The Exile's Curse Page 5

  Chloe shook her head. Madame Simsa was one of the few mages who thought the ley lines were more than just a source of power. That they might have an awareness of a kind of those who tapped into it. True, there hadn't ever been a recorded case of the ley lines rejecting a mage. In Anglion she'd tapped the lines a time or two, limiting herself to the least amount of power necessary to achieve her aims. Once when she'd created her highly illegal portal to give herself an escape route, should she ever need one, and once when she'd caught a fever that had left her shaking and sweating and half delirious, scared she might die. In the end, the portal had served Sophie and Cameron better than her, but knowing it was there if needed had been a comfort.

  Even though she knew Madame Simsa was being whimsical, it was hard to shake the fear she might be proved right. What if Chloe tried to use the ley line and nothing happened? What if her powers had withered and faded through disuse?

  Once she'd planned to try to bond a sanctii. Imogene had managed it, and Chloe had been, if anything, the stronger of the two of them.

  But Imogene had honed her powers in the diplomatic corps before she'd tried and been schooled by the best. Whereas Chloe had left the Academe to look after her mother and the family. There was little need for grand workings to run a household. And even when she'd married Charl and been free again, she had focused on being a good wife and hadn't tried to return to her studies and her ambitions straight away, thinking she'd have plenty of time.

  She'd been wrong about that. Foolish to sacrifice everything for love, even though, at the time, it hadn't felt as though that was what she'd been doing. Maybe she was being foolish again now to try again.

  "You'll never know if you do not try," Madame Simsa said. "I understand that you have been through a lot, child, but trust me, reconnecting with your magic might make you feel more like yourself than anything else can."

  Would it make her feel like Illvya was home again? That would be true magic.

  Perhaps beyond her reach. But she hadn't survived ten years in Anglion by being timid. She might have denied her powers, but she'd used her wits, her brain, and the strength of her body, and she had survived. She had never backed away from a challenge. She was hardly going to do so now, in front of one of the mages she respected most in the world.

  So. The ley line. Running far beneath her feet through the depths of the earth. A river of magic, light, and song that once had been a constant reassuring refrain in her head. She could hear that again.

  If she let herself try.

  Habit and memory came to her rescue again. Madame Simsa teaching her younger self the forms for connecting with a ley line. And the first time she had actually touched the ley line after her Ascension and her birthday rites.

  Feet on the earth. That was how it began.

  She bent and untied the laces of her half boots. The stone floor was cold through her silk stockings, but the sensation grounded her, stilling her mind. Madame Simsa watched silently. Chloe took silence as approval and continued.

  Spine held straight. Breathe deeply. Concentrate. A breath in to fill her lungs. A breath out for longer still. Repeat as many times as it took to feel a sense of calm. Of control.

  Then she reached for the spark inside her that she thought of as her power and sent it seeking down to find the ley line.

  It felt as though she had plunged after it. She knew she still stood in the room, but she was also plummeting headlong toward a deep dark sea. As though she'd thrown herself from a cliff, arcing through the sky to whatever fate awaited her in dangerous waters below.

  As she fell, the song filled her head. Soft at first, then louder and louder until it was all she heard. And the light rushed with the sound. She'd always seen the ley line as a drift of pinpoint lights. Like stars scattered across a country sky, blazing and brilliant, a thousand glimmering points. But this was more like the flare of the sun, dazzling and overwhelming. The power rushed over her and through her, and oh, Goddess, it felt good. The sheer luxury of letting herself fairly bathe in power. Unthinking, she threw her arms wide, and there was a sudden series of small explosions as the earth lamps all cracked and blew apart.

  "Chloe!" Madame Simsa said, reaching for her arm. "Enough!"

  She came back to herself with a jolt, cutting off the flow of power, breathing hard.

  "It seems we can cross off connecting with your power as a potential problem," Madame Simsa said, her eyes wide as she looked at the shards scattered around the edges of the room. Chloe imagined she must be a little wide-eyed herself. "But we may have to work a little more on control."

  Chloe stared down at her, heart pounding, skin tingling. She wanted to laugh or spin around or run. Anything to use the rush of power. She'd never felt anything quite like it, not even when she'd first connected to a ley line. She knew it could happen, of course, that some people got almost intoxicated from the contact with so much magic. And, in truth, that was the closest thing she could compare this to. The giddiness of having drunk too much campenois. Or of falling in love, perhaps. The feeling of being able to do anything and goddess damn the consequences.

  Rumor had it that it was that exact thing that had led to Queen Sophia—or Lady Sophie, as she had been back then—and Cameron's hasty and unexpected wedding. Some mishap on the morning of her twenty-first birthday, when they'd been away from the palace after it had been attacked.

  But she was no new-to-magic fledging witch. She shouldn't be so easily affected.

  Though perhaps, after ten years, she might as well be a new witch.

  "Chloe?" Madame Simsa said, patting her hand softly. "Are you all right, child?"

  "Yes, Madame," she replied. She pulled her wits together with an effort of will, turning her mind away from the enticing song of magic and back to reality. And the mess she had just made. "I'm sorry, that was careless of me. I will fetch a broom."

  "I imagine someone will be along with one soon enough," Madame Simsa said, the side of her mouth lifting in a familiar half grin. "You made quite a noise just now." Her tone was a mix of satisfaction and amusement and...pride, perhaps. She wiped at her cheek, where there was a tiny bead of blood.

  Goddess, did one of the shards from the lamps hit her?

  "Your cheek," she said.

  "Pffft. It is nothing. I've had worse scratches from Riki's whiskers. I am old, but I am not fragile. Unlike these lamps, it seems." She surveyed the room, looking amused.

  "The lamps...," Chloe said. The practice rooms were built to withstand precisely this kind of accident. Students who destroyed property through poorly controlled magic were not blamed—unless they had been deliberately breaking a rule when they lost control—but they were expected to clean up and help put any damage to rights.

  "We have plenty of lamps. Why do you think we use earth lamps in these rooms? Easier to replace those than anything else. And less messy than oil lamps. Exploding oil lamps is more excitement than anybody needs. Let alone those newfangled gas fabrique ones." Madame Simsa waved dismissively at the mess on the floor. "I think we should turn our attention to control rather than cleanup. I recommend some of the beginner exercises. Breathing. Small magics. Light a candle or two. Make a soothing tea. Coax an ailing plant. You know the kind of thing."

  "Earth magic," Chloe said. "I can do that. Though I don't need to practice teas. I did plenty of that in Anglion. I owned a store where I sold magical supplies and herbal remedies."

  Madame Simsa's silver eyebrows lifted. "An interesting profession for one trying to avoid attention."

  "I had the knowledge of plants. Well, the ones that are common both there and here. I didn't need to use my magic. I was an assistant at first, and the temple used to check on me. But they lost interest when I didn't break any rules."

  "That must have been a challenge. You and Imogene were never particularly good at staying between the lines. Though she has learned to be more so now that she has to be a duquesse. And I guess you have, too." Madame Simsa peered up at her. "All right
, no teas. But earth magic. Small things. I think we should leave the water magic until you have regained some finesse." She smiled. "Come to think of it, the last student I had in here who made a complete mess was Sophie. Broke a scrying bowl clean into pieces the first time she attempted to see. Ink everywhere. You should be thankful that earth lamps are less messy to clean up."

  "Yes. Stone doesn't stain." She ignored the stinging on her hand where one of the shards must have grazed her. "I could try and close that scratch for you." She half expected the older woman to refuse. Offered a treatment by any healer who had just exhibited such a loss of control, she would definitely decline. "I know a lot about healing. Ginevra, the woman who took me on, the one who owned my store before me, she was an earth witch." There was no other choice for Anglion women. They weren't taught blood magic or the Arts of Air. In fact, they were taught that they couldn't have talent for that kind of magic. Outside the royal family and the nobility, most women only received minimal training, and most of them had what, by Illvyan standards, were small powers. "She never let me use my magic, but she did teach me a lot about what she did. And I helped her when people came to see her with small hurts."

  "You don't need to convince me," Madame Simsa said. "I taught you earth magic in the first place. I know your power and your skill." She smiled with a flash of surprisingly white teeth. "And now that I know what to expect, I can control you well enough if need be."

  She lifted her chin, presenting the scratched cheek to Chloe. "Go on, then. Show me that you can still manage some precision."

  Chloe sucked in a breath. She'd done it now. No backing down. Perhaps that was what Madame Simsa had intended.

  Control. Finesse. It wouldn't do to get it wrong and do something that would leave the oldest teacher at the Academe scarred.

  "May I?" Chloe said, stretching a hand toward Madame Simsa's face. She'd been taught to always ask permission before touching any patient, whether she intended to use magic or not. On that matter, the teachings of the Academe and Anglion seemed to be in accord. Or at least Ginevra's beliefs. She hadn't really spent much time with temple healers. Other than the fever that had made her so ill early on, she'd been fortunate to not suffer any serious illnesses or injuries in Anglion. Any small ills she'd been able to treat herself—or with Ginevra's help—well enough.

  "Of course," Madame Simsa said, not moving. If she was nervous, she didn't show it.

  But she'd had many years’ experience in letting inexperienced earth witches demonstrate healing skills. Learning to act outwardly composed no matter what one was feeling inside was a useful skill for a teacher. Just as it was for royal courts or navigating life in a hostile country.

  Chloe laid two fingers on either side of the tiny cut. It was barely a scratch. If it wasn't for the small smear of rapidly drying blood, she might not have even been able to find it.

  Madame Simsa made an encouraging noise, but she didn't move her head.

  Chloe closed her eyes and took a breath, focusing on her heartbeat. And on the sense of magic that had strengthened since she'd touched the ley line. She wouldn't have to call on it for something as small as this. She opened her eyes again, let herself see the glimmer of magic around Madame Simsa and, there, for the first time in a long time, around her own fingers. And she listened for the song. It came, too loud at first, and she made herself push it back, narrowing the connection until it faded to a trickle rather than a flood.

  She pictured the light sinking into Madame Simsa's skin. Felt for the sensation of wholeness, of completion. Of life being in order, as the goddess intended. Then she let her power free, concentrating on releasing just a little at a time. There was a tiny bright spark followed by a sensation that felt cool under her fingers before she lifted them. The tiny cut was gone.

  "There, child," Madame Simsa said. "Nicely done. Perhaps you have not forgotten as much as you feared."

  Chapter 5

  The day following their practice session, Madame Simsa had sent Chloe a note with a list of suggested reading materials and invited her to another session the next day. It didn't matter that Chloe hadn't yet decided to return to the Academe; Madame Simsa seemed to have taken her on as a project anyway.

  Lacking any good reason to refuse, she had accepted the invitation. It would take her away from the house, a respite from her mama's efforts to hide the fact that she was still hovering and gave her something to do with the restlessness dogging her.

  She arrived early for their lesson, eager to start. But after three hours of Madame Simsa drilling her in small earth magics, her head ached like fury. Controlling the flow of magic that wanted to rush through her down to a whisper was exhausting. And yet, somehow, the fatigue did nothing to dull the restlessness.

  She should go home. It was nearing the dinner hour, and Imogene's ball was tomorrow. An early night seemed called for. But instead of seeking out her father to see whether he was ready to leave, her feet took her in a different direction.

  To the far west corner of the Academe, where the Raven Tower stood sentinel, climbing several stories higher than the rest of the buildings. Its lower door was closed, as was usual. With the light fading, the ravens would be returning for their evening meal, and Mestier Allyn, the Master of Ravens, fed them himself. During the day, students spent time in the tower. Learning raven lore and helping to clean the tower were part of life at the Academe. Those who manifested strong earth magic and had an interest in bonding a petty fam at some point would often spend more time there to get to know some of the ravens better.

  But Mestier Allyn alone cared for the ravens at night. Though sometimes during breeding season he recruited an assistant for a few weeks to help him deal with hungry mothers and broods of fledglings. Chloe had done it one season when she'd been about fifteen. And she'd spent plenty of time here as a child. She'd always liked the crows. And they seemed to like her.

  She pushed the door, with its inlaid brass raven flock, open and slipped inside, closing it behind her. Mestier Allyn wouldn't thank her if she allowed one of the birds out when they should be settling for the night. It was a game to some of them to see if they could escape and harass the kitchen maids or students into handing over extra scraps to supplement their dinners. They were big birds, protected and cared for from birth, and having one perch beside you and squawk a demand for food was hard to ignore.

  Inside the tower, the cool air smelled like stone and feathers. The earth lamps lining the spiraling staircase were alight as always. No open flames near the birds. She trailed her hand along the brass banister as she climbed the stairs, the smooth metal familiar beneath her fingertips.

  When she reached the door at the top of the stairs, she paused, listening. The soft sound of Mestier Allyn's voice, combined with various squawks and grumbles, told her dinner was in progress. But the ravens weren't too loud, so likely not all of them had returned yet. She wouldn't be causing too much of an imposition if she interrupted. She knocked, heard a surprised “Come in,” and opened the door carefully, keeping the gap just wide enough to step inside.

  "Chloe!" Mestier Allyn said, bushy brown eyebrows flying upward. "I heard you were back—"

  A squawk from the raven sitting on his shoulder interrupted, and he pulled a piece of raw meat from the bowl he held and handed it up to the bird

  "I am," Chloe said, smiling. "But I don't want to interrupt. I just felt the need for some air." She pointed past him to the closest of the tall windows that studded the walls of the tower.

  Mestier Allyn nodded and fed the raven another piece of meat.

  She smiled her thanks and hurried over to the expanse of glass. Her hands found the clasps without thinking, and she pushed the windows open and stepped through the gap onto the narrow walkway that ringed the tower. The crenelations were nearly as tall as she at their highest, but the lower parts were chest height, offering a sweeping view of Lumia through the gaps. Chloe gripped the stone and peered down at the city, something she couldn't quite name st
ill nipping at her heels.

  The tower had always been one of her favorite retreats. She'd probably been only five or six the first time she crept up the stairs, escaping from her father's office when he was busy teaching and she'd grown bored. Instead of shooing her away, Mestier Allyn had welcomed her to the tower, introduced her to the birds, and let her help him for an hour or so before showing her the view of the city from the walkway and sending her back to her father. She'd loved the tower ever since.

  And it, at least, seemed unchanged in the years since she'd last climbed the stairs.

  Years that had been stolen from her.

  Her fingers curled over the edge of the stone. She couldn't dwell on the differences or the lost time. Samuel, the captain who'd taken her to Anglion when she'd fled, had taught her it was useless for an exile to play “what if.” Useless to long for what might never be hers again. She'd fought hard to learn that lesson and find some peace in Anglion.

  But the win had cost her. And now, when she was finally home again, too many of those long-ignored emotions were surfacing to toss and turn her like one of the gusts of winds that rolled around the tower and made it dangerous for the unwary.

  But she wasn't unwary. She knew this place. The lights blinking into life below her made the city gleam, and she could recite the names of each street and alleyway they illuminated. Lumia was in her bones. So why did it feel as though she no longer fit there? Like her feet couldn't quite find a solid place to stand. It had been a week and a day already. When would she start to feel normal?

  The granite bit into her fingers. Curse Charl to whatever hell he burned in. He had stolen this from her with his stupid need to play politics he clearly hadn't been skillful enough handle.

  And curse Lucien de Roche for exposing that failure. For being so sure of what was right and wrong and for doing the former even at the cost of his friend's life.

  And damn it. Why was she thinking of Lucien again?