Fallen Magic

“Well,” says Edward a while later. Electra is satisfied with what she’s told and taught us, and we’re walking back towards the main staircase, staying together by unspoken agreement. “That was not what I expected.”

“Me neither,” I reply, thinking of knives and starlight-silver light-spells. "Should we... tell someone? About..." I gesture to my throat, mimicking a blade held to it.

Edward shrugs. "You can, if you want. I'm not going to. Theories?”

“On… what?”

“Who Electra is and what she’s doing.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Edward starts to say something, stops, and begins again: “Let’s start with what we do know.”

“She’s some sort of expert on Malaina,” I say. “Teaches Magical Combat, and is covering Countering Magical Effects.”

“The usual teacher is having a baby,” Edward says, a note of scepticism in his voice. “Worth investigating that, if we can.”

“You think – what – why – “ The idea that a teacher’s pregnancy could be a conspiracy aimed at getting Electra to teach Countering Magical Effects is ridiculous. What possible motivation could she have?

“I’m ruling nothing out at this stage.”

We stop walking; we’ve reached the main staircase.

“I’m going to get food from the canteen,” says Edward with an air of affected casualness. “Do you want to come with me?”

I am quite hungry, I realise. I still haven’t quite worked out what I think of Edward and whether he’s the sort of person I want to spend time with, though. I’d much rather be alone with my thoughts.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” he says. “Just – you’re the first person I’ve – first student I’ve met here – and I wondered if – “

It’s the crestfallen expression on his face that gets me: I know how that feels. “No – “ I say, “I mean – yes – sure – let’s get food. Uh… do you know which way the canteen is?”

The palace has a well-ordered structure, or at least what I’ve seen of it so far does, but that doesn’t change the fact I’ve only been here a few hours and the only place I’m sure I could find is my dormitory.

“I’ve explored a little,” Edward says. “One floor down.”

So we set off down the wide, spiralling marble staircase together, the sounds of our footsteps echoing from the distant ceiling.

“Where were we? She thinks she could take a mala sia in combat – albeit new to their powers – which would mean she’s either delusional, wanting to appear delusional, or incredibly dangerous.”

“She told me she was considerably more dangerous than she looked,” I put in, trying my best to contribute despite this conversation being like nothing I’ve ever known, even in Law lessons. “And she has a limp – that’s unusual for a magician, isn’t it? Couldn’t she just have it healed?”

“In general, you’re right. But there are a rare few spells that could cause an injury unhealable by magical means. Or there’s the possibility she chooses to keep it for whatever reason. I’d say the evidence implies she’s worked for one of the SMOs, most likely – “

I’m a little nervous about interrupting and admitting my ignorance, but if Edward wants my input on this mystery then he’ll have to deal with the fact I don’t have the faintest idea what I’m doing. “What’s an SMO?”

“Special Magical Operatives unit. An elite group of combat-trained magicians working for some branch of the government or army. The High Royal Guard, the Twelfth Division – “ he counts them off on his fingers as if reciting them from memory, “the Birds, the mala sia taskforce. I’d consider the last of those most likely, except that to have served more than a year or two and still be alive is improbable – “

“Stop,” I say as we reach the second floor. I don’t really want to hear about the number of people killed by mala sia in their attempts to protect the rest of the country from them.

“Oh,” says Edward. “Right. North corridor,” he adds, setting off around the balcony-like structure that surrounds the staircase and leaving me to follow.

It isn’t a corridor, it’s just where the canteen is, at least according to the sign. There’s another one beside the door, displaying its opening hours and rules (though really those should go without saying: no food fights, no casting spells on the food or that could disrupt other people’s meals.)

The room is in the shape of a sector of a circle, its floor of bare stone and walls of the same decorated by paintings and tapestries, and the ceiling just as high as every ceiling here painted with constellations. The serving area is to our left, and in front of us long straight wooden tables radiate outwards towards the other end of the space.

Edward doesn’t speak again until we’ve been served, except to answer the cheery “New here?” of the woman ladling out portions of stew with a terse “Yes.”

“Just arrived today,” I add.

“Welcome, then, and enjoy your studies.”

The tables are fairly quiet tonight, whether because of our timing or because most of the students like to eat elsewhere. Edward picks out a pair of seats at the far end of the room, beneath a portrait of King Charles the Ruthless and out of earshot of any of the two dozen or so other students eating in small groups.

“I’m sorry,” he says as we pull out our chairs. “I should have realised the effect mentioning the lifespan of the mala sia taskforce would have on you.”

I hadn’t been expecting that; he didn’t seem the sort who would apologise easily. It takes me a couple of seconds to reply “Apology accepted. But…”

I hesitate, and he watches me curiously.

“Wouldn’t it have the same effect on you?”

“No. I’m terrified of being Malaina,” he admits, “but not of becoming mala sia. I’ve had several people promise to kill me before it got that far, and they’re the sorts of people who mean those promises.”

And he thinks of that as comforting? Who is this boy?

He’s just as much of a mystery as Electra.

I take a mouthful of stew to cover my utter failure to find a response to that, and find myself smiling. It’s nicer than it looks, nicer than I’m used to: the flavours are sharp and blend together well. “This is good stew,” I say once I’ve finished my mouthful.

“It’s not bad,” Edward says.

By which he means: not as good as whatever delights his vastly accomplished chef can create from the finest ingredients available.

Without so much as blinking at the shift in topics, he adds “She enjoyed it, is what worries me.”

I bite back a sigh. “Who enjoyed what?”

“Electra. That moment with the knives. Did you see her face?”

“She was smiling.”

He nods grimly. “Someone who can enjoy a moment like that and yet be so apparently supportive and helpful to you… that worries me more than any of the other signs.”

“Not me,” I reply, remembering the thing that’s more disturbing than any of this, that I’d almost forgotten with how quickly everything has been happening. “When we travelled by portal… she mentioned she was cursed.”

I have the satisfaction of watching his eyebrows shoot up in shock or at least surprise at that revelation.

“The only detail I have is that it’s… perfectly contained. Which shouldn’t be possible.”

Edward narrows his eyes, studying me. “Curses… aren’t exactly what most people think they are. The precise definition is – “ he shifts his posture subtly to sit more upright and repeats as if reciting from a textbook – “a negative magical effect targeting a person or bloodline without their presence or consent, impossible to remove without meeting its inherent condition and nearly impossible to modify.

“I don’t know the details of how you go about cursing someone, but I’ve heard it’s… not the kind of thing a morally upstanding person would be willing to do. But. There’s nothing to say a curse has to be fatal. In theory it would be perfectly possible to, for instance, curse someone to have perpetually itchy feet.”

I can’t help a laugh at the incongruity of that example, and have to fight to avoid spitting out half-chewed meat.

“If anything,” Edward reflects, “that makes it more disturbing. Electra has somehow attracted an enemy who’s magically skilled, has access to expensive reagents and few moral scruples, and chose to use them to… do something unknown but clearly non-fatal.”

“Would it be possible,” I ask, a thought occurring to me, “to curse someone to… Well. To enjoy watching other people suffer?”

Edward shakes his head. “Not unless she had a strong personal objection to the idea that someone might, or the idea of seeing someone in suffering and not helping them.”

“Isn’t that everyone?”

Edward blinks at that and then studies me as if he’s seeing me in a new way.

“Well. Most people,” I correct myself. “There are always a few who – “

He shakes his head sharply. “Have you never been angry enough at someone to make them want to hurt?”

The face of my English teacher pops into my mind. “Not only failing to complete your work, despite having the entire summer for it, but lying about it?”

My silence is answer enough for Edward. “And does that thought make you feel appalled? Do you hate yourself for having it?”

I consider that for a moment. It scares me, because now I’m Malaina and I could act on a thought like that without entirely intending to, but do I hate myself for it? Does having it make me a bad person?

No. What he did was wrong, and I’m allowed to be angry about it.

“See? You’re hardly a walking star, Tallulah. Neither am I. Stars, you could make a pretty good argument my dad is evil.”

I should be used to his saying things like that as if they’re perfectly normal by now, but I’m not. “Is he?” I ask after swallowing a little too quickly.

“No,” Edward says immediately, but then adds “though I’m biased, of course. There are… there are a lot of people who’d say yes, though. Some of them have very good reasons for it. People are complicated, I guess. My dad more than most.”

I have to blink a few times: I’ve hated my mother, been embarrassed by her, questioned her judgement many times: the same way every teenager relates to their parents. But I’ve never once had cause to wonder whether she’s evil.

Edward seems conflicted: he’s opening and closing his mouth, his gaze shifting from me to a point a few yards behind me and over my head.

I take a gulp of water to try and hide my growing discomfort and immediately regret it when he spits it out: “He’s Henry Blackthorn, okay?”

I can’t help it: my mouth falls open and water trickles out of it down my chin to drip onto my clothes. I snap it shut, swallow, nearly choke. It takes me nearly half a minute to recover my composure, and when I do all I can find to say is “Well, that explains some things.”

It does, too. The Blackthorns are an old Siaril family, but not like the others – not like anything other than themselves, really. Their line can be traced back six centuries, and near every member of it can be found in the history books – and not just the ones that list lineages like theirs.

Richard Blackthorn, the founder of the dynasty, was the commander of a knightly order of bastards who rose to become Philippa the Bright’s chief general in the First Civil War – and, so it’s rumoured, her secret lover. His daughter (not by Philippa) was one of the most talented magicians history has ever known: even I’ve heard of her legendary skill, and I’m no expert on magic.

And so it continues: dozens of names, more often infamous than famous. Most of the line were either magicians as talented as they were mad or power-hungry schemers seeking to claim the throne – Felix Blackthorn succeeded in that, at least for a while, and triggered the Second Civil War in the process. The present lord’s father seemed to break that trend, at least, becoming a successful merchant and making few enemies.

It's far too soon to know what history will make of Henry Blackthorn, but so far he seems to be fitting the power-hungry schemer model quite well: in addition to the inherited position of Siaril Royal, he’s got himself appointed Minister for Intelligence and has been busy reforming the department and increasing his own power in the process.

It’s no surprise that a son of his would be a magical prodigy with a… somewhat questionable worldview.

“I bet it does,” Edward mutters.

“No – I didn’t mean that in a bad way – “

“I don’t mind. You can say it. I know the rumours.”

The Black Raven, they call him, after the bird that sits on his family crest. Or the Lord of Shadows. Or several other things not fit to be printed, mostly muttered in whispers and ending with may the stars protect us from him.

“Really. I don’t – you seem – “

“Is he evil?”

There was a protest in the City a couple of years ago against some tax or other. It turned ugly, so the papers said, became a riot and caused damage to property. The City Guard did not deal with it lightly: the official death toll was only ten but many more were injured, sometimes permanently, even those who hadn’t been trying to fight or damage anything.

A month or two after that, the papers said that the reason that protest became a riot was that Intelligence agents were planted within it and given the task of spreading violence to give the Guard the excuse to shut it down using all the force at their disposal. At Henry Blackthorn’s orders.

That’s just the beginning.

Is it evil that makes a person capable of things like that?

“I don’t know,” I say, but I’ve hesitated a fraction too long. “I don’t understand politics that well, and I’ve never met him. Who am I to judge? Besides. He’s not sitting here eating this stew with me. I’m fairly sure you’re no more evil than I am.”

“You know,” Edward remarks, “it’s surprising how few people seem to notice that.”

“What, that you’re not evil? I tend to assume people aren’t evil unless – “

“That I’m not an extension of my father,” he interrupts. His tone is carefully neutral, but I can sense the resentment behind those words. Abruptly, he takes another forkful of stew and lifts it to his mouth.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says when he’s done swallowing.

So I do.