Deep magic second coll.., p.10
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 10
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
He should face judgment for his crimes.
But the Queen’s Sting knew about Gilani. If they captured her . . .
Hers was the one life he could still save.
* * *
Metemis walked as calmly as he could manage toward the fourth-cell gate, hoping none of the guards would see his swelling face. Gilani sat on the steps near the gate, and he fought the urge to rush forward and take her into his arms.
She stood when she recognized him, her horror evident at his swollen face. With care, she led him down the pyramid steps.
“I’ve failed you,” whispered Metemis through fattened lips. “I’ve failed you.”
He said no more until they were lost among the alleys west of the hive pyramid. He whispered of his confrontation with Lawa. “Our names may already be braided with black for death. We haven’t many choices.”
Gilani led him into a garden of flowering cacti. “There’s another way.”
“Sand Lions.”
Gilani nodded. “My friends will keep us safe. We can continue our work in Tekura. Live on, work on, and dream on together.”
What was it she had said before? There were other tallylooms in Ziroi.
“All those questions you asked me, about how the Wicks worked. You’ve been feeding them—the Sand Lions—information to refine their wicks and weaves.”
She beckoned him to follow. “I’ll have answers, my love, once we escape the city.”
He had dismissed other tallylooms as lesser devices, but if Lawa was to be believed, then the Queen’s Sting had one that rivaled the Wicks. What if the Sand Lion faction did likewise? The scale of such a project was unfathomable outside of the hive pyramids of each city-state. A similar system would require space, manpower, stores of candles, waterwheels to work the fans and the looms . . .
But what if?
Despite himself, his mind raced to consider ways the Wicks could be made smaller, better. Spread swarm-like across an entire city, as Gilani had suggested. Would he have the freedom to tinker and improve upon the technology?
A thought chilled his heart. Perhaps all this time he, Lawa, and Gilani were hapless pawns in a game of rushlights between wickwork giants, with his loyalty as the prize.
It felt right to be here with Gilani, on the knife’s edge of a new life together. Yet for all that had happened between him and Lawa, he still prayed silently that she had survived the fall.
With a hesitant hand, Metemis brushed Gilani’s hair from her ear. She still wore them, his opal-and-greenstone gifts.
He reached behind her neck and undid the clasp of her namestone necklace. He undid his own, too. How many of these had he processed through the Wicks? How many fates had he helped decide?
Metemis pitched both necklaces into the thickest patch of the cactus garden. The unbraided stones scattered among the spines.
He kissed Gilani. Despite the hurt, her kiss was sweet.
ABOUT TONY PI AND STEPHEN KOTOWYCH
Tony Pi and Stephen Kotowych first met ten years ago, when they attended Writers of the Future. Since then, between them they have amassed a John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer nomination, a Writers of the Future grand prize win, and multiple appearances as finalists for the Aurora Award for short fiction, Canada's top SF prize. As individuals they have published dozens of stories in venues like Clarkesworld, Interzone, Intergalactic Medicine Show, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, numerous anthologies, and had work translated into a dozen languages. This is their first—but hopefully not last—collaboration. And in a case of life imitating art, the "candlepunk" computers described in the story recently served as the inspiration for two University of Toronto engineering teams’ final projects in mechanical design. Tony and Stephen were thrilled to see their creation come to life!
Facebook: facebook.com/dr.tony.pi, facebook.com/stephen.kotowych
DREAMS OF A RADIANT SENTRY
By Christen Anne Kelley | 5,700 words
CAMILLE HID BEHIND the tilting tower of books.
That in itself wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Keeping out of sight meant keeping out of trouble (usually). That was especially easy when rows of spellbooks, grimoires, and tomes literally lined the ceiling of Ye Ole Book Shoppe, the stacks so high they arched from one pile to the next. Crisscrossed over so there was no telling where one ended and another began.
If there hadn’t been a spell in place—a very good spell—those books would have long since crashed to the floor, sending cobwebs, dust, and leftover spell mold into the ether.
But this particular book tower was leaning, ever closer, to the ancient bowed table’s edge. The peeling leather covers, along with strands of springy cobwebs barely holding on, vibrating.
Anticipating.
Ready to jump right on off.
“Shush. Please. You can’t do this to me. Not now. Not with his order.”
But those books kept right on humming. Quivered under her touch. Like they simply knew, right to their cracking bone bindings and starched, aged pages, that their wizard had come.
We are found. Going home.
Camille tossed her nearly unwoven braid over her shoulder. Trailed her finger, fast, past each of the rough and worn bindings. Searching for the book that shouldn’t be there.
The one that couldn’t be there.
Except it was.
A Clive Cussler novel.
And she’d put it there herself.
But now the darn books simply weren’t cooperating. They shifted and moved and danced right as she read their titles (if they were lucky enough to still have them). She thought she glimpsed the familiar font of Cussler—large, bold capital white letters lined in a gold green—but the darn thing jumped right out of the stack.
A stack that then tilted.
Shook.
Leaned forward.
Camille swallowed a yell, grabbed for the whole thing, and clutched it to her. She’d have used her wand, which would have finally gotten those books to dance a jig and line up straight, except she’d lost it somewhere between “I for Newt” and “Advanced Magical Reference for Idiots Attempting to Live among Normals” (which was, actually, a really big section).
The first book on top, a grimoire barely holding on to its skin, tittered.
If they fell . . .
The books wobbled.
The grimoire slid another inch. Gravity took hold, bit by bit.
She snapped her eyes closed and willed those darn books to stay put.
She felt the magic in her stir. Her stomach fluttering. Her will, her belief, grabbing hold and steadying the books.
The grimoire slid back an inch.
Camille didn’t dare sigh in relief. Couldn’t. Not until she got that book.
She’d already screwed up the cataloging of the no-longer-lost Library of Alexandria (for which she was certain her mother hadn’t yet forgiven her, even if it was only sorta, technically, her fault). Not to mention her last stint at the Smithsonian’s Arcane Tome and Translation Division last summer, which had sorta put her on the banned-for-all-eternity list.
If she screwed up Lord Blakenmage’s order, she’d never practice magic again.
Not when he was the governing lord on the Magical Regulatory Board of Enchantment Avenue. The man, if it were possible, who hated Normals and all things created by Normals even more than her mother. A man, who, most likely, would have her hanged if he discovered a horrid Normals’ fiction novel in his specific, carefully researched and requested order for whatever “great works” he was accomplishing.
Camille shifted her weight on the uneven, rotting floorboards. Her unregulated Nike sneakers, the white smeared with dust and dirt and something the store cat, Mousey, had clearly left behind, poked out from underneath her long robe.
The book tower slid another inch from her grasp—both physical and magical.
“You are . . . sure about this?” Drifted a deep, cultured voice from behind the stacks and arching rows.
From the front of the book shop.
And coming closer.
“Yes.” Mistress Hazenfoul’s growl was unmistakable.
“The books I requested are of the utmost importance. If you do not believe the witch has the capabilities of hunting them out from your stores . . .”
“She’s a Rowan daughter,” snapped Hazenfoul. “Not the Rowan daughter. Or even the youngest. But she’s a Rowan. I checked her work myself this morning. They’re all there.”
There was a long pause. A pause in which Camille could practically hear magic sparking. Powerful magic. Practically made her braid, the whole darn thing, stand straight up.
Electric. Sizzling.
This was not a man she wanted to meet. Certainly not a man she wanted discovering a Clive Cussler novel.
Even if her stupid magic had told her differently.
“Very well. But I’ll inspect her work myself. You may wait here.”
Oh no, oh no.
She wanted to make herself smaller. Unnoticeable.
Which, she normally was.
Just not now.
Camille stood, arms splayed around books that towered twice over her, doing her best to keep the whole thing from toppling.
She didn’t understand librarian magic. Sure, she understood the concept of most librarian magic. How they seemed to have this uncanny ability of walking through a warehouse of books, hopping onto some magic carpet or flying broom and finding the exact book the witch, or wizard, had needed found.
But with her, it was different.
She found books that needed to be found, but most of the time the witch or wizard had no idea they’d needed it.
And sometimes, like with that stupid Cussler book, the feeling simply refused to be ignored. As in a hands-can’t-help-grabbing-the-book-they-absolutely-shouldn’t-grab feeling.
The moment she’d seen Blakenmage’s name, she’d caught a glimpse of him. Or, truthfully, her magic had.
She scanned faster. Sweat dotted her dust-and-dirt-smeared forehead. It had to be here . . . but that book must have hidden itself right with the others. Anything to keep from being found.
Her and her traitorous gift.
That book should never ever have gotten put with Blakenmage’s order. If she was even half a witch, if she even had the tiniest control of her strange magic, it would never have happened!
The floorboards creaked.
The soft thuds of leather shoes.
Closer. Nearly there.
The books danced under her fingers. Excitement coursed down their crinkled spines. Tingled right up through the book tower. Caused the dust and thick strings of cobwebs to stir, fluff up and into the air.
Her nose tickled, teased. Tittering.
She tried to swallow. Tried to hold it in.
But it didn’t work. She sneezed.
Right in front of Lord Alexander Blakenmage.
Who stared at Camille with the most unwavering, most intense, and most unhappy gaze she’d ever seen. While Camille stood there, face a flame-bright red, a small stream of snot slipping down her nostril.
She sniffled.
Couldn’t help it. There really was a lot of dust.
Oh god. This couldn’t be happening to her.
She clamped her hands to her nose, releasing the books. Stumbled back. Her sneakers tripped on the hem of her too-long robe.
She fell.
Right into her tower of books.
Her magical hold on them snapped. And those books, one by one, flung up into the air.
Now, to be fair, she’d heard the stories about Lord Blakenmage. The dashing wizard who’d ascended to the Board on his father’s recent, untimely death (well, when playing with time itself and trying to rid the world of horrible Normals, “untimely” doesn’t quite cut it, but playing with fire is playing with fire no matter how you look at it).
Still, she’d heard the stories. Even seen a painting or two of the young man.
And seriously, those paintings and all that gossip didn’t even come close to the actual man. Breathtaking didn’t come close. Even Lily-Anne with her silky hair and mile-long eyelashes would be hard-pressed to pretend disinterest.
So you see, Camille’s trying to run away and not spew snot all over the man was entirely reasonable.
Acceptable.
Sneezing all over a man who simply radiated power was not a good idea. A man whose long dark hair fell in waves down his tall lean frame. A man who made her want to loosen the collar of her drab sweater because it was getting rather difficult to breathe.
Eyes just as dark and piercing. Calculating. His tunic and robe, nearly black, fit him like a second skin. How they flowed off him, moving as he raised his hand, never once taking that solid gaze off her—no wand, no accessory to focus and control his power—and commanded the books to halt.
They did so.
Hovered.
In midair.
A few books, it seemed, hovered just inches from the back of Camille’s head. Like they’d been seconds from smacking her.
Including that stupid Cussler book.
She glared at that book, with its cover of a black helicopter and glaring spotlight as it dared the turbulent waters of some scary ocean, seconds it seemed, from going down.
A cover that was clearly a book for Normals.
She almost made a grab for it.
Except, Lord Blakenmage, who seemed just as frozen as those books (other than having raised his hand), still stared at her. His too-dark eyes boring into her.
Practically daring her to reveal herself.
She didn’t. Didn’t even dare speak for that matter.
Instead, she kept her hand behind her back—where he couldn’t see with those very unnerving, very . . . handsome eyes.
She wasn’t about to give up. Couldn’t.
If he found that book, it was over.
She didn’t have many dreams. Didn’t have much hope, really, of finding her niche like her sisters had done—after all, most people didn’t like reading a book they hadn’t actually wanted to read (even if it was meant for them), but she wasn’t going to get kicked out of the magic world.
Forever.
Her fingers crept outward, reaching for the book just a hair’s breadth away . . .
Lord Blakenmage came forward, easily slipping past the scattered, hovering maze of books. Still not removing his gaze from her.
Camille’s breath came in shorter gasps until they simply stopped. Held in by this man. Even as her face heated further, and not because of the snot now touching her upper lip.
But something else.
She swallowed.
“You are the middle Rowan daughter,” he said. Rumbled, really. Power seemed to spark right off the man’s lips. “The one they claim the great Rowan librarian magic skipped.”
“Uh, yes. That’s, that’s me.”
“And yet you’ve completed the order I requested.”
“I am a librarian witch.”
Just not a very good one.
His eyes, finally, flicked away from her. As if in one long glance, he assessed, studied, and saw every single book floating in the dust-moted air.
“Yes. It seems you are.”
All, of course, except for the Cussler book, which Camille very carefully, very slowly, slid in front of. The floorboards gave a loud squeak.
Those dark, almost black, eyes pinned her again.
She froze.
It was almost as if the man knew she was hiding something.
Well, being on the Regulatory Board was all about sniffing out dark-magic plots, and more importantly (nowadays anyway), kicking out all the Normal junk that slipped into their “great way of doing things.” The man probably had a special gift for smelling out the disgusting oils and gas still clinging to any item from the Normal world.
A world that was mostly, well, the whole world.
While the magical one was forced to hide away in small fringes, clinging to the outskirts of society like Enchantment Avenue. And with magic disappearing, slowly fading away as the Normal world drew even closer . . .
Well, it made people like Lord Blakenmage, and the entire Board really, desperate to keep to the Old Ways. Made them feel quite righteous about their sanctioned witch hunts, tossing out anyone who dared bring Normal influence to the Avenue.
Someone, very much, like Camille.
“Then I must commend you, witch-daughter of Rowan.” He bowed. “These books are necessary if I am to complete my most important work.”
Camille nearly lost it.
Whether that meant just making a grab for Cussler and running or simply sinking to the floor because her legs had gone all wobbly was a bit hard to tell. Especially when a dark strand of his hair, silkier and better groomed than her entire head, slipped along his cheek.
Dangled there. Perfectly curved in toward his eye.
This man was seriously way to handsome for his own good, and way too handsome and too important to be standing here having a conversation with her (of all people).
But she’d take a break where she could get it.
With his eyes downcast, she half turned, ready to yank out that traitorous Cussler book from the air, when she glimpsed a swirl of blue green around the wizard. She shouldn’t look. Didn’t dare. Not when she knew, simply knew what that meant . . .
And couldn’t help herself.
Couldn’t ignore the magic that burned in her gut, in her heart. Couldn’t ignore the images swirling around Lord Alexander Blakenmage. The high, turbulent seas. A ship barely held together with wooden planks and ripped canvas sails. With him at the helm, gripping the wheel. Holding on. Unafraid. The scene changed. A desert now. The loud crack and snap of guns popping. Exploding. While he had . . . an M16? Seriously? Clutched in his hands, standing inside the ruins of some iron ship . . .
Camille stumbled back. Her butt hit the edge of that poor table, this time leaving a good bruise in the soft muscle there.
