Engine of Lies ebook Page 8

  “What are you worried about? A lone assassin?”

  “Yeah. Jean can take care of himself. But Lucinda and René… Lucinda’s aim is good, and she’s getting faster, but not fast enough, and she’s a puffball on the counterattack. A level three could swat her strikes aside like gnats.”

  René said, “What do you expect from a girl?”

  Beorn scowled at him. “And you—you’re dead-on perfect when you’re paying attention, but when you’re not—well, you’re just dead. And you’re barely a level four. You couldn’t summon up a blast big enough to kill a shielded warlock, and you’re the most likely of the bunch to wander off by yourself and get into trouble.”

  René resumed his sulk, glowering at Beorn.

  Master Sven said, “And he can’t yet jump through the fire, to get out of trouble.”

  “Right,” Beorn said. “That’s why I want everybody in that group studying the spells for searching out danger from a distance.”

  Jean said, “Teaching those spells will increase your own proficiency with them.”

  Master Sven bristled. “Yes, Your Wisdom. I am aware of that, Your Wisdom.”

  Beorn said, “Lucinda will have mastered jumping through the fire by the time they leave. If she keeps an eye on René, then even if Jean isn’t paying attention, she can grab him and run.”

  René’s head snapped up, fire in his eyes. “Warlocks don’t run.”

  Beorn cuffed the back of his head. “They do when staying means getting killed. I don’t want you coming back as ashes in a funeral urn.”

  “You know I won’t. Quicksilver said I’m going to grow up to be a warlock.”

  I said, “He sure has a big head for a little runt. Who told him he was going to be the Fire Warlock?”

  René’s grin stretched from ear to ear. All three men turned on me.

  “Nobody did,” Beorn growled, “until now.”

  “Oops.”

  “Let me remind you,” Jean said, “that you advised me to tell him he was destined to be a warlock.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And he can add two and two and get four,” Master Sven said.

  Beorn turned a gimlet eye on René. “Just because we know you’ll survive doesn’t mean they won’t try. Maybe they’ll burn you so bad you wish you were dead. Or maybe you’re somewhere without Jean and you survive an attack that leaves Lucinda or some of the staff dead.”

  René’s grin faded. “Wouldn’t like that.”

  Beorn cuffed him again. “I sure as hell hope not.”

  “The staff wouldn’t be at risk if René and Lucinda are safe,” Master Sven said. “No one else is valuable enough to justify an assassination attempt. Bonds would be more effective. One between Warlock Quicksilver and Lucinda—”

  “No.” Jean and Beorn had spoken in unison.

  Master Sven’s eyebrows rose. “Why not? Many married couples develop bonds over time.”

  Jean and Beorn exchanged glances. Neither one looked at me. “If that happens naturally, that’s one thing,” Beorn said, “but too much togetherness, especially when you’re just starting out, isn’t healthy.”

  I didn’t argue. Jean was already too much of a mind reader. Much as I loved the man, I wanted a little privacy.

  René said, “I could have a bond with Lucinda.” The three men turned to stare at him.

  I groaned. “He’s been badgering me about bonds ever since he read about them.”

  Beorn settled into one of the iron chairs and tipped it back until he was balancing on two legs. “A bond, huh? What do you know about them?”

  René said, “They’re magical links, like the ones between identical twins. You can read each other’s minds. And they warn you when the other person is in danger.”

  Beorn fingered his beard. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  Jean and I both said, “No.”

  Beorn gave Jean a surprised look, then turned back to René. “So why would you want one with a girl?”

  “Because it would be like having a real—” He turned brick red and looked away.

  “A real sister, huh? That what you want? A family?”

  René surged out of his chair. “She already bosses me around like she’s my big sister. At least she cares. You just want me to come back to be Fire Warlock.”

  The front legs of Beorn’s chair slammed onto the slate floor. Sparks flew. “You think I don’t care?” René took a couple of steps backwards. Beorn poked him in the chest and he took another step back.

  Beorn shouted, “What do you think a family is?”

  “Uh, a group—”

  “People that care about each other. That’s what you think, right?” Poke.

  René backed further. “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Sometimes they do. Sometimes they hate each other. ‘Family’ means they’re stuck with each other, that’s all. Got that?” Another poke, another step back.

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “And I’m stuck with you. Like family. Since Lucinda let the cat out of the bag, yeah, you will be Fire Warlock someday. But not for years. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir. I—”

  “I’m not getting rid of you. You’ll come back in a year or two and go to work as my assistant. And if I didn’t care about you I could make your life hell. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir. I—”

  “Good.” Beorn had backed René into the wall on the far side of the room, next to the door to the pantries. He bent down until his flushed face was inches away from the bug-eyed boy’s. “And while you’re gone, you’d damn well better not pull some cinder-brained stunt that gives you nightmares for the rest of your life. Got that?”

  René nodded. Beorn pulled the door open.

  “Good. Now go get some supper before I take a belt to your backside for being a halfwit.”

  René vanished. Beorn slammed the door behind him. “Frostbitten little—”

  “Watch your language,” Sven snapped. “There’s a woman present.” I rolled my eyes. Beorn glared at him. “Your Wisdom,” Sven added.

  “That’s better,” Beorn said. “Sorry, Lucinda. René’s an idiot. Sven, go keep an eye on him. Nip that nonsense about us not caring for him in the bud.”

  “Yes, Your Wisdom.” Sven gave him a sardonic smile on his way out. “But after that fine display of fatherly affection I don’t think he’ll give you much trouble.”

  Jean was laughing to himself. I tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. “Supper?”

  “Soon. Beorn, my friend, you do need to be more careful in your choice of adjectives. Your encounters with the king and his advisors will not benefit from such rough language.”

  “Yeah, I know. Bad habit.” He walked back across the practice room towards us. “A bond between Lucinda and René sounds like a good idea to me.” He grinned. “In fact, I’d been trying to figure out how to suggest it without him gagging on the idea of a bond with a girl. Why’d you say no?”

  My face burned. “I’m going on my honeymoon, for God’s sake. Some things—”

  Jean’s eyes danced. “You are mistaken in how the bond works. You would share what you decide to share. Only imminent danger would override your control.”

  “Oh. That’s not quite so bad then.”

  “But,” Beorn said, “it takes a bit of practice to get used to. Don’t wait till the day before the wedding.”

  “I didn’t say I would do it. I’d be stuck with him for the rest of my life.”

  Jean said, “We are members of a small fraternity from which the only escape is death. He is part of our lives, magical bond or no.”

  Beorn said, “Like him or not, too. Like family. So why did you object, Jean?”

  “It would increase the risk of them dying together. But perhaps I overreacted. The benefits of a bond are c
onsiderable. It would decrease the risk of either dying alone. They would monitor each other’s safety, and could come to the other’s aid, even though miles apart.” He frowned at me, but it was from worry, not disapproval. “I do not want to see either of you in danger, but your safety is paramount.”

  I said, “But you’ve said, yourself, my sense of danger was fully developed. Wouldn’t I know if rescuing René would kill me?”

  “You might. But you have a gallant heart, and in the grip of strong emotion you might try to save him, even knowing the attempt could kill you.”

  There was silence for a moment. Beorn cleared his throat. “Maybe you should be asking yourself, would you be safer with a bond to René, or without?”

  “With,” I said, with no hesitation. I started. “How do I know that? But since you put the question that way, that feels like the right answer.”

  “Sleep on it,” he said. “If the answer doesn’t change, do it.”

  Jean frowned and shook his head. “Either choice worries me. I will trust your talent of prescience, and your judgement on this question, except for one final consideration.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Strong talents, such as yourself and René, have, on several occasions, used such bonds to draw their bonded souls back from the very brink of death.”

  I goggled at him. “I didn’t know that.” Why should it surprise me? The Fire Office regularly pulled titled nobles back from the verge of death. The arrogance that instilled—and in their mutton-headed unshielded cousins, too—was the root of one of Frankland’s biggest problems.

  Jean’s sombre expression chilled me. “The four Officeholders have not let those stories become widespread. For every successful attempt, two or more have failed, and both in the bonded pair died.” He gripped my shoulders and turned me to face him. “If you do establish a bond with René, you must promise me this—you will never, ever, follow him into the valley of the shadow of death.”

  My voice quavered. “I don’t want to die, but…”

  His grip tightened, and he gave me a hard shake. His eyes burned. “Promise me.”

  “I…” I swallowed and tried again. “I promise. But… But, Jean, sometimes I wonder, what’s the point of being such a powerful witch? I’m more afraid now than I ever was in Lesser Campton.”

  “Very little of ordinary life ever had the power to hurt you, and you were not a target of Frankland’s enemies in Lesser Campton.” His tone was light, but there was a sadness in his eyes that made my own tear up. “If you had stayed there, hiding your talents under a lock, you would still be fretting after adventure, and the opportunity to see the world. Would you return to that quiet life?”

  I shook my head. Life was better now. If I could get used to people trying to kill me.

  After sleeping on it for several days, my answer to the question Beorn had asked remained the same—I would be safer with the bond than without. That answer did not relieve all my misgivings. René commented on my sweaty palms when we clasped hands to recite the oaths binding us together.

  The bond was awkward at first. I started and dropped things every time René’s voice—hey, big sister—echoed in my head, and forgetting to censor what I let him hear left us more than once with him in stitches and my face scarlet. Some of his revelations made me wince.

  A week before the wedding, I cornered Beorn in the Fire Warlock’s study for a private conversation. “Have you had any new visions about the future?”

  He studied me for a moment, combing his fingers through his beard. “Why? Are you having bad dreams again?”

  “Sometimes. Not often. It’s more that I feel cold chills whenever the Frost— Whenever the Water Sorceress talks about being ready to fix the Water Office in five to ten years. Something is telling me that’s wrong.”

  He nodded. “I’ve been feeling the same way.”

  “Oh. Damn.”

  “Right. I’d been arguing with myself over whether to say something to you. I’m glad you brought it up. In your place, I’d work on tapping into Storm King as fast as I could.”

  I nodded, not looking at him. “Even if I do succeed in calling down the lightning, there’s still the Locksmith’s hidden danger.”

  Beorn reached across the desk and gripped my shoulder. “Forget that. The lock is enough for you to deal with. Let me and Jean deal with the rest. It may not be too bad. We could be wrong—”

  Both of us? I snorted.

  “—So maybe you shouldn’t say anything to Jean. Let him enjoy his honeymoon.”

  Most of that week I spent with our new secretary, dictating thank you notes for the gifts flooding in from all over Frankland. We were almost buried in an avalanche of precious metals and gemstones. I packed the more tasteful pieces for the state dinners we would have to endure on our trip, and shook my head over the vulgarity of the rest. But the ones that made me roll my eyes, and my secretary guffaw, were the necklaces and earrings from several of the more obtuse nobles.

  Pearls, for a fire witch. What was wrong with these people?

  I gave the pearls to Claire; she loved them. She came to the wedding on the arm of a wealthy wool merchant with impeccable manners, and my conscience eased on her account.

  Jean and I exchanged our vows, without the dreaded word ‘obey’, in the Warren’s Great Hall. It was packed to the rafters with members of all four magic guilds, scholars, friends from the Camptons, and a surprising number of nobles. Outside of coronations and royal weddings, it was the biggest party Frankland had seen in generations. We would have preferred a small, private ceremony in the Fortress chapel, but once Beorn and Mother Celeste heard Enchanter Paul’s suggestion that an event including the Water Guild would help spread the news that the long feud was over, what we wanted had little bearing. It was exhausting.

  After a week as the Earth Mother’s guests in a secluded alpine cottage, we had recovered enough to return to the Fortress and collect René and our staff. Armed with letters of introduction from ambassadors and merchants, we set out to see the world.

  During the two years we were away from Frankland, our retinue grew to include half a dozen young fire wizards. Calling themselves the Fire Eaters, they engaged in tournaments and practice duels with foreign wizards, becoming more proficient than most fire wizards in peaceful Frankland had been in centuries. A good thing, as it turned out, although it did not seem so to me at the time.

  Our first stop, Thule, that land of fire and ice, treated Jean as a conquering hero. I had not expected such an enthusiastic welcome, but he pointed out their two warlocks, who could tap into their own volcanoes, had a better appreciation than anyone else of the degree of control he had needed to survive for so long.

  Further, Frankland’s victory against the Empire had dramatically reduced the pressure the Empire could apply anywhere—welcome news to the little countries on the Empire’s edges. Jean intended to use that as leverage to persuade their Fire Guild to let us use their protective spells, but when he broached the subject, the younger of their two warlocks dismissed the idea out of hand.

  He, like all Thule warlocks, had sworn to keep them secret. Jean should have known better than to ask, he said, and stormed out.

  Jean watched him go with stony eyes. My spirits sank. If the decision to share the spells had to be unanimous, we were out of luck.

  Our host, Warlock Mjöllnir, the senior warlock, took no offense. He shrugged off the other man’s fit of temper and listened without comment to Jean’s explanation of our need. When Jean finished, he sat for a while in deep thought, pulling at his moustache.

  “Don’t like it,” he said. “Isn’t right for a girl to master the lightning.”

  “I have to,” I said. “There’s no one else in Frankland—”

  He held up a hand. “Didn’t mean that. Wasn’t right for your Great Coven to make those spells so hard to fix. Wa
sn’t right for the gods to make the only one who could fix them a girl. But you’re a warlock, so you’ll do it, even being a girl. Duty first. Would help if I could. Can’t. Sworn not to tell our secrets to outsiders.”

  “It is proper and justifiable,” Jean said, “for Thule’s Fire Guild’s paramount concern to be Thule’s protection. I do not want our mutual enemies drawing on volcanic forces either. But we are not asking you to expose your secrets to us, nor have we nothing to offer in exchange. I will tell you what I have learned over the years about calling down the lightning and suggest refinements to enhance the safety of your own young warlocks.”

  Mjöllnir’s eyes gleamed in the light of the guesthouse fire. “Safer, eh?”

  “In return, you will enchant a ring, and Lucinda will put a lock on it readable only by a member of the Thule Fire Guild. Your spells will be secure.”

  The glow in Mjöllnir’s eyes faded. “Not for long. If you didn’t guess right, you’ll figure them out quick enough from what you see them do.”

  “I already know what they can do. If Thule will not or cannot help us, I shall recreate your protection spells myself.”

  “Get at it then,” Mjöllnir said. “Have to start early, before the other ways sink in too deep. Another six months, year at most, and it’ll be too late for that poor girl to learn.”

  Firepower

  The Thule wizards’ rejection of our request ruined my sleep, despite Jean’s efforts to reassure me. “If we must,” he said, “we will return to Frankland, and I will consult with the other mages to recreate those spells.”

  I said, “How will we explain that to our staff?”

  “We may not have to. I still expect to convince Warlock Mjöllnir it is in Thule’s best interests to help us.”

  Maintaining a cheerful façade was difficult when part of me said he was dreaming. The approaching tournament didn’t help my peace of mind, either, but our wizards, eager to spar with new opponents, could talk of nothing else. Fools. During the battles with the Empire, Jean had fought an army of wizards, but then he had the Fire Office’s backing and the Fortress’s shields. In a tournament, the combatants would be out to score, not kill, but the Fire Office was no longer protecting him, or any of the Franks. The rules did not allow throwing lightning, but accidents, sometimes fatal, could happen. I had experienced enough injuries during childhood games of Soldiers-and-Wizards to frighten me away from this adult game.