at Roswyn to continue. He nodded. She turned her attention to Maeve. “Despite this not being your meeting, I believe I speak for all of us, especially those of us new here, when I say we want to hear your opinion.”
Maeve stared at her for a moment before she spoke. “Why are you here?” She asked gently.
The girl didn’t hesitate to reply. “Because I believe The Dread Prince is being wrongfully assassinated. His character, I mean. I believe the Double O is corrupt and full of liars.”
“My father was part of The Double O,” Maeve said tensely.
The girl nodded. “And that is why many of us do not trust that we are being told the truth. That is why I wish to hear from your mouth what we are doing. You stand beside him.”
Maeve’s brows pulled tougher. She continued.
“Moon and his cabinet all repeat the same rhetoric. That Mal killed your father because the Premier would have been in his way.”
“Watch your mouth,” warned Maeve.
“Hear her out,” said Belvadora. “She is here, isn’t she? Don’t shoot the messenger.”
Maeve’s jaw tightened as she held her tongue, despite her desire to tell Belvadora to shove it. The new recruit looked to the boy next to her.
“We are here because we think that’s a lie. That everything they are saying about you, and Malachite, is a lie. I didn’t get into Vaukore. My scores weren’t even close. I didn’t know any of The Sacred before I made it into the lower sector Bellator. But I know what is said about you. And I know that you can’t possibly truly stand at Moon’s side and accept his propaganda. So that is why I am here.”
She paused.
“Anything else?” Asked Maeve.
The girl shook her head.
“First and foremost,” began Maeve, “you do not call the Dread Prince by such a familiar name. He is your Prince, and Prince alone. Secondly, I’m not exactly sure what any of you want from me. You want to hear me say it? That I want to slit their fucking throats each time they speak my father’s name? That every new decree they order makes my skin crawl?” She knew she should have stopped there, but as the words poured from her mouth, she didn’t care. “That I am playing my part until Mal’s return? Or are you all here wondering where he is? Wondering why Roswyn is leading this pointless meeting and not him? Because if that’s the question you are seeking an answer for, you are absolutely out of luck.”
Belvadora smiled across the table at her. “There she is.”
Maeve shot her a mocking smile.
“Listen,” said Roswyn tensely, addressing the room. “My orders are clear: I am to build an army here on Earth while Mal finishes readying The Dread Lands. His coronation didn’t go as planned...” he paused and looked at Maeve, “so here we are. We must keep the Magicals loyal to his cause on Earth safe, until The Dread Lands are ready for them.”
“But you don’t know when that will be?” Asked the new boy.
“No,” said Roswyn. “And it isn’t our place to question the Dread Prince’s timing or orders. When the blight that drove our ancestors here three hundred years ago has been pushed back into the shadows, he will return, and we will be in the promised land at last.”