INDEX:
Link here to a general overview of the novel
Prologue, Chpt 1, Chpt 2, Chpt 3, Chpt 4, Chpt 5, Chpt 6, Chpt 7, Chpt 8, Chpt 9, Chpt 10, Chpt 11, Chpt 12, Chpt 13, Chpt 14
Chapter Fifteen
Daav
“The sharks are circling.” Frederick raises his glass to his lips, surveying the crowds of the full ballroom filled with Congressmen, invited dignitaries and Conclave members. Our Cohort gathers for one last breath before said sharks descend. I imagine we have until quarter bells for this respite, enough time for the attendees to get themselves a drink and start plotting their opening gambits. I’m ready for them.
Johan’s Tristan Crane day display of the Conclave’s power on the steps of the headquarters is never a long drawn out affair. His presentation to the public is to encourage their national fervor and dilute insecurities. Inconvenient protestors are, of course, carted away beforehand to pretty up the package of our mage institution. Johan’s speech is meant to be inspiration packaged for the holiday. Although this year the Conclave chair cut it extra short, recovering well once I’d changed the script of the event.
The ballroom is decorated to the teeth, servers passing trays of hors d’oeuvres and offering glasses of Orreance’s best frechinia, the colorless clarity of the drink announcing the vintage is from the Northern hills, each winery’s product having the slightest difference in hue to identify its origin. The sparkling alcohol is one of the last productive exports from the country, and considered a point of pride, the little of it left to Orreance.
Mages have perfected the ability to ingest just enough alcohol to avoid dulling whatever brain centers get in the way of their Verse access. It’s almost an obsession among us, developing the skill of floating on tipsy heights without crossing a line we long ago discovered closes us off from magic. A variety of drugs will do the same, so the Conclave keeps its mages mostly on the straight and narrow.
The crowds tonight chat surrounded by the blue, green and black of the nation’s colors on display throughout the room. Images of the Seal of Solomon hexagram are embedded into most of the decorative trimmings. Sinking resources into this event is questionable although I imagine more of Johan’s attempt at staving off the death of hope.
Sebastian and Frederick flank me in our gathering as Ravel and Hanna rejoin us, passing out the last of our drinks. They’d volunteered for the trip to the bar, the frechinia not what we’d choose for our small alcohol indulgence today.
Sebastian runs a hand through his somewhat sweaty locks before accepting his glass from Hanna, a look passing between them.
“Thank fuck we can at least fend off the social attacks without the burden of a privacy mask,” Sebastian says. “The robes alone turn up the temperature to sauna. Your stunt is much appreciated, Prince.” He tips his drink my way and takes his own sip, sighing out with contentment.
“Speak for yourself, the heat’s still full blast for us,” Nuée answers, darting out her tongue at Sebastian from behind her still intact mask.
Of the six of us, only myself and Sebastian are without them. The rest, along with every other Conclave member outside of Johan, wear their privacy masks as required when any of the non-mage are amongst our number.
“Drink up, Daav,” Hanna says, glancing over our shoulders to the attendees behind us. “Johan is working double time to disentangle himself from the Congressman who’s talking his ear off and I’m sure he’s planning to make his way to you.”
“How loudly do you think he’ll yell at you?” Nuée asks.
“Oh, he’ll keep it quiet,” Sebastian corrects. “He’s perfected the art of clipped razor-sharp devastation so well he can deliver it within normal decibel limits.”
Bethany snorts. “I’ll assume your public unmasking during the speech had some strategic benefit.”
I shrug. “It’s not like my identity is secret any longer.” I’m not interested in commenting on her speculation. Sharing is unwise and means danger for others, so instead I shift a glance to Sebastian, communicating my unhappiness at his own unmasked state. His lips tilt up with mischief. I wish he hadn’t joined in with my gesture and pulled off his own mask moments after I made my choice to do so.
“Don’t even,” he warns. “What’s good for the gander is good for the gander. And remember I’m already your co-star on that very public video footage.”
“Did you see how the crowds went wild when they saw you?” Ravel asks me. “I’m not sure if they wanted to storm the steps for a love fest of Daav or to rip him to shreds.”
“It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes,” Sebastian says, and smiles. The idiot.
“Thank the city guard for doing their jobs,” Bethany responds. “Neither would have benefited Orreance’s situation.”
“Yeah, gotta love lockdown repressive security marking our most important annual holiday,” Sebastian adds.
It’s then the Cohort Mentors reach us from where I’ve been tracking their progress through the room. Ester, Bethany’s Mentor, steps up first.
“Please share your strategy, Daav. I expect it as a benefit of our inside access. You’re too intelligent for that to have been an impulsive action. I leave that to Seb.” She tips her head in his direction. “Welcome back, by the way, Sebastian.”
“Ester,” he says, and nods at her. Bethany’s Mentor never minces words, impatient when the practice of more polite speech gets in the way of her goals of logic and understanding.
“Flushing out enemies I assume,” Ester continues in my direction.
It’s then I feel the arm drape my shoulders and I stiffen. My Angel does the same, his smile dying away at the familiarity of the new arrival’s touch.
“Colleen,” I say to the woman who takes her typical liberties.
She leans in to brush a kiss to my cheek. “I for one found your bravado out there quite stimulating.”
“You find everything quite stimulating, Colleen,” Christopher adds as he joins us.
“Leave the boy alone,” Ester says.
“Why? He likes it.” Colleen winks at the group.
“He likes male attention. Yours is decidedly not that,” Ravel’s Mentor, Pike adds.
Pike’s voice always sounds like gravel, which is surprising because he has the smoothest baritone singing voice. Music is everything to him, unsurprisingly as he’s raised Ravel’s magic to be fueled by instruments, choreography and song. Although I’ve heard Pike speak more frequently since Victor’s death than I ever remembered before.
“Jealous?” she asks Pike. “And Daav doesn’t limit his interest to one gender, do you, sweetheart? You and Trina were quite an item.”
And while I’m braced for her antics, I can’t stop my muscles tensing further. Across from me, Hanna does the same. Verse, but Colleen has always been cruel. Of the Mentors, she’d been the closest to Victor, which is proof enough of her character.
Frederick steps over to her and lifts her free arm to place it over himself, pulling her away from me. I’ve never been able to tell if Frederick loves her or hates her more given how she’s raised him.
“Colleen, I’ve been waiting for you,” he says and my gratitude soars for his attempt to draw away her attention. Christopher quickly fills her other side with his presence, blocking her easy access to me. He turns his head to wink in my direction.
“Smooth. Christopher and Frederick, remind me to have words with you both later,” Colleen purrs. And rubs her fingers down Frederick’s chest as she comments.
“That was quite the saucy move on your part,” Christopher says to me, ignoring her words. “Brilliant, unmasking just before Johan called for the Conclave’s light show with their magic.”
“Considering I was the party in charge of powering the lights, why not simplify the whole affair.” My finger rubs over the rim of my glass as I watch speculation cross the faces of our Cohort’s Mentors.
Each year the mages are called to perform a dazzling but low stakes example of their power to please the public, usually some sort of light display. In reality, the amount of energy to accomplish it is too low to need more than one mage. For the past five years it’s been me. Mages working in combination for the display would be a wasted and dangerous effort, but the non-magical citizens don’t understand how the process works and are impressed by the masses of the Conclave raising their arms as one and pretending to make the lights sparkle awake.
“Well, you ruffled Johan, and that’s always amusing,” Christopher answers. “Speaking of which, your time’s up, Daav, he’s headed this way.”
“Come on,” Sebastian says, and reaches out for my hand. “Bye folks, I need to talk to Daav in private anyway, and my brilliant self already concocted our escape plan.”
I let him lead the way, winding us through the bodies who try to catch our attention for conversation. My Angel smiles his pretty smile and smoothly makes our apologies, adding his easy laugh and wave along the way to avoid offending anyone.
We reach the back hallway leading away from the ballroom and head down the line of doors. These open to various meeting and salon rooms used for informal business or small intimate gatherings within the Conclave.
Sebastian turns the knob to one of the double doors and pulls me inside.
“It’s only a matter of time until Johan finds us,” I say, ridiculously pleased that my Angel’s done this even though it complicates my plans for the evening.
Instead of answering, he pushes me against the closed door and attacks my lips.
“Mmmmmh,” I rumble. He tastes delicious, the sweet mellow aftertaste of his drink flavoring his kiss. I pull back. “Is this simply your impatience to put your hands on me, or is there more to the effort?”
“Johan isn’t the only one with plans to interrogate you,” he answers.
“Interrogate?”
And then he separates from me and takes several steps back, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head to the side.
“Why?” he asks.
“Why what?”
He keeps staring, raising an eyebrow with a clear intention of waiting me out. He’s good at it.
“Fine.” I run my hands through my hair and walk farther into the room, sitting on the padded armrest of a long couch and crossing my own arms. “What do you want to know?”
“What you hope to accomplish tonight taking off the mask. Here we are surrounded by politicians and power brokers of the city, none of whom are at the top of mine or your list for enjoyable companionship, yet you’re strutting your stuff without a care in the world, advertising for their attention. Why? A death wish? Because you’ve painted a target on your back if anyone in this crowd belongs to Harkness.”
My Angel isn’t going to allow me to cut him out of the plan any longer.
I sigh. He shakes his head, clearly not sympathetic to my surrender.
“I hope to identify Victor’s connections, draw them to me. I suspect his plotting had deep roots, and if anything can help the political and economic situation and Orreance’s vulnerability, I want to know.”
Sebastian narrows his eyes. “This isn’t about the Verse and magic. You’re trying to find back up plans if nothing changes at your quarter century.” It isn’t a question.
“Yes.” He doesn’t deserve the clip to my voice, but the instinct to deny my doubts tap a deep buried store of defensiveness. “Johan holds his resources tight to his chest, and his relationship with Victor was never an easy one, so I suspect he’s had the same problems accessing the information.”
“But somehow you can uncover the intel, manipulate Verse knows what sort of subterfuge and bat shit crazy blackmail games Victor had going, all within a week? Sweet agony, Daav. I didn’t realize the size of your god complex.”
“Enough, Sebastian. I didn’t tell you because there’s nothing yet to tell.”
He shakes his head at me, the silver hawks of his earrings swinging with the movement. Scowling, his hands go to the teeth of his robe’s fastenings and he’s tearing them down and shoving off the material. “Enough of this thing. I feel like a puffed up cloud in this get up. Sweat is pooling in low places that doesn’t make me feel sexy.” He balls up the fabric and opens up the armoire, stuffing it in and slamming the door closed.
“We need to get back to the party,” I begin. “You’ll need the robe–”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Ah, your fans have found us. Or Johan if you’re really lucky,” he says and walks to open it.
Before he can, it opens and a blonde woman leans into the room. She’s dressed in the typical server uniform of green and ivory and carries a tray of crystal goblets. Strange. A server knocking on doors of closed rooms?
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to disturb you, but would either of you like another glass of frechinia?” She holds the tray higher as she enters, toes the door closed behind her.
My body goes rigid, Sebastian pausing in his tracks as I watch him take a step back.
And then she drops the tray to the side, and instead lunges toward my Angel as her other hand lifts.
It holds a gun. She grabs for him, wraps her arm around his chest and presses the muzzle to his temple, the threat so swift my mind swims for understanding.
“Freeze,” she barks.
The gun! Modern body, some sort of plastic, a technology enough to evade the metal detectors and search wands everyone is subject to in order to attend the celebration.
She faces me with Sebastian as a shield between us.
“If I see even a hint of gold in your eyes, I squeeze the trigger,” she calls at me.
She’s tall, not quite our height, but almost, so it’s no reach for her to keep him pinned. Her eyes are green and face a hard scowl, even though I’m left with the impression she’s as much scared as dedicated. She’s young. Can’t be more than twenty, but with a weapon in her grip I won’t mistake her youth for a lack of threat.
My Verse fights for my attention and I push it down. My magic may be strong, but not as fast as Sebastian’s, and not faster than a bullet at that distance for me to call.
“What do you want?”
I’ll kill you if you hurt him. Maybe even if you don’t.
“To talk,” she answers.
“Let him go and we can.”
“Not before I say a few things first.”
Sebastian laughs under her threat. “Sweetie, this is how you learned to start conversations? Someone did you a real injustice if they passed this off as good manners.”
I’m going to kick him if he goads her into violence. And not in the good way he likes.
“You’ll listen, and then we’ll see if I can release your friend,” she says, ignoring him.
Good, I want to keep her focus on me watching for the signs of my magic she obviously believes to be the threat.
Because even as I train my sight on where the gun presses his head, and Verse please keep him safe, I also watch Sebastian dig his fingernails into his palms and the gold spark in his eyes.
They flare alive, and as her mouth opens to start her next sentence, she instead cries out in pain. The body of the weapon starts to twist and the chemical stink of melting plastic permeates the room as she drops the gun, her face a palette of shock and discomfort.
Sebastian slams the back of his head into her face and twists out of her grasp.
I run at her, barreling into her body to bring us both down to the floor. Pinning her as the impact knocks the breath from her. I force her hands above her head and hold them there as she sucks in air to recover.
“Are you okay?” I call to Sebastian where he’s holding his head and leaning against the wall.
“Peachy, Prince. Verse, but that hurt.” He’s rubbing his skull.
“Sit down before you fall.”
“I’m fine. Head just aches. Not even any fatigue from the magic. Better to concentrate on the little situation you have pinned beneath you, ya think?”
Relief washes over me and I refocus on the threat.
“You want to talk?” I say with a growl peppering my words. “Why don’t you begin by telling me who the fuck you are. You’re here because of Harkness? He sent you to kill me?”
She regains her breath, but pants underneath my heavier body.
“Because of him, yes. To kill you, no. I’m here because I need your help. To keep our father from killing our younger brother.”
What?! My mind blanks, a hollow shock as I try to make sense of her words.
“Shit!” I hear Sebastian say from where he stands.
Although now I can’t take my eyes off her head, noticing for the first time where the fall has knocked a blond wig away from her scalp. To expose coal black hair just like mine. And those green eyes…. The same ones I see in my mirror each morning.
“Hello, Daav. I’m Isolde, your sister.”
Yes, I’ve seen her in news reels. Harkness’s heir.
“Well, this night has definitely taken an interesting turn,” my Angel drawls.
Isolde? I’ve known she exists, that I had a sister, but it’s better to keep those thoughts shut away behind solid walls. Harkness I’ve had to consider because of his threat, but the rest….
And a brother? No, there’s been no mention in the international press of another child. My throat thickens, my pulse pounds and my chest swells. Isolde! She’s my sister!
Slow yourself, fool. Too little information. You don’t know she’s who she says, or why she’s really here. She held a gun to Sebastian, remember?
But even if this is manipulation and malice, I know she’s who she says she is. The stamp of my father, my mother, myself is too apparent in her features. I pull back the emotion and remember what matters.
“If you wanted to speak with me, why did you threaten us?”
“Given Father’s assassination attempts, I figured you’d consider me a threat out of the box even if I could convince you of my identity. The gun was for grabbing your attention so we could get through introductions.”
“Consider us introduced,” I say.
“Can you let me up? I’ll explain, but this is rather an awkward position. I need you to listen and take this seriously, we both deserve it.”
There’s truth in her words. And I’m swayed again by the youth on her face and, despite her height and tensile strength, the relative fragility compared to my body.
My sister.
“Let her up, Daav. The next thing she tries she’s unconscious. I’m alright.”
His eyes are sparking golden again as I glance at him.
Slowly, I get up, a grip on her arm as I force her to stand along with me.
“Hands over your head. I’ll pat you down.” My voice is cool, an attempt to remind myself that trust is not a commodity I can afford to welcome into this room. And that her weaker build doesn’t mean she’s without defenses.
Her eyes blank. She shifts her gaze over over my shoulder at the wall as I begin to run my hands over her limbs, torso, clothes, through pockets, and even through her long hair, now fallen from the bun in which it was contained. Efficiently and with a firm touch. She’s widened her stance so as not to be knocked off her feet as I work.
“Don’t you think you’re a little rough on the touch, Prince? You’re not pounding out dough for a sauce pie, just making sure she’s clear of weapons.”
His bleeding heart. But I’m glad. I’d like one of us to be bleeding for her if it can’t be me.
“Anything less is wasted effort,” I say. “To talk I need to be as sure as possible that you’re safe.” Perhaps it’s an overcorrection on my part, but getting hold of this crazy moment, of myself, is crucial.
“That’s okay,” she says as I continue. “He has good cause. I’d do the same if I was in his position.” The rationality in her response is flavored with a disassociated flatness in her tone.
An inside pocket of her server jacket holds an envelope and a key, and I remove both and set them aside on a small table as I finish up the search for weapons. Nothing else.
“Done.” I step back and she lowers her arms. “Sit.” I point at the couch and she follows the order, her posture rigid as she lowers herself to the cushions. And now I see the clench to her fists as they rest by her side. She’s leaking whatever emotion she’s tried hard to shut down during the search.
My Angel lets his Verse slip away. The gold retreats and he joins me as we stand above her.
We better do this quickly in case others come looking for us, or in case I need to involve security. I stare into those familiar green eyes and suppress the endless curiosity that has nothing to do with this situation.
“What do you mean you need my help to keep Harkness from killing our brother? I’m not aware we have one.”
“Neither of you are any good with pleasantries,” Sebastian says with a mock disgust, and knocks my shoulder with his. “You’re definitely related.”
She ignores him. So do I.
“He’s three, or really three and a half,” she says. “And like Father kept me secret from the public until I was ten, to make sure I stayed free of magic, he’s kept Gil a secret as well, until he’s sure. He learned his lesson with you.”
I let her unintentional barb slip away.
Stay focused.
“This is about magic then?” I ask.
She nods.
“If he’s three, then why do you believe his life is in danger? The gold shows at five.”
“Not always,” Sebastian says and I catch the furrowing of his brow until he smooths it away.
“It was only once, but I’m sure I saw it. Two months back, I helped bathe him one evening when his nanny was away. He was laughing, playing with his toys in the water, and I saw the flash of gold. There for maybe several dozen beats.” She inhales a deep breath, as if steeling herself against the memory. “I almost choked with surprise. But I played a game with him, asking him to tell me what he saw around him. Name something blue, something red, something green, something gold. And then….” She hesitates, but continues with a shake to her words. “When I listed gold, he said he saw pretty gold dots floating. They were so pretty, he said, he wished they’d come back. There was nothing that color in the bath chamber.”
“You saw the color in his eyes once, but not again?” I ask.
“Once,” she confirms. “But once is enough.” Her hands are now digging into the cushions. “And a second time with someone else around is all it would take. I’ve held my breath every moment after, scared to death the gold will show again. When he’s four I know father will start watching even more closely. I didn’t know what to do, who to tell. Gil is the sweetest of boys. He doesn’t make trouble. Always agreeable at an age when most kids tantrum for no reason. He cannot be killed, I won’t let him. I love him.”
Her breathing is heavier now, she’s released the cushions, her fists clenching and unclenching in tighter pumps. “It took too much time to put together the plan to get here, and then weeks of travel. Every second longer is a risk.”
“And what do you expect me to do?”
She stares me in the eyes, determined, fierce. “Someone got you out of Staltz when you were a child. I want you to do the same for him. Help me save him.”
Verse, can I do that? There must be a way.
But instead I say, “Your story is compelling, but how do I know it’s true? Prove it.”
“The envelope. Not proof, but a good will gesture.” She nods toward where it rests on the table.
Sebastian reaches down and scoops up the paper, unfolds the unsecured flap, and removes several pieces of paper.
“A photo of a dead man?” he asks, passing it to me.
On it is a color image of a very naked and dead corpse with deep cuts across most of his body, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, but his face unmarked. Fully recognizable. And next to the corpse, standing above him and smiling down, is Carl Harkness.
“Your spy, discovered a month ago,” she says. “He infiltrated Father’s staff.”
“That could be anyone,” Sebastian says.
But as I examine the picture I recognize the man, and send my Angel a look. He stops questioning.
“Okay,” I answer. “What else?”
Sebastian hands me the other papers, with flowing calligraphy covering the pages.
“A letter from your lauded Tristan Crane to our father,” she says.
Carl Harkness. He gave up the title of father twenty years ago. Although if Isolde’s story is true, he doesn’t deserve it for her or the little boy either.
“He smuggled his journals to Staltz along with this letter at the end of his life. Father kept them, a prize collection. I brought them with me. I’m storing them in a secure location. There must be valuable information in them, enough to buy your help.”
The letter is dated 1957. I look at the bottom of the last page and see it’s indeed signed Tristan Crane, then return to the beginning and read.
Verse!
It could be fake, contrived as part of a plot. But it’s a strange strategy if it is. I believe her, damn me.
“Read this.” I shove the pages back at Sebastian and turn to Isolde. “The Conclave never shared any of the scientists’ research he references. None of the explanations of the tangles and Verse in that letter.”
“Or about his fears of destruction when the Verse tears away? Though I bet Father loved that part,” she says.
“Stop calling him father.”
“That’s who he is.”
“Not to me.”
She lets out a scoffing laugh. “Like that’s the worst of this situation.” She crosses her arms. If she minds looking up at us as we loom above her, she doesn’t show it in her attitude. “So your Conclave hid information and raised up the subsequent generations of mages after Crane in ignorance. Sounds like an enlightened society you have going here.”
Sebastian glances up from the letter. “This is so not good, Prince. Although I think he pens the foreshadowing of your birth pretty eloquently. The man had a way with words.”
“Prince?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Not your concern,” I say with a wave.
“A pet nickname,” Sebastian adds. “He loves the cutesy stuff.”
Both Isolde and I shake our heads at him, and I startle at our mirror gestures.
“Will you help?” she asks.
“If you could get here, why didn’t you bring your brother?” I’m not willing to refer to him as mine. Too close, too soon.
Her lips twist in distaste, then straighten. “I lied to many, many people to get here. Put myself in rather unpleasant and uncertain situations where I kept up pretend games for hours. And then I barely pulled it off. I couldn’t pull it off with a child at my side, and Gil is guarded well, even if just to keep him out of the public’s awareness. But I repeat, will you help? The journals have even more valuable information to Orreance and they’re yours if you want them.”
“You’re his heir. Why don’t we just ransom you for Gil? You don’t have magic, but as far as he knows there’s still a chance Gil will develop it. You’re a valuable pawn, and he’s less so if Harkness believes there’s a chance he’ll show gold when he’s older.”
”My father,” she says with a point to her pronoun, “is obsessed. With Orreance, with you. And now with your identity unveiled to the world, even more so I’d guess. That little addition was fun to hear about when I arrived. But even before you exposed your existence to our people, exposed his lie, he wouldn’t work with Orreance if it was the last hope for our planet’s survival. He’s mad.” She laughs, an unattractive, broken sound. “And by that I don’t mean angry. He’s fanatically unhinged over you and over even the whiff of magic or tangles. It’s only getting worse the older he gets. He’d never trade for me in these circumstances, or risk having another son with magic out in the world.”
“Why do you know about me if he’s kept my survival a secret from everyone until now?” I ask. Has Harkness brought her into the know since she’s his heir?
“My former nanny,” she answers. “She used to be yours, too, I think. She had a habit of waxing poetic about you. I suspect she hated father for what he did and must have seen enough to understand you weren’t dead. I confronted him about it when I got older, which is when he started sharing his obsession over you and let me see Crane’s journals. Like he was determined to justify his actions, proving you a threat.”
“You don’t sound particularly loyal to him,” Sebastian says. “Is Staltz and the Harkness dynasty not everything it claims itself to be?”
“I’m here for my brother, and my feelings about my country or anything else are not your business.”
Sebastian snorts. “You’re doing a shit job if you think your feelings about Harkness or Staltz aren’t a shining beacon, dear.”
“And they are exactly our business.” My words are crisp, edged with the anger and fear that’s been bubbling since she opened the door. “Because your motivations are on trial if you want our help. The journals may or may not lead to benefits for my country, my people. Which means I need to decide if you’re here for the reasons you claim, or as part of Harkness’s endless plots. You walked into this room aiming a loaded gun. First impressions, Isolde, are powerful. People,” I enunciate, “have repeatedly tried to kill me. People who raised you and share your bloodline.”
She slumps on the couch cushions and covers her mouth, looking down to her lap, hiding her reaction from us. “You won’t help.” There’s desolation in her voice.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what? What else can I possibly say to convince you? Can’t you use your tangles to tell if I’m lying?”
The irony is that I do believe her. But even if I do, it’s not clear there’s anything I can do to help. I remember the picture, the dead man. A lead?
“There may be–” I start to say.
Then, a knock at the door. A pause. Another harder rap.
Found again.
But what’s on the other side of the door this time?