“So,” Fabian said, “do you remember old Alban Allbones?”
Nigel considered. “From undergrad, right? Manyweather’s class. Conjuring 101?”
“The very same. Well, he quit sorcery after uni, you know, but kept up the practice on the sly. After the change in the law, it would seem he wasn’t willing to give it up, and . . .”
As their appetizers, salads, and main courses came and went, Fabian continued to entertain Nigel with juicy news from Plym. It was, Nigel found, rather pleasant to reconnect with his oldlife. He hadn’t been home since the Authorities of Plym kicked him out of prison, a heptagram tattoo emblazoned on his chest, and many a fell warning ringing in his ear. He’d stayed just long enough to gather what he needed for Garden’s safe transference, then set sail for Brython. It never occurred to him to look back.
He looked back now, however, with some indulgence. He and Fabian were never close, but proximity and shared experiences created a sort of bond between them where affection could not. And though Nigel would have protested vehemently that he wasn’t a gossip hound, he lapped up all the sordid details his brother provided of past comrades and competitors alike.
“You recall Calista Quick, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” Nigel acknowledged. “The one with the, erm . . .”
Fabian made a certain fulsome gesture with both hands. “Right. You remember.”
Nigel did.
“Well, she has given up sorcery and then some! Married some pickled politician and now is the head of thel’mavaus.”
“The what?”
“The Ladies of Moral Authority Voice Against the Uncanny Society. LMAVAUS.”
“Calista Quick?” Nigel frowned into the dark contents of his third cup of taerel. “I find that hard to believe. She was a talented sorceress. Thought she’d go places.”
“She has. Thel’mavausare a powerful arm of social action these days. Why, they claim single-handed responsibility for the finding and tattooing of fully half the sorcerous families in Plym.”
“How did she avoid being tattooed herself?”
“Her politician had something to do with it, I think. Had her university record scrubbed. To the rest of the world, she is nothing but a society beauty, and all memory of her early forays into sorcery are no more. Not to mention the role she played intracking down the remains of the Thorpewillow family and its offshoots earned her some social credit.”
A sudden chill blew through the restaurant. All the candles seemed to sink into their wicks, and shadows deepened in every corner.
Fabian watched Nigel closely over the rim of a half-drunk martini. “Yes,” he murmured. “You know that name, don’t you?”
Nigel looked down at his meal, mostly eaten. His appetite seemed to have taken flight.
Jastira.That was the name the Shadowbane Lady went by. It was drawn from ancient legend, a chariot-driving queen of old Plym, revered by her subjects as a goddess. A name of power and portent, appropriate to the ambitions she harbored.
But before she became Jastira, before they began to call her the Shadowbane Lady, she was just Janet Thorpewillow from Stirlingsley County. The Thorpewillows were a family of some prominence among sorcerous circles, perhaps, but no more exalted than the Brecknocks or the Twelvetrees.
Fabian leaned forward, the expression on his stolen face keen. “There weren’t many of them left, you know. The Thorpewillows. The more powerfulshebecame, the more other sorcerous families targeted them, seeking to bring her down. Only a handful survived—none of them female. Just males. The Authorities have taken them into ‘protective custody,’ whatever that means. No one has seen them since.”
Nigel shivered, not meeting Ebenezar Prodigimus’s eye.
“They’re taking precautions,” Fabian continued. “After the Authorities sacked Jastira’s tower, some of those old notes of hers were found. They figured out what she was trying to do. Everyone fears that she might still just manage to do it.”
“Jastira is dead.” Nigel breathed out slowly, even as his left hand, resting on the tabletop, slowly clenched. “She’s not coming back. Not in any form.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Nigel flicked his gaze up sharply. “I’m sure. I killed her myself.”
His brother leaned in a little more, voice dropping. “But are youquitesure?”
A trembling knot formed in Nigel’s gut.
“You see,” Fabian continued softly, so that no one seated at nearby tables could hear, “sheis not without friends. There are some who still believe the world was a better place for sorcerers before she was brought low. Yes, of course, she was going a little crazy toward the end—bound to happen when inhabiting a body so far beyond its natural lifespan, isn’t it? If she could be safely housed in a fresh form, however—”
