Chapter 12
Maeve walked up and down the rows of books in her father’s library, looking for anything that might help Mal find even a hint of his ancestry. It would seem utterly unorganized to a proper librarian, but Maeve felt her father would know precisely what she was looking for.
After close to an hour of perusing on her own, she resigned and pulled her father away from his work in his study.
“What in particular are you looking for?” Asked Ambrose.
“I suppose, blood lineage?” Replied Maeve innocently. Ambrose stopped and eyed her. There was a glimmer in his eyes.
“That’s very vague,” said Ambrose slowly.
“It is.”
“Can’t you be any more specific?”
Maeve bit her lip.
“Alright,” laughed Ambrose. “Come.”
He guided her a few rows down and reached up to a high shelf.
“This one,” said Ambrose, pulling down a wide, thick page book with no title, “has the most family trees but little additional information. You’ll need to cross-reference with any of these.” He gestured to an area of books on the higher shelf, also with blank spines.
“That’s a mighty fine start. Thank you,” said Maeve taking the large book from him and setting it on a desk.
Ambrose lingered for a moment.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your disbelief in Kietel’s Dread Descendent claims would it?”
“No,” said Maeve as she opened the book and ran her finger down the index.
“Surely you can at least tell me whose blood you’re looking to inspect without specifics.”
Maeve laughed. “A friend from school.”
“A friend I am unaware of?”
“A friend you are not unaware of. My tutor.”
“Ah,” said Ambrose excitedly, as though she had just confessed something. “The tutor that has you casting Supreme level spells? And how is this young wizard unsure of his bloodline. He’s of human decent?”
“No,” said Maeve defensively. “Well, only partly. That would be wild. He’s. . . He was abandoned as a baby. He grew up in a human orphanage with no idea of his abilities.”
“That’s interesting.”
Maeve nodded as she flipped through a few pages.
“Is he-”
“That’s all the information you’re getting, Daddy,” said without looking at him.
Ambrose turned to leave, but he stopped. “At least tell me his name?”
Maeve grinned. “Malachite Peur.”
Ambrose nodded, content with his interrogation, and took his leave. Maeve gathered all the books and carried them back upstairs to her room to browse in solitude. The last thing she needy was Arianna being nosey.
Hours and hours of research and Maeve came up dry. She ran her hands across her face with a groan.
“More tea?” Asked Zimsy.
Maeve shook her head. “I think it’s making me jittery now.”
Zimsy sat on the lush carpet across from her and folded her legs beneath her. Her Elven hair spiraling past her shoulders, shiny as silk.
Her wide eyes peered over the books Maeve flipped through.
Her features were delicate, like those of a bird, with subtly pointed ears and glowing skin, She had only been a child herself when she came to be a servant in their house.
Years before Maeve was born. But even now, Zimsy glowed with everlasting beauty, as all the Elven people did.
“Who is he?”
“Who is who?”
‘The boy that keeps writing you letters.”
Maeve looked up at her. “Don’t be nosey.”
Zimsy smiled at her. “Please. There isn’t a single thing you do that I don’t know about. I’m magically bound to you and the first time something remotely interesting is happening-”
“Damn,” sighed Maeve with a smile. “I had no idea your life was so boring without me.”
“I’ve had to wait on Arianna while you’ve been at school.”
Maeve grimaced.
“Exactly,” said Zimsy desperately. “Tell me who he is.”
Maeve shook her head.
Zimsy cried out in annoyance and flung her hands up. The sleeves of her pale yellow linen dress flittered up. It was a modest outfit. As all the servants wore.
Maeve’s smile faded.
“What’s that?” Asked Maeve sharply.
Zimsy followed Maeve’s gaze to the backs of her arms. Zimsy’s cheeks flushed.
“Gods be dammed,” said Maeve darkly.
Zimsy pulled her sleeves down hurriedly. But it was too late. Maeve had already seen the marks of punishment on her arms. Deep red and purple lumps of bruising saturated the back on her petite arms.
“Don’t get all worked up,” started Zimsy.
But Maeve held up her hand. Zimsy’s lips pulled into a thin line.
Maeve closed her eyes and steadied the breath of hatred that rose in her chest.
She felt Zimsy moved behind her. Her small fingers laced through Maeve’s hair, beginning a braid.
Maeve opened her eyes and picked back up the book.
“His name is Mal.”
Maeve and Mal wrote back and forth over the winter holiday. Each time Maeve sent a letter, she was immediately eager for Mal’s reply.
The Sinclairs hosted Arianna’s fiancé, Titus’ family, for dinner one evening shortly before Maeve’s return to Vaukore.
Titus was as dull as Maeve had imagined him.
He worked at the Offices of Magical Orations in the Department of Magical Transportation, ensuring that magical fire and portals were used properly.
“You must see some pretty exciting things then,” said Ambrose.
“Not really,” said Titus dully. “I mostly do paperwork registering new brooms as they get manufactured.”
Maeve gave Arianna a discouraged look, who had given up on her facade of a smile twenty minutes ago.
“Sounds fascinating,” said Maeve.
Titus shoved a piece of meat in his mouth and chewed loudly. “Not really,” he said, shrugging.
He was as bright as he looked. Maeve looked again to Arianna, but her sister would not meet her eye. She stared down at her plate.
Titus’ mother changed the conversation to their wedding, which Maeve’s mother insisted on hosting here at their home. This perked Arianna up slightly.
Ambrose managed to withhold his curiosity about Malachite until the night before Maeve’s journey back to Vaukore.
He and Maeve were seated in Ambrose’s study playing a game of chess. There was a large fire in the middle of a black marbled fireplace, and Maeve was settled in an armchair with a fur blanket keeping her toasty.
Ambrose’s study had a large mahogany desk with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with various books, magical objects, pictures, and boxes. It smelled distinctly of the cigars Ambrose frequently smoked.
The couches and chairs were covered in elegant, dark leather.
“Malachite Peur was it?” Asked Ambrose casually as he moved a pawn.
“What about him?” Maeve asked cooly.
Ambrose shrugged. “I don’t know that name. Just a curious name is all.”
“You mean it’s not a Sacred Seventeen name,” said Maeve cornering his king.
Ambrose looked displeased.
Maeve laughed, “I’m too sharp for those kinds of lies, Daddy.”
Ambrose looked at her seriously.
“I’m being pressured, Maeve,” said Ambrose. “ Next year you’ll be twenty-two. I want to give you as much time, as much freedom, but your duties-”
“I don’t want to discuss it,” said Maeve, her voice quiet and strained. “Watching Arianna stand beside Titus like that. . .” Maeve trailed off. “You should really pay more attention to your game.”
Ambrose’s king burst into flames as it vanished from the board.
“I think I’ll head to bed,” said Maeve victoriously, stretching.
“Oh now, I didn’t mean to ruin the mood.”
Maeve smiled. “You didn’t. I’m tired and need to pack.”
“Zimsy packed for you, surely.”
“Well, I’m still tired,” said Maeve. “I did want to ask you one thing, though.”
“Anything,” said Ambrose.
“I overheard you and Uncle Rosethorn talking at The Sacred Party about Reeve. You wouldn’t answer me the first time. But I want to know: do you still have an alliance with him?”
Ambrose leaned back in his chair. “Yes,” said Ambrose after a moment. “The High Lord is aware of Kietel’s claims, if that’s what your asking.”
“Has Kietel been to the Dread Lands? Immortal Lands?”
Ambrose shook his head. “Not yet.”
“But Reeve would know if he did right?”
“Where is your etiquette?” Asked Ambrose with a laugh. “The High Lord-”
“I’m sorry it seems silly to call him that,” said Maeve.
“You dislike the Immortal God?”
“No. I’ve never really met him.”
“Surely you have at a party?”
Maeve shrugged. “Maybe. It’s been years I think. I can’t even recall what he looks like, so I hardly think that counts. Do you like him?”
“Reeve is one of my closest allies and oldest friends. I have known him my whole life.”
“He is prepared to move against Kietel, if need be?”
Ambrose laughed. “Since when are you so into politics?”
“Since the humans forced their war into my world.”
Ambrose gazed at her, his eyes glistening with pride in the firelight.
“Sometimes I forget how grown you are... how bright. But do not forget, it is we who forced our way into theirs.”
He took her hand across the chess board and squeezed it three times. This was an act of affection Ambrose had done with her since she was a child. Each squeeze represented a word in a silent “I love you.”
“If you do not plan to be on Kietel’s side of the conflict to come then yes, The High Lord and his army are prepared to fight alongside me and the Magical Militia.”
“And you trust the Immortals to win?”
“The Immortals have an advantage and have for a thousand years. The power of the Gods being in the hands of The Senshi Warriors is beyond our own. Reeve is and has been for hundreds of years, the most powerful being alive. But I do worry- it won’t be enough.”
“But you have great relations with Reeve,” said Maeve. “You just said so.”
“Yes,” agreed Ambrose. “But the High Lord is not the only one at play here.”
“The Elven lands have been sealed shut for three hundred years-”
“They are not of whom I speak.”
Maeve studied him for a moment, then her jaw fell slightly open as she asked:
“You don’t think the Humans pose an actual threat do you?”
Ambrose’s eyes narrowed, as though he was calculating how to respond to his daughter.
“Have you seen what those bombs can do?” He asked.
Maeve shook her head. “No, but-”
Ambrose interrupted her. “They are only the beginning. They are killing each other by the thousands. It’s only a matter of time before Magicals are in danger too.”
Maeve sat back in her seat, brows pulled together and spoke calmly.
“But, what you are insinuating, that can’t happen. Our numbers are already too few, especially ones like us.”
“With Pure Blood?” Asked Ambrose, pointedly.
“Yes,” said Maeve with a small exhale.
“How many Half Bloods are there now Maeve? How many babies are being born each year with no Magical lineage at all?”
When Maeve didn’t answer, he continued.
“Do you not know?”
She shook her head in defeat. Ambrose continued.
“Pure Blooded Magic is dying out, and has been for quite some time. When our people fled to Earth there were over fifty Sacred Families that made it out alive. Now there are seventeen. Magic is finding a way to preserve its existence despite our failure.”
The word failure hit Maeve in the chest like a train.
Ambrose sensed it, and gave her a soft reproachful look. “I mean our failure three hundred years ago. My forefather’s failure to defeat the darkness that drove us here.”
Maeve nodded, eager to shift topics. “One more thing Daddy. Zimsy.”
He sighed. But not in frustration at her.
“I know.” He said.
Maeve waited a moment before she spoke. “Do you?”
Ambrose bowed his head. “I don’t have a say, Maeve.’
“This is your household,” she fired back.
“And Zimsy and the other Elven servants came from the Rosethorn’s with your Mother. Do not forget the Sinclair’s never held a slave.”
Something slimy trailed down her arms at the word.
“Don’t call her that,” said Maeve slowly, her voice laced with ice.
Ambrose’s eyes softened. He stood and moved towards her. He cupped her face between his hands. He spoke warmly. “My darling daughter. I’m sorry.”
When he released her, her head fell back against the leather armchair. “After my twenty-second. When I leave this household. Does she come with me?”
“Her enslavement curse lies with your Mother.”
Maeve nodded. That was all she needed to know. So she made her way to bed after she stood and kissed her father’s cheek.
The Sinclair house was dark and quiet. Once she was inside her room, the candelabra on her desk was shining down on a letter from Mal. She opened it at once.
Maeve,
I suppose the more significant question would be, how many wizards and witches feel the same?
While the reality is we hold much smaller numbers, what we lack in size we make up for in strength.
That is, to say, we are superior to the rest in every way imaginable, regardless of their population size.
Keitl’s grasp at power, true or not presents a entirely new set of obstacles for us. His intentions of dominance over the human world causes me to believe he isn’t fighting for Magicals. Rather he is fighting for his own glory.
But he is going about it all wrong, of course. He’s too concerned with the allusion of power and not power itself. He wants the glory but is unwilling to make sacrifices to achieve his ‘greater good,’ as he calls it.
Why doesn’t he go directly for the government himself? The Orator’s Office? I think he’s bound to fail because of this. If his destiny is to reestablish the old order of Magic, why isn’t he?
And to address your other question, yes, evolutionarily, even half- bloods like myself would cease to exist. The Dread Lands, our home lands, aren’t sustainable for human life.
M
Maeve folded up the letter and stowed it away in her ivory leather bag. Knowing she would see him the next day, Maeve didn’t reply.
She curled up under her dark blue velvet canopy bed, which had its ceiling enchanted to span over various stars and constellations. They twinkled faintly as Maeve reflected over Mal’s words, eager to bring him the the first step in his journey to the past.