Fallen Magic

“Could you pass the salt, please?” asked the King.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Mildred, sliding the saltshaker across the table and past her father to the King’s seat. She was surprised by how quickly she was adjusting to eating with royalty.

She took a sip of wine – another new luxury and one she was fast becoming fond of – and narrowed her eyes. She’d been listening to the royal family’s conversation for all of the meal so far, and something was wrong. The King wasn’t talking to her father as one talked to a well-liked courtier hosting a grand party for you. He spoke few words, and those curt.

Her grim thoughts were interrupted by her neighbour, the Duchess of Ridgeton, asking her how she was finding the study of magic. It was conversation for conversation’s sake, nothing more, but Mildred had been playing that game her entire life. “It’s most enlightening, your Grace. I am blessed by the stars to have been granted such power.”

She was blatantly lying, of course. Wonderful though magic was, a magician could not own land, or even marry someone who would inherit land without her husband giving up his place in the succession. There was no way for her to rise higher except to become a Royal Magician, and usurping Lord Blackthorn was quite out of the question.

What were you supposed to do when you were born to play the games of power but forever unable to win?

“Yes, I have often wished for such a gift myself,” the Duchess replied, lying equally blatantly. “But the stars’ will is what it is. I am glad you enjoy your studies. It is a fine thing for a lady to be well-read.”

“Thank you. I quite agree.”

What had her father done to displease the King? She couldn’t ask him, of course: even if she could find a way to exchange words in private, he wouldn’t tell her. Mildred loved her father dearly, but he never told her anything. Mother might know, but she was having one of her bad spells and had been forced to miss the Harvest Ball for the first time since Mildred was born.

She barely noticed whatever pleasantries she was exchanging with the Duchess, her mind turning through options. Asking the King was completely out of the question, but one of his children… the High Princess was far too discreet and well-versed in social games to give her anything, Miranda would enjoy holding the secret over Mildred too much to ever let it go, and Stephen…

Yes. Stephen. That was it. He was half-drunk before they’d even finished the main course, which would make him more likely to let something slip. And since the King didn’t dance and her mother wasn’t here, etiquette demanded he share the first dance with his charming young hostess.

Mildred smiled a little and took another sip of wine.

“So,” said the Duke of Crelt, sitting opposite, to Mildred’s father. “Tell us what you think of the tensions with Sirgal!”

Mildred’s father sat on the Sirgalese Relations Committee in Parliament, so he was well-versed in the growing tension between the two countries. “I can’t comment on anything in my official capacity,” he said quickly, with just the right suggestive pause.

The Duke took the bait: “But unofficially?”

“They’re just agitating for reduced trade tariffs. They think we’re so afraid of war that we’ll offer them a bargain to make them back down.”

“Interesting that you should say that,” the King remarked, as the servants began clearing away plates in preparation for dessert. “Lord Blackthorn’s latest report gave a very different indication.”

Mildred had to focus to keep her expression under control. Blackthorns, always Blackthorns. They took everything that rightfully belonged to all the old families for themselves and then hit them with punishing laws and taxes when they dared object. None of the true Siaril families had forgotten that it was a Blackthorn who’d caused the restriction of magicians’ rights in the first place.

She’d hoped Edward would be more willing to negotiate and work with them, that they could win him over to their cause and finally make real progress, but his father had taught him all too well. Really, taking that Tallulah girl to explore the City? Could he not have at least come up with a better pretext for refusing her invitation?

But she’d lost track of the conversation: the King was explaining to the Duke that according to the spymaster’s report the tensions on the border were a result of squabbles between different factions within Sirgal, and at least one of those factions was determined to have war with Rasin.

That was ominous, but what was worse was the way he’d brought it up. Interesting that you should say that. He was undercutting her father’s credibility in favour of the Blackthorns’. But that was almost inevitable: Lord Blackthorn was one of the King’s closest advisors, the two spoke almost every day, and her father was just another courtier vying for attention.

A servant – hired especially for the occasion, it was quite impractical to keep the hundreds it took to run an event like this smoothly for the whole year – slipped a plate of Mildred’s favourite cinnamon delight in front of her. She picked up her spoon and twirled it absently between her fingers. Not even cinnamon delight could save her from a mood like this.

The dessert seemed to last an eternity. Mildred lost count of how many meaningless conversations she had with her neighbours, how many times she felt as if she was fading into the background at her own party because she was nothing but the daughter of a minor lord and not even a good marriage prospect for anyone more powerful than her father.

And then, finally, the plates were collected, the tables whisked away, and the floor cleared for dancing. A few dissonant strands of music floated across the room as the band checked their instruments were tuned and ready. Mildred downed the last of her wine and set her glass on a passing tray, feeling a flutter of excitement despite herself.

Whatever was wrong, this was her first time not being sent to bed before the dancing began, her first ball as a grown woman, her first time dancing with anyone other than family or teachers. She deserved to enjoy this evening. Maybe she didn’t have to steal information from the prince as they danced; maybe she could just wait until tomorrow when the party was over and the royals had left, and then interrogate her father.

Maybe tonight would be as magical and wonderful as she’d always dreamed.

Prince Stephen was making his way towards her, a little unsteady on his feet.

Or maybe her first dance with a prince would be a misery because he was too drunk to walk, let alone dance. She closed her eyes and prayed briefly that he wouldn’t ruin her night.

“Miss Cavendish,” said the prince when she opened her eyes, now close enough to speak to her. His speech was still clear, at least.

“Your Grace,” Mildred replied, sinking into a deep curtsey.

“I wondered if you would do me the honour of the first dance with my charming young hostess?”

That was hardly proper etiquette, but she was reluctantly impressed that he was even able to form coherent sentences with the amount of wine he’d drunk so far. Then again, she thought uncharitably, he’d had plenty of practice if the stories she’d heard of court were even close to true.

“Your Grace,” replied Mildred, rising and offering him her hand, “the honour would be all mine.”

His palm was sweaty, and his grip too tight. She wanted instantly to tear her hand away and wipe it on a handkerchief, but that would be a terrible breach of etiquette. She could do nothing to displease the royal family, not with her father’s position so precarious.

She fixed a smile on her features and said “Tell me, how are your horses?”

Mildred had never taken to horse-riding herself – without land and with the ability to teleport, there was little benefit to her father in maintaining a stable, so she hadn’t grown up around horses and was no more than a passable rider. But horses were one of Prince Stephen’s three great loves, so the gossip ran, and she refused to discuss women or wine with him.

It seemed to do the trick: he launched into a detailed and not entirely coherent story of how one of his best mares hadn’t been eating well lately and he was worried she was ill and the stablemaster was being so unhelpful about it all and someone ought to remind him of the consequences of displeasing a prince. Mildred only needed to smile and nod and every so often say “Quite right,” or “I completely agree”.

Then, finally, the band was ready and everyone had chosen their partners for the first dance. Mildred allowed Prince Stephen to lead her to the end of the room so they could officially open the Harvest Ball. Every eye in the room was fixed on the two of them. She liked it.

She turned smoothly once they had reached their position, without letting go of the prince’s hand. The room fell silent, her audience waiting.

“Your Majesty,” said Mildred, curtseying towards the King. “Your Highnesses.” This time to High Princess Alexandra and her husband. “My lords and ladies.” That was the traditional introduction to a speech dealt with. “It is a great honour to have you all here tonight – and I speak here not just for myself, but for my mother who I regret is not here and for my father who is. It is truly the highest honour one can wish for, to entertain people such as yourselves, and to serve our King in the way that best befits our talents.”

“Is it,” said a cold, clear voice. High Princess Alexandra stood close to Mildred and Stephen, holding her husband’s arm, and the look on her face was grim.

“Of course,” Mildred replied, fighting to maintain the façade of calm while her mind whirled. This open questioning of her family’s loyalties was more than just undercutting her father’s credibility. Whatever the royal family were offended by must be something serious. And they were minded to exact punishment tonight.

“I see. Lord Cavendish, do enlighten me about something.”

Mildred’s father stood at the edge of the room; it was considered improper for a married man to share the first dance of a ball with a woman not his wife. “Of course, Your Highness.”

“It is your highest honour,” she repeated, “to serve your King.”

“I – yes. Yes, your Highness.”

“Your loyalty to your country comes before all else.”

“Your Highness, if I have ever given you or your father any reason to doubt – “

The High Princess raised a hand, and he fell silent. The entire room was dreadfully silent. Mildred had to admire the performance she put on, even in her growing horror about what came next.

“You would not, for instance,” she said icily, “even consider accepting money from a foreign power to influence the decisions made by a Parliamentary committee of which you are a member?”

No. He hadn’t. Surely her father wasn’t that disloyal, that stupid? Surely she would have known if he’d done something like that? Surely –

No. No, no, no. This could not be happening.

Her father’s response might as well have been an admission of guilt; he said nothing, and instead pivoted on the spot where he stood in an attempt to teleport away. But he remained right where he was. The manor’s wards should have permitted him to teleport within its grounds; had someone laid external…

Of course they had. The King and the High Princess were using this as a very public example of the consequences of betraying your country.

Taking payment from a foreign power was legally classified as high treason.

The penalty for high treason was death.

Before her mind had fully caught up with the horror of that, she tugged her arm free from Prince Stephen’s grip and fell to her knees. “Your Majesty, Your Highness. Please, have mercy.”

It wouldn’t work, she knew, but she had to try. She had to do something. There had to be a way to save him.

“Miss Cavendish, you have no need to beg for mercy on your own account. There is no evidence suggesting that you were involved in or even knew of your father’s crimes. For him, though? Mercy,” said Alexandra coldly, “is for the innocent.” She clapped her hands, and the great doors to the ballroom swung smoothly open. Half a dozen of the High Royal Guard marched into the room and saluted the King.

That was the end, then: even had her father been mad enough to risk fighting, one man had no hope against six highly-trained combat magicians.

“You will arrest Lord Cavendish,” the King proclaimed. “On charges of misleading Parliament, taking a bribe to influence Parliamentary process… and high treason.”

Those words broke the spell of silence that had hung over the room. Shocked whispers everywhere: “High treason…”, “I never even suspected…”, “how could he?”

Mildred’s father stepped back until he was touching the wall, as if he wished that he could step through it and away from this. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Mildred didn’t look away, though. No matter how foolish he’d been, he was still her father, and she was not going to sit by and watch his execution. She would save him, whatever the cost.