Chapter 3 #3
“Lord Monterris. You look to be deep in thought.”
Drawn from his abstraction, Nic turned to find Dashiell at his side—a shock no amount of wine could have prepared him for.
“Oh.” Nic downed a mouthful, hoping it would help. “I was merely wondering how different life would be in a world without magic.”
“Without magic? I… am not sure I can even imagine how such a world would function. That’s like wondering about a world without gravity.”
“Is it? Yet there are more people without the Brilliance than with it, and they seem to live just fine. Better, perhaps, for not having to lock themselves in to negotiate marriage contracts.”
Dashiell’s lips twitched as he suppressed a smile—a familiar sight that pulled old memories across nine years of absence.
“The only thing magic has ever wrought,” the vowsmith murmured.
The low sound sent a frisson through Nic’s skin, and the humour in those bronze eyes invited something of their former intimacy as though those nine years could just disappear.
Nine years of silence.
“Not the only thing it has wrought, Master sa Vare,” Nic said coolly. “Merely the most annoying at present.”
He made to move away, only for a young man to appear at Dashiell’s side, joining them with a self-assurance many would have killed for. “Master sa Vare,” he said, his gaze fixed on Nic. “I have not yet been formally introduced, if you would do me the honour.”
“Of course.” Dashiell’s tone chilled. “Lord Monterris, allow me to introduce Attending Vowsmith Rufus Gillingham. Mr. Gillingham, Lord Monterris.”
The attending vowsmith wasn’t dressed in the height of fashion yet he wore his modest attire well, more than making up for it with a handsome face and a winning smile. And eyes that slid down Nic’s body in a quietly suggestive manner that was, for Nic at least, far more familiar ground.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gillingham,” he said, wondering if the lock-in might yet be enjoyable after all. “I hope you did not find the journey too taxing.”
“Not at all, my lord,” Gillingham said. “I travel a lot with Lord Ricard. He is never still, you know, always darting here and there about some business or other. You get quite used to sleeping on the road and meeting new people.”
“I envy you that. I have spent most of my life in this house, though it does mean I know it very well.”
The young man’s smile broadened. “Well, then perhaps you would care to give me a tour later on?”
Plenty of young men had used that line over the years, and glad of the opportunity to show Dashiell that his presence mattered as little as his absence had, Nic acquiesced with an ironic bow. And tipped what remained of his wine onto his feet.
“Ah,” Nic said, the room spinning as he set his empty glass down. “I think perhaps I need some air. If you will excuse me, Mr. Gillingham. Master sa Vare.”
“Until later then, my lord,” Gillingham said with a wink, and before Dashiell could speak, Nic escaped.
Rather than making for the terrace where he could be followed, Nic stepped into the nearby service passage.
There, he wobbled unsteadily along in his wine-splattered shoes, humming as he left the muffled chatter behind.
Glad to escape all the curiosity and noise, he began forming sigils to complement his song, conjuring first a deep, midnight-blue light, followed by stars, silver trees, and a flock of echoes gathered in a forest clearing.
Soon, his humming became words and he sang about a man seeking to befriend the wild birds.
Nic added the man and walked on, throwing the scene before him with outstretched arms and upraised voice.
A second figure appeared in the passage, its face a pale oval like the old, broken-up automata he often pilfered for parts. Unlike the rest of Nic’s scene, it didn’t move, and in the haze of drink, it took him all too long to realise he hadn’t conjured it.
The pictures faded as Nic dropped his hands and peered through the draining colours. The pale oval turned away, a ghost amid conjured ruins.
“Wait, who’re you?” he called as it walked away. “You shouldn’t be in here. I’m Lord Nicholas Monterris and I command you to stop.”
Nic’s insides shrivelled at how much he sounded like his father, but although he suddenly felt a lot more sober, the figure disappeared into the deep shadows ahead as though he had imagined it.
“Hey!” Nic walked on. “Come back!”
A truly eager man might have run, but Nic owned enough wariness to keep to a quick walk, eyes darting at the dark shapes of unlit lanterns and closed doors.
No sounds came to him now, not even the distant tinkle of glass and laughter from the abandoned party—just his breath and his hurried heartbeat, and the scuff of his shoes on the dusty floor.
A door creaked open, spilling moonlight into the passage ahead. For a moment a shadowy figure stood silhouetted against the pale light.
“Hey! If you’re with the delegation, you’re not meant to be in here.”
Nic hurried to the open door, stepping out into an old gallery that had been all but abandoned to the garden beyond, ivy left to creep in through cracks around the windows. There was no sign of the figure, although the door out to the walled garden stood ajar and Nic strode toward it.
Chill, damp air hit him as he pulled the door wider. Mist had descended like a thick blanket and a sheen of moisture already covered the ground. It would be a thin crust of ice by morning the way the temperature was dropping.
“Well, enjoy being locked out there all night,” Nic muttered, and was about to close the door and bolt it when he caught sight of the figure again. It had stopped to watch him, perhaps thinking itself invisible in the thickening mist. It might have been but for the sharp edges of its white face.
This time Nic didn’t shout, just stepped out after it.
The figure turned away and Nic sped his pace, cutting toward it across the garden bed, eyes for nothing else.
Puffs of condensed breath appeared before him, but he wasn’t cold, not with the lingering wine and sudden purpose.
In the passage he’d seen a face like an automaton, but that shouldn’t be possible.
Every single one had been broken apart and left in the old grotto to rot.
Probably not smart to follow it, really, the sober part of Nic’s mind told him, but he kept on, pushing through bushes and kicking tufts of furled winter flowers. He had to know who it was. Or what. And if it was a fully functional automaton, he had to know how.
Nic’s next step squelched. Cold ran up his leg and soaked into his wine-splattered shoes. Then something grabbed his ankle, and unable to save himself, he toppled face-first into water. It rushed into his mouth and his nose, tasting of dirt and fish and the green gunk of stagnant ponds.
Fingers closed around his arm, and though he tried to fight, he was hauled up in a flurry of spray and swearing. And there, splattered in mud and bathed in cold silver moonlight, stood Dashiell, ankle-deep in the water.
“What do you think you’re doing running about in the mist while drunk?” he snapped, and for a moment of mingled hurt and joy he sounded just like Nic’s old friend. “Are you trying to drown yourself? That would be dramatic.”
“Trying to—? I was following someone. Was it you? Did you grip my ankle too?”
“Grip your ankle? You tripped on the reeds.”