Fallen Magic

I want to set out on our exploration early the next morning, but Edward disagrees. If we’re gone in the morning and get back in the afternoon, he loses all pretence that this was why he couldn’t go to the Harvest Ball. Instead we claim a study room to spend the morning in, though neither of us study as such.

I’m working my way steadily through the books I eventually borrowed from the library yesterday, occasionally pausing to note down something particularly interesting or something I want to cross-reference. Edward is working on simultaneous casting, though he’s not having much success.

The alternating gold and silver glows in his hands are a little distracting, but I don’t mind it. I do mind his increasing frustration with his failures, though.

“Electra said it’s supposed to be ridiculously hard,” I say after a while, having just finished a chapter, “and only a handful of magicians can manage it.”

“I’m a Blackthorn.”

“You’re a Blackthorn who’s been a magician for less than a week. How is it meant to work, anyway?”

He narrows his eyes for a second, as if suspicious of my intentions, but then replies: “The same way casting a single spell works. The difficulty is in being able to hold both in your mind simultaneously. My dad said I might need a while to get used to casting before I can do it.”

“He’s probably right, then.” Lord Blackthorn certainly knows more about simultaneous casting than I do. “Maybe try a different spell? Or – no, cast separate spells with each School – it must be easier to keep them apart in your mind if they’re doing different things, right?”

“You know,” says Edward, “that’s actually a very good idea.”

There’s no need for him to sound so surprised about it. Just because I’m not a Blackthorn and haven’t been raised with magic my entire life doesn’t mean I can’t have good ideas.

Edward summons a ball of starlight-silver Malaina light and holds it in the palm of his left hand. With his right, he removes one of his marbles from his pocket and places it on the table. “For it is life,” he recites, hand hovering above the marble.

It flies up into his hand. And the silver light winks out a moment later.

“It worked,” says Edward, a hint of awe in his tone for once. “Only for a second – but it worked. Thank you.”

I grin and turn a page to the next chapter.

We finally leave after lunch. It’s a simple enough process: we ask the caretaker, an old lady introduced simply as Miss Carr, to sign us out and open the gate for us. She does so, walking surprisingly quickly despite leaning on an ornately-carved cane. The three of us walk along the short gravel drive from the main entrance to the Academy building to the gate. I assumed we’d go out a back entrance, but no: we’re leaving the way we came in, stepping straight out into the Central Ring.

And in dramatic fashion, too. At Miss Carr’s touch, the heavy iron gate dissolves into nothingness. It’s the grandest display of magic I’ve seen so far, and I can’t help being a little awed by it. “Well, get going,” says Miss Carr, glancing from me to Edward. “I can’t stand around here all day.” I half-expect the gate to reappear when we cross the place where it was, but nothing of the sort happens: we just step across the boundary and into the Ring.

It’s thronged with people, as it usually is, even on a Sunday. Most are just passing through: it’s the most convenient route between a lot of places in the City, located at its centre and with the four Great Roads ending here. But there are many people who have business here, too. A steady trickle of well-dressed people is flowing in and out of the Central Bank, what looks like a small group of pilgrims guided by a priest are processing into the Abbey Royal, a few stalls sell newspapers, drinks and souvenirs. It’s quieter than you’d expect from a space containing hundreds of people. There’s something about the grandeur of the buildings that surround the Ring that inspires a hushed silence.

“I suppose you’ll want to see the statue first,” says Edward, gesturing to the stone sculpture in the centre of the Ring and the whole City, maybe twenty yards in front of us.

“Of course,” I reply. I’ve read about this statue in countless books, even seen a couple of illustrations. I didn’t think seeing it in person would happen in quite this way. We cross the Ring towards it, dodging around a group of businessmen who don’t seem to notice we’re there or care if they walk straight through us.

It’s larger than I expected from the illustrations, certainly larger than life-size. It stands on a round stone about the height of my waist, and depicts a man and two women dressed in long, flowing robes vaguely reminiscent of those I’ve seen magicians wearing recently. They’re facing away from each other, towards the country’s most important buildings, though they stand close together, and their hands are raised in the typical depiction of magicians casting. The statue is too tall for me to make out their expressions.

The inscription carved on the stone reads: Ardith, Cyrus and Theola. May they always watch over their country. Until They Return.

It’s a blatant propaganda piece, of course, rather than a memorial to the Mages – no-one knows where they were buried or even when they died. A few have theorised they’re immortal, that they’re still among us. Philippa the Bright had the statue built soon after finally taking the City and the throne, as a way of symbolising that the Mages blessed her reign and supported her rule.

I’m almost more interested in the names carved into the stone below the statue. I crouch down so I can read them better, although I already know them all. Charles First-King. Edwin the Just. Simon the Drunkard. Thomas the Defender. Eleanor the Bold. And so it continues: every king Rasin has had in the last thousand years, all the way to the present king’s mother Anabelle the Reformer. The carvings are small enough that there’s still room for another thousand years of history.

There’s something about the grandeur of the Mages and the tiny writing of the kings’ names that makes me feel small and insignificant. If even a king only warrants a footnote on the great statue, what am I?

“Do you like it?” asks Edward.

“That’s not the point. Whether I like it doesn’t matter.” Though I do like it, a lot. The sculpture is brilliantly done – not that that should be a surprise, when only the best of the best would ever be contracted for work like this. And how can I not like this reminder of our nation’s history right in its centre?

I pace around the statue, looking at it from all different angles and taking the time to really appreciate it. I’m opposite Edward and can’t see him when I hear his voice, with a note of panic I hadn’t heard before: “Go away. Please. Go away.”

I dash back round to him, and pull up abruptly to narrowly avoid colliding with the man standing next to him. He’s staring at the statue intently enough not to even notice. He’s dressed in a smart suit, but his shirt has four buttons undone so I can see his hairy chest, and his hair is long and wild.

“I don’t want this,” Edward insists, speaking quickly and urgently. “Please.”

“Excuse me,” I say to the man, “what are you doing?”

With an effort, he drags his gaze from the statue to look at me. His eyes are wild, unfocused. “I am bearing witness.”

“There’s nothing here to bear witness to,” Edward says. “Just go away.”

“My presence doesn’t matter,” the man says. “There are things more important than what you want, and you cannot go on as you have been.”

Can’t he stop spouting cryptic babble and either go or explain what he wants?

“Tallulah – “ Edward says. The tension in his body is all too visible, and I realise suddenly what’s happening to him.

I push through the gap between the man and the statue and take Edward’s hand. “We’re leaving,” I announce, and set off across the Ring, dragging Edward with me.

He follows without resisting, and the man remains where he is, his gaze returning to the statue.

I’m not sure where we’re going other than away from the man and the statue, but we find ourselves walking towards the start of the Great East Road. That leads away from here, doesn’t it? It’ll do.

We walk along the Road for a few minutes before Edward tugs me towards the entrance to the National Museum. We planned to go there last night, but I’m not sure if – after whatever that was – it’s a good idea. But I don’t know what I’m doing or what happened, so I trust Edward.

The Museum is nearly as grand as the Academy inside: the ceiling towers high enough to inspire a faint sense of awe when I look up, and the staircase that leads up from the entrance room is almost identical to the one I’m getting used to.

“Two tickets, please,” says Edward, approaching the reception desk and reaching into his robes for a coin purse. What is it about rich people and always assuming they’ll be the ones to pay for things? I can’t make it into a problem now, though.

The receptionist is a young woman in a modest grey dress; she smiles and takes the silver pieces Edward sets down on the desk. “Your girlfriend is interested in history, then?”

I’m not his – I remember belatedly that we’re still holding hands. That would be the more natural assumption than I grabbed him to get him out of a situation that was leading to a Malaina episode. “I – yes. Yes, I am. I’m looking forward to seeing the Museum. Is it true you have an original royal prayer-book?” I’m babbling on like a fool, but that’s all I can think to do.

The receptionist looks delighted I asked, though. “Owned by Isabella the Pious herself! You can see that on the third floor. Why don’t you take a map?”

I take the parchment she offers me without looking at it, as well as our tickets.

“Thank you very much,” says Edward.

“You’re welcome! Enjoy your visit!”

We climb the stairs to the first exhibition, doing a reasonable explanation of a couple here for a date and definitely not in shock from whatever happened a few minutes ago. I wonder suddenly whether Edward would want us to be here for a date.

I haven’t thought about him romantically at all, but if he wants to be more than friends… I think through every interaction we’ve had, trying to work out whether there were hints I didn’t notice.

I don’t want to date him, but I also don’t want to let him down.

We step through the open doors into the first exhibition, on what was on this land before Rasin as a country existed. I don’t know much about history that distant, and normally I’d be excited by the prospect of learning more, but now…

Edward guides me to a bench in the middle of the exhibition, opposite what appears to be the remains of a thousand-year-old sword, and then releases my hand at last.

“Thank you,” he says, leaning towards me and keeping his voice low. “If you hadn’t been there…”

I don’t need him to finish that sentence. “You did the same for me. We’re friends now. That’s what friends do.”

He smiles a little.

“Who was that man?”

“An oracle.”

I blink a few times. “You mean… he was telling you a prophecy?”

Edward shakes his head. “No. Not all oracles give prophecies, at least not in the sense you’re probably thinking of. Each one is different in how they receive knowledge of the future and what comes with it. The man we saw – I think – is drawn compulsively towards… people, and events, that will one day be immensely important.”

“Oh,” I say. It’s not the man Edward was so panicked by, it’s what he represented: the idea that some day, his actions could decide the fate of the country. I can’t blame him; I would be, too. “But… you’re going to be a Royal Magician. So didn’t you already know – “

He shakes his head sharply. “There’ve only been four of my ancestors who were touched by oracles. That I know of,” he adds. “I’m not sure my dad would tell me if he was.”

“Oh,” I repeat. “Could the oracle have… made a mistake?”

“Oracles don’t make mistakes. Misinterpret their visions, yes, but mistakes? Never.”

“Maybe… maybe he did misinterpret the vision. Maybe it was the statue, something was going to happen to it – if the king was going to die, wouldn’t that be an important event involving it – a new name added – “

“Tallulah.”

I stop talking.

“Do you actually believe that?”

It would be so easy to say yes. So easy to lie to him, and then we could go on pretending that nothing had happened and that he wasn’t going to one day change the world and that neither of us were terrified by that fact.

I hate it when people lie to me, even if it’s what I want to hear. “…no.”

“I didn’t think so. Thank you for trying, though.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I’ll just have to forget about it. Meddling with oracles never ends well.”