Rough Magic Page 16

  “We were focused on the spindle and the rough magic. And I was still processing the experience.” I looked at Quossa, including him in my confession. “It wasn’t transformative for me because I was distracted at the time by my worry for Rory and Nils, and Istvan whom we’d lost. But I think it could have been an experience that humanity has chased ever since the time of the ancient mages, calling it a shaman’s journey. That’s about gaining a new perspective on reality and who you are within that reality, which connects to the idea that magic is unused potential. The djinn are reservoirs of unused potential, possibly capable of transforming a person.”

  I ran out of breath as I finished with a rush. The relief of sharing my concerns regarding how powerful the djinn were, and could be for people, was immense. They were one of the mysteries of Earth magic that the Faerene hadn’t identified, and so, had yet to explain.

  For a minute or so I simply sat and enjoyed the warmth of the sun and the scents of the garden. The smell of rosemary clung to my fingers.

  Dealing with an itch, Quossa rubbed his shoulder against the trunk of the carob tree. “Intriguing. I respect your interest, Amy. The djinn are a fascinating subject of study, and an ephemeral one. They’ll disintegrate when the magic flows stabilize. Once we have time for curiosity, I imagine several scientists will be interested in your experience of the djinn. Even with your detailed written report, I’m sure they’ll have additional questions.”

  I’d been idly swinging a foot, softly hitting the heel of my right boot against the stone wall. Now, I froze before lowering my foot to the ground to balance my weight.

  Digger stood and stretched.

  He had picked up the same thing I had: Quossa’s patronizing tone.

  My stomach hollowed out with that empty, repulsive feeling that can be either a precursor to nausea or the physical expression of psychological distress, namely, sick disappointment.

  Quossa had indulged me with empty courtesy. He’d allotted me his downtime while he ate, the equivalent of how my busy parents had once shared breakfast with me during school holidays: the only time I’d gotten to describe my life to them.

  He’d listened to me superficially, while thinking of more important matters. That I’d expected him to graze had hidden his distraction from me.

  My childhood training rescued me. From my parents’ behavior I knew that the unicorn scientist expected, as they had, that I be grateful for what limited time and attention he’d spared me. I’d ceased throwing tantrums and burning bridges years ago. “Thank you for listening to my concerns, Quossa. I appreciate your time.”

  “You’re welcome, young one. I had to eat, anyway, and some find it disconcerting that I literally talk with my mouth full.” He whiffled his amusement.

  I smiled politely and turned our final words to a focus on what interested him. That was how I’d managed my parents and coaxed future attention from them. Consciously or unconsciously, they’d responded to my flattery that their concerns were paramount. “I hope the restored latticework holds.”

  “It will. It worked for the ancient human mages, and we are stronger than them.”

  An objection, stunning in its simplicity rose to my lips. I bit it back and contemplated the situation for a few seconds. The Faerene expected me to “sit and be silent”, as Raul had said. I was a tool they used, not someone they listened to.

  However, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if their attempt to stabilize Earth’s magic went wrong and I hadn’t checked that they’d at least considered the blatant flaw in their scheme.

  “Quossa, you do realize that the description recounted by the orb of how the ancient mages established the latticework is inaccurate. What they intended it to do, to last a few centuries and the spindle call to humans, isn’t what happened, so they did something differently to what they described in the orb.”

  Quossa snorted. “We are not naïve, Amy. The design of the latticework and its deployment procedure has been corrected. Yngvar is confident, as is everyone who has viewed his plan.”

  “All right then.” I swallowed a sour taste. “It’ll be good when it’s done and I can go home.”

  “Indeed.”

  Digger fell into step with me as we departed.

  Our former messenger, the nymph, darted forward to report to Quossa. She’d been waiting down the street, beneath a leafless tree, the shadows of its branches dancing over her.

  “Hubris,” Digger said under his breath.

  In Ancient Greek mythology, Zeus, the king of the gods, had been born here on Crete. It was the wrong place to risk excessive pride. Doing so challenged the gods, or fate. Then again, being blinded by pride wasn’t safe anywhere.

  A deep internal tremor shook its way to the surface, shaking my whole body, but at the end of it, the constriction around my chest had gone and I could breathe freely. The sick feeling in my stomach eased as we walked.

  Distantly, I heard the clip-clop of Quossa taking the same path back to Governing House.

  But we weren’t really on the same path, not in our hearts. Our perspectives on the djinn represented our differences. Quossa saw them as a curiosity that would vanish as the Faerene established control over Earth’s magic. I saw the djinn as a genuine part of our world. They’d been lost when the ancient mages’ lockdown on magic outlasted their intent. Now, trying to dissipate the chaotic magic that the djinn both concentrated and symbolized felt fundamentally wrong to me, and fundamentally right to Quossa.

  Who was I to stand counter to the greatest scientific minds among the Faerene on Earth?

  The short answer was that I couldn’t.

  But if I respected the instincts for danger that were flaring anxiety in my gut, then I needed to do something to be ready if the restoration of the latticework failed. Paradoxically, it was Quossa’s disinterest that compelled me to act.

  When we reached the plaza out front of Governing House, my pace slowed. “Let’s go around to the jetty.”

  Digger changed direction without comment.

  The sound of waves washing against the jetty and small boats reminded me of rare times spent with my father at his yacht club. As much a fanatic as he was for sailing, he’d seldom shared the experience with me. When he had, he’d been impatient at my lack of skill, often ordering me to stay out of the way. He’d never been a teacher.

  Digger had taught me far more, even if his lessons had been ones in violence: hunting, patrolling, securing a prisoner. He’d been with me the first time I’d killed a man.

  The Faerene who didn’t know me saw me as young and inexperienced. How they could think that when I’d survived the apocalypse, the loss of six-sevenths of humanity, boggled my mind. But I had to both work around and exploit their misperception before I ultimately challenged it.

  Superstitiously, I crossed my fingers. If the restoration of the latticework re-established the pattern of Earth’s magic as the Faerene believed it would, then I could remain silent and simply vanish back to Justice. In purely selfish terms, that was my preferred outcome.

  However, I suspected that there would be costs to returning Earth’s magic flows to their stable pattern. The Faerene simply hadn’t identified and factored in those costs.

  It was a quirk of reasoning. The status quo always seemed less costly than disturbing it. However, returning to the status quo of stable magic that had underpinned the Migration might be worse than finding a new path.

  What had Earth lost, what had humanity lost, when magic flows remained unnaturally stable for millennia?

  The Faerene seemed to have dismissed the idea that the stable pattern had contributed to eroding Earth’s shield and creating the Rift. But if it had, wasn’t restoring that pattern against the principles of the Migration?

  A quarter of the distance from the end of the jetty I got my slate out of my backpack. “I’m going to call Nils.”

  Digger squinted at me. Or he squinted at the glare reflecting off the water. Either way, the squint was his sole respon
se.

  I called Nils.

  “Amy?”

  “All’s well here. I have a quick question about trusting an elf called Raul. He works for Jakov, lives at…” I consulted the card Raul had given me and read off his home address.

  Nils disregarded the address. “Skinny nose, broken and set badly, crooked to the left.”

  “I have no idea.” I hadn’t noticed.

  “Yes,” Digger said.

  “Raul is my cousin,” Nils said. “He was a police detective back on Elysium. Yes, you can trust him. About anything important. Don’t lend him a book. You’ll never get it back.”

  I relaxed. There was affection, restrained but real, in that comment. “He asked why you weren’t with us. I think, maybe, he was worried for you.”

  “I’ll call him, later.” He waited. Despite whatever crisis Nils was in the middle of managing, he gave me priority.

  That sort of care had to be respected. “I won’t keep you. I had to know if this strange elf who offered to answer any questions could be relied upon.”

  “Yes, he can.”

  “Thanks, Nils. Take care.”

  “Bye, Amy, Digger.” Nils disconnected.

  I contemplated the slate. Resisting the temptation to call Rory was surprisingly easy. My brain was busy. Slowly, I found the contact details for a different Faerene.

  Digger’s eyebrows flew up when the Faerene answered.

  It was encouraging that he had answered. I appropriated seventeen minutes of his time. Then Digger and I went to find Raul in his office.

  Governing House buzzed with the energy of the forthcoming reinstitution of the latticework. I noticed Liam, the clerk whom Quossa had first left us with, recognize us and turn away.

  “Suits me,” I muttered.

  Raul’s office was on the third floor, at the rear of the building. He had a window, however, and a potted plant grew luxuriantly on the deep sill. He was in his shirtsleeves, and astonishment widened his eyes at the sight of us.

  I checked his nose. Yup. Crooked. Not that it mattered. “Nils says he’ll call you later.”

  Raul recovered his poise and waved us to chairs.

  Digger shut the office door, then sat in the chair nearest it.

  Shrugging on his jacket, Raul waited till I’d sat before resuming his seat behind the desk. He gathered up a few sheets of paper and tucked them into a drawer. “You’ve decided I’m trustworthy?”

  “We trust Nils,” I said. “And he trusts you.” I took a big breath. “What sort of mutation does Jakov think I am?”

  For an instant, Raul’s mouth thinned. “The term was badly chosen. I apologize.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ve accepted the Faerene attitude toward human mages—that we shouldn’t exist yet. According to the Migration schedule, magic ability shouldn’t appear in humans for a few generations following exposure to Faerene magic.”

  Raul traced the edge of his chair arms with long fingers. “Even then, some believe that we’ll have to spark the magic in you. Believed,” he corrected himself to the past tense. “As to your existence as an…anomaly. You are an anomaly as a mage and as a familiar. The latter is an unknown relationship in itself. It helps that people respect Istvan as your magician. May I turn the question around? What would you call yourself?”

  “Are we warded for privacy?”

  Raul had himself under complete control. Not an eyelash flickered at my question. “We are, now.”

  I swallowed, but there was no going back. My previous conversation had already committed me to this course of action. “I’m not sure what I’d call myself, but Digger called me a visionary. An oracle. I hope not. Shooting the messenger has a long tradition on Earth. Rory called me a verity.”

  Raul leaned back in his chair, the slow shift in posture speaking of contemplation of a profoundly unexpected idea.

  I continued cautiously. “You and Henri offered to advise me. What protections would a verity have on the Fae Council? Would there be a position for one?”

  “Whew. I don’t like that you asked about protections first.” Raul raised one hand. “No, I’m not blaming you. I am ashamed that you have reason to fear us, the Faerene.”

  “And reason to trust you, too. There are Faerene in our family.” I glanced at Digger, including him in the “our”.

  “Nils included?” Raul asked in a preoccupied tone.

  “Yes.”

  Abruptly, the elf gave me a hundred percent of his attention, and he frowned while doing so. “I can’t recall any Migration with a verity on the Fae Council. Verities are rare.”

  Digger spoke for the first time. “Rory said they’ve been killed.”

  Raul grimaced. “Yes. On Elysium, Faerene society has very pretty manners, and an underbelly dirtier than a pigpen. Those who chase power can be ruthless about eliminating any threat to their plans. Verities are exactly that because truth is powerful.”

  “Anyone can speak the truth,” I said.

  “Not with the same effect as a verity. Elves would call such a person an oracle.” He looked at Digger. “Why do you call her such?”

  “Amy sees the unmapped path to a goal. I am not scared of the unknown.”

  Raul tapped the arms of his chair. “But you think the Faerene are? On Elysium, you would be right to the extent that we’d attempt to control the unknown.”

  Digger snorted. “Human familiar trial.”

  “Ah. Yes. There were reasons. The Rift…” Raul stopped. “I recognize that it looks as if we sought to control humans. In fact, we sought to control your mages’ untrained and uncontrolled use of magic. The distinction is important. To pass the selection process and become part of a migration requires a psychological capacity for new ideas and self-correction. We are not as bad as what we left behind.” He grimaced. “Which I realize is not a ringing endorsement.”

  He returned to my question. “An oracle on the Fae Council would be honored.”

  I had an answer to that assertion. “You, yourself, said that I should ‘sit and be silent’. I am young, Raul, and Quossa’s recent indulgent manner of listening to and dismissing my concerns regarding the djinn convinces me that the young aren’t accorded authority. If I spoke up against a decision of the Fae Council, when its members are your experienced, wise leaders, how would that go down?”

  “Not well. But you would be heard and no one would physically harm you, that I can guarantee.”

  “I hope I don’t have to speak up. I would very much prefer to spend a quiet life with Rory in Justice. However, if I do have to speak truth to the powerful, I want your help, now, to draft a role for a verity on the council that respects my responsibilities to Rory, our pack and to Istvan, as my magician partner.”

  Questions collected in Raul’s face, his brow furrowing in concern and curiosity, but he held them back. The most prominent of them was probably why now? What is so critical?

  I’d been advised in the last hour that a good interrogator—and Raul was a former police officer—knew how to employ silence as a tool.

  Raul would hold his questions while I was talking freely, and use them to prompt me, later.

  “At the human familiar trials, after the vigil, when I vowed my magic to Istvan, the oath was simple. ‘The magic that flows through me I gift to your service.’ I think that’s where my role starts, or at least, that’s where we begin explaining it to the Faerene.”

  Raul pulled a stack of blank sheets of paper in front of himself and picked up a pencil. “Tell me.”

  Chapter 13

  Hunger, and the next step of my plan, directed Digger and me to the first floor dining room, the one that served everyone. The second floor dining room served Governing House’s VIPs, and the rooftop dining option was for fliers such as dragons and griffins, and their guests.

  The common dining room buzzed with anticipation. In two hours, Yngvar’s hand-selected team would restore the latticework and ensure the stability of Earth’s magic flows.

  Someone
bumped into me as we approached the counter to order our meal. A hand slipped into my jacket pocket.

  I breathed shallowly, reminding myself not to immediately check my pocket or otherwise react. “The beef stew smells good.” It did. The rich aroma of red wine and spices filled the air. The other options on the menu were a vegetarian chickpea and rice dish, and baked potatoes with a diner’s toppings of choice.

  We got the stew and mugs of tea, and carried our trays to two places opposite each other at a long table. We were lucky to find the seats. People who’d finished their meals lingered to talk.

  We’d chosen a table of werewolves. They recognized me—with only two humans on Crete, information as to our identities had spread like wildfire. Introductions were quick and easy, by pack affiliation. Members of three packs were chatting together. They offered congratulations on my marriage to Rory, and to their rampant curiosity regarding happenings involving the orb and the rough magic, accepted my rebuff that Harold wanted to manage that conversation.

  One of the older werewolves, a woman with a wicked scar across her throat, jeered at that; but not at me. “The Fae Council treats us as children.”

  “Meara,” a soft, chiding growl from the male beside her.

  “Harold appointed me to the Fae Council,” I said brightly.

  My cheerfully false enthusiasm drew skeptical, intrigued attention. The werewolves were on the hunt for what I meant, and conversation at nearby tables dropped as people strained to listen.

  “What will you do on the council?” Meara asked. “Or is that a secret, too?”

  “No secret. The advice I’ve received so far is to sit and be silent.”

  The werewolves stiffened.

  “You are young and new to magic, but you survived the apocalypse. That is your personal strength proven. And you are mated to the leader of Hope Fang Pack. You are not to be silenced.” Werewolves could look young for a couple of centuries. The man who spoke appeared a little older than Rory. He spoke with the conviction of authority, and the other werewolves nodded their support.