Chapter 6
Maeve attended every Dueling Club event, as were Mal’s instructions. She looked forward to her lessons with him almost as much as Charms class. Maeve was blocking his spells with consistency and becoming better at her offensive spells as well.
“You make a good teacher,” said Maeve, gathering her things after their lesson.
Mal smirked at this. An expression which suited his handsome features. “You aren’t a bad pupil. Believe me, I have worse.”
“Oh, I’m well aware,” laughed Maeve. “You mentor Roswyn as well.”
“Careful, Sinclair,” he said with a smirk. “Roswyn is stronger than you.”
Maeve looked away from him and chewed the inside of her lip.
“You’ve known all of them your whole life haven’t you?” Asked Mal. “Being a Sacred Seventeen.”
Maeve nodded. “My family is especially close to the Rosethorn’s though, as my Mother was one. Which I suppose is why Abraxas and I get along so well.”
“How old were you when they put that mark on your wrist?” He asked casually.
“I don’t remember,” she said. “It’s always been there.”
“I’ve noticed you keep your sleeves down most of the time,” he said. “Are you ashamed of those symbols on your wrist?”
Maeve stopped and lifted her left arm, letting the sleeve of her sweater fall to her elbow. Three sharp pointed stars sat tattooed on the corner of her wrist.
“I’m not ashamed,” she said quietly.
“You shouldn’t be,” he said. “Your family has ties to a lost civilization of Magic.”
“I know that,” she said, letting her arm fall back to her side.
And it was true. She was proud of her family. Of her father. She knew her blood was laced with ancient Magic that made her stronger.
Though, Malachite was the exception to that idea. Stronger than all of them. A supreme before he ever set foot at Vaukore. With no Sacred blood. Born unto a Witch with no name, and no Father to be found. She died giving birth to him in a cold December alley way in the slums of London.
“When I look at those stars, I don’t see a reverent and ancient symbol of Magic. All I see is a cage. An hourglass about to run out. Those three stars represent the three types of Magicals. Only one remains. As if we too are destined for death.”
“You truly believe that Shadow Magic and Aterna Magic have ceased to exist?”
“What else would they be? The Shadow People were wiped out a century ago in the Great War. And according to my father, the Immortal people placed all their Aterna Magic in their High Lord. None of them have practiced so much as a summoning spell for thousands of years now.”
Mal hesitated for a moment, as though he thought what he was about to say should have occurred to Maeve long ago. And perhaps it should have.
“There are seven realms. That we know of. One of them has been sealed for three hundred years. Two of the others are closed to us. You honestly think you know what Magic lies in those realms? In the Dread Lands?” Maeve had no reply.
Mal stood tall. “You’re far too clever to believe everything you’re told. ”
On a Saturday afternoon, and Maeve and Malachite were dueling.
When Maeve declined to go to London with Violet, she received yet another nasty comment about how she and Mal spent too much time together.
Lavinia overheard their conversation and gave Maeve an enthusiastic thumbs up, followed by a wink. Maeve rolled her eyes.
Mal was in a particularly lighthearted mood as they lazily shot spells back and forth, discussing magic.
“Your father had you practice a Dread curse as a child?” He laughed.
“Yes,” said Maeve.
“They’re illegal.”
Maeve shrugged as he blocked her jinx. “I’ve told you before. My father isn’t really one for the rules. At least, not the ones in his interest to break.”
Mal looked intrigued. “I have a favor to ask.”
Maeve shifted her head to one side.
“I want to see you create a false memory.”
Maeve’s brows pulled together. “You mean. . .”
“In your mind,” he finished.
Maeve laughed through her nose. “You think I’m going to let you in my mind?”
Mal smiled.
Damn.
“I’m so curious. Besides, I’ve never been in a Pureblood’s mind.”
“That’s because Purebloods have built in mental shields.”
“I know,” said Mal plainly.
Maeve watched him carefully for a moment as her eyes narrowed. “Have you been in many minds?”
Mal didn’t answer. “Are you going to let me see or not?”
“Are you going to answer?”
Mal’s expression was unreadable. “You already know.”
Maeve nodded, thankful he couldn’t force his way into her mind without her permission.
“Alight,” she relented under his pressing gaze. “I’ll show you.”
A smirk flickered across his face. Maeve held up her hand.
“But if I tell you to get out,” she said gravely, “you get out. Deal?”
Mal’s smirk never faltered. “Deal.”
He pointed his finger at her. Maeve lowered her mental shields, allowing him to enter her mind, and prayed she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.
No light emitted from the tip of his finger.
The Dueling Hall disappeared and she was watching her father demonstrate a series of spells in his study at Sinclair Estates. She was only three. Ambrose was excitedly showing her hand motions and making Maeve giggle with gold sparks.
“Is that your father?” Asked Mal’s voice.
“Yes,” said Maeve.
He appeared at her side. “You aren’t even trying to force me out.”
“I have no idea how to do that,” said Maeve plainly.
Her father and three-year-old self disintegrated, and she was standing in the Dueling Hall at Vaukore once more.
“That was a real memory,” said Mal with a slight disappointment. “Again. This time show me something false. I want to see these perfect faux memories you boast about.”
“I do not boast-”
But Mal ignored her. He dove back into her mind, her shields still completely unprotected. He ran through thoughts it seemed. Many things, not all of them memories, flashed before her eyes.
She flung the first thing that came to mind out before them: her charms test from the previous morning.
Only the room was empty, save for a giant oversized clock and a roll of parchment so long one would assume she had been writing for days without ceasing.
The clock ticked away as the fake Maeve wrote hastily.
It was an odd sight. Unrealistic, but based in truth, as all false memories were.
“Finally,” said Mal, his voice echoing across her mind. He appeared at her side, observing the fake Maeve as she scribbled away.
Maeve gathered herself, feeling a boost of confidence. “Perhaps we can change it up?” She said, playfully, thrilled to be in control for once.
The scene before them disappeared and was replaced by the Dueling Hall at Vaukore, a perfect replica with a Maeve and Mal standing and dueling one another.
The fake Maeve hit the fake Mal with a hefty curse, bringing him to the floor in tears. Maeve stood victorious over the crying fake Mal.
“It looks completely real,” said the real Mal, mesmerized.
Maeve smiled.
Her stomach flipped as Mal pulled out of her mind. She was dizzy and took a knee to the floor as the room spun.
“That’s incredibly impressive,” said Mal, striding towards her.
Maeve took a deep breath and relished his praise. “Thank you.”
“Could you, hypothetically speaking, place that memory inside my head, causing me to think it happened like that?”
“Yes,” said Maeve. “But I would just modify your memory seamlessly to appear the false way I want, not have to implant an entire false memory. Though, that is also doable. Say, for example, you were never here, and I wanted you to believe you were. But that is…advanced and I don’t know that I could-”
“This is what you showcased at the Orators Office this summer? The Headmasters have seen you do this? The Orator’s Office knows you can do this?”
Maeve nodded. “And more so, break other’s false memories as well. ”
“You learned to do that first didn’t you?”
“Yes. I studied them until I knew where all the flaws typically were, which enabled me to perfect my own. Of course, there’s many factors still. You were viewing my false memories live. They’re even stronger when perfected from the outside.”
“Using an anamnesis?”
Anamnesis was a potion of reflective liquid capable of holding memories.
“Or a host.”
Mal stared past her, nodding his head in understanding. He turned on his heel quickly. “Next lesson,” he turned back towards her, “how strong are your shields when you’re too weak to create such a strong memory?”
“What?” Maeve scoffed. “When would I ever need that?”
Wordlessly and without warning, a bright green light shot from Mal’s finger at Maeve, which she blocked. However, it was quickly followed by another. The second spell hit her square in the stomach.
She screamed as she doubled over. A sharp, slicing sensation was running through her body. A hundred needles pressed into her throat.
She didn’t get her shields back up in time.
He entered her mind a third time. It was a mess of things: the pain she felt here, a conversation with Abraxas, watching Spinel chase a mouse down the hall. Everything swirled past without control.
She couldn’t breathe.
She tried to bring forth a false memory to block Mal, but they all fell apart before she could create them. The pain was too much. She had no way to create the memory with her mind was scattered from the burning throughout her entire body.
Her position of dominance and control had not lasted long.
Mal shifted through her mind with ease, running down everything that rose to the surface. He didn’t stop to observe anything.
With a bang, the contents of Maeve’s mind appeared blank for a moment.
There was a loud scream from a woman. Suddenly a room Maeve knew well came into focus. The grandfather clock against the wall at Sinclair Estates said it was well past midnight, and the foyer was illuminated with blue moonlight through the windows.
No. No. No.
There were three men, one of which was her father, surrounding a mangled and bloody body that lay lifeless on the floor. Ambrose Sinclair was kneeled over the body crying.
Maeve recognized the memory instantly and desperately began trying to force Mal out. It was no use though. She was under a hex that wasn’t going to give until Mal himself lifted it. Her shields were down and staying down until he relented.
The scream had come from Clarissa Sinclair, Maeve’s mother, who upon seeing her only son dead on the floor, collapsed. One of the men shot to her side to console her.
Ambrose remained over her Antony Sinclair’s body. His oldest child. And only son.
There was a flash of green light, and another witch and two wizards stepped through the fireplace in the foyer. Maeve recognized them as Orator Moon, his Senior Secretary, and The High Lord of the Immortal Realm himself, Reeve.
Reeve halted halfway across the floor. His face stuck in a pained expression. And shook his head in disbelief.
Maeve wanted to scream for Mal to get out, but nothing happened. She struggled to breathe from the pain of his hex and was forced to watch the scene herself.
“The head of the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is on his way,” whispered the Orator to the man by Ambrose.
Ambrose looked up.
“Maeve,” cried Ambrose, looking at the marble staircase.
The sound of his voice sent a chill down Maeve’s spine.
Every head in the room turned save for her Mother’s, and there on the stairs was seventeen-year-old Maeve, standing in complete horror.
Ambrose shot up from the floor and ran towards her, embracing her up in one quick motion. This revealed what was left of her brother, Antony’s body.
Clarissa screamed in agony once more.
“You shouldn’t have seen this,” cried Ambrose, tucking her head onto his shoulder and scooping her into his arms.
The men began examining Antony’s body. The High Lord Reeve placed a hand on Antony’s chest and closed his eyes in prayer.
The sight became nauseating quickly, as it had been quite come time since Maeve examined this memory. She could no longer feel the burning pain throughout her body.
“No,” whispered Maeve. “Get out.”
She felt Mal pull away. She gathered all the strength she had and managed to break free of the loose grip he held on her as the memory slowly faded.
Mal stood silently a few steps away from where she kneeled on the floor, exhausted. She ran her shaking hands over her face.
Maeve pushed off the floor and grabbed her bag without looking at him. She headed for the door, eager to be as far away from him as possible. She took the long way to her dorm in the East Wing, so that if he did come after her, their crossing paths would be unlikely.
A golden riddle in swirly handwriting shot across the ivory doors with a fizzing sound.
If you have it, and you show it to other people, it’s gone. What is it?
“Aren’t you cheeky,” said Maeve.
That is incorrect, appeared in small writing beneath the riddle. It disappeared as Maeve sighed. A book appeared at her feet.
Need a clue? The door wrote.
“No,” said Maeve, annoyed. “It’s a secret.”
The double doors clicked open. Her feet were heavy as she climbed the marble stairs to her room, already tugging at the tie around her neck. Spinel jumped into the bed ahead of her, purring loudly.
It would be easy enough to avoid Mal for the rest of the weekend, but during class might prove more difficult. Though Maeve had a feeling he would give her the distance she deserved.