True Magics (55 page)

“Try it,” said the king at last. “Thomas, come with me and I’ll give you our terms. Sir Walter, send over a messenger. Tell them Thomas will negotiate on our behalf.”

“No,” said Thomas, making both men turn to him in surprise. “With respect, your Majesty, say that Thomas Flarety is suffering a spiritual crisis and seeks the guidance of the Archbishop.”

An hour and a half later, Thomas walked across the square alone, without armour or weapons. Henry had dashed back to their apartment and returned with his dress uniform. Thomas had cleaned up as best he could and changed clothes while the king and Sir Walter peppered him with what they wanted him to say, to look for, and to do.

The square was silent, save for Thomas’s boots clicking on the wet cobblestones. He was far too aware of the men with crossbows stationed on the battlement above the cathedral door and peering through the broken windowpanes. He could see their inner lights, glowing faintly red.

Please, don’t let any of them have itchy fingers.

Thomas walked slowly up the wide stone stairs and stood before the immense wooden doors. He had time to study the scars and dents in the smooth oak from the king’s battering rams, the puddles of blood on the stairs and the corpses of the men that lay there before the door opened. A rough voice said, “Step in.”

The inside of the cathedral was very different at night. The stained glass let in little light, and the shadows thrown by the few torches made the giant space oppressive. Thomas stood and waited as the soldiers shut the door behind him with a dull noise. They shoved a large bar across it, the scrape of wood against wood grating on Thomas’s ears.

The soldier searched Thomas for weapons, then said, “This way.”

Thomas followed him. Barricades had been hastily erected inside, using barrels and crates of food and whatever else they could scrounge. The soldiers were spread out, their numbers small in the large building. Some talked to each other in low voices. Others sharpened weapons. Most slept. Those still awake stopped talking and watched him as he passed. They looked tired and hopeless, even more than the students had been at the Broken Quill.

He spotted Cormac, Ethan and Anthony, sitting together. They wore Church colours and were spattered with blood and dirt. Their faces were bruised and cut, probably from the hailstorm. They stared at him, hatred in their eyes. Thomas stared back for a few steps then deliberately looked away.

The soldier led him up past the altar to a door set behind. He knocked and then pulled it open. “Through here.”

“Thank you,” said Thomas.

The chamber was small and cosy, with a cheerful little fire crackling in its fireplace and two comfortable chairs. The Archbishop was sitting in one, a cup of tea in his hand.

Thomas bowed low. “Your Grace.”

“Thomas Flarety,” said the Archbishop. He managed a smile, but it was strained and tired. “You are welcome here.”

“Thank you.”

“Please sit.” Thomas did. The Archbishop took a sip of his tea. “Can I assume your spiritual crisis came at the behest of the king?”

“In part,” said Thomas. He held his hands to the fire, letting the heat sink into them. The flame danced yellow and orange, and the logs glowed red and white where the heat had burned them to ash. “And I should say that if I’m not out by tomorrow morning, the rest of the magicians will break through the door and the king will send in his army.”

The Archbishop nodded. “Of course.”

There was a knock and the door swung open. Father Alphonse stepped inside and smiled. “Thomas! This
is
unexpected.”

“Father Alphonse.” The Archbishop’s voice was cold. “You are not to be part of these proceedings.”

“But surely Thomas has come here to give his confession,” said Father Alphonse. “I should hate to miss it.”

“He has come here to negotiate on behalf of the king,” said the Archbishop.

“I’ve come to do both,” said Thomas, catching them by surprise.

The Archbishop recovered first. “Given Father Alphonse’s previous actions, I would not expect you to be comfortable in his presence, or to believe that I am speaking in good faith with him here.”

“It’s all right,” said Thomas, turning his eyes back to the fire. The flames quivered back and forth, but never settled into a pattern as they ate their way through the wood. “Would you close the door, Father Alphonse?”

The Chief Inquisitor looked dubious, but the Archbishop gestured for him to do it.

When he heard the door click shut, Thomas held out his hand. A turquoise blue ball of light appeared in his palm. The Archbishop gasped and Father Alphonse stumbled back in shock. The ball of light swirled gently above Thomas’s hand.

“I want to tell you,” said Thomas, “everything that’s happened to me since I decided to walk home last summer.”

The men were silent, staring at the ball of light. Eventually, the Archbishop raised his eyes to meet Thomas’s. “Walk? Hawksmouth to Elmvale? That’s a very long way.”

“Yes, it is,” said Thomas. He let the light fade away. Then he began talking.

Thomas told them how Bishop Malloy had manipulated Thomas’s father with his power, and how Thomas had seen through juggler Timothy’s tricks and later watched him die under his wagon. He spoke of discovering his own magic, and the fight on Ailbe’s porch that made him and George killers, and the chase to Hawksmouth. Then of Bishop Malloy’s raids on the students and the riot they caused, and the race to the Bishop’s summerhouse; of the stone circle that gave him power, the battles they fought, and how Benjamin had died saving Eileen’s life.

Then Thomas described Bishop Malloy’s useless blood sacrifice, and how he had pulled the magic from the Bishop’s body before running the man through with a rapier. And how, when Thomas released them, the small magics of those who died became part of him.

“You confess to murdering Bishop Malloy?” said Father Alphonse.

“No, I confessed to killing him,” said Thomas. “Don’t interrupt.”

The Chief Inquisitor opened his mouth to retort, but the Archbishop raised a hand. “Fetch us some tea, please, Father Alphonse,” he said. “And perhaps some biscuits. I’m sure Thomas will wait until you return before he continues.”

Thomas waited. Father Alphonse brought the tea and poured it. Thomas sipped at it, and began speaking again.

He started with Eileen’s arrival in Hawksmouth and the attack that led to his interrogation. He told of the journey to Frostmire and the snowstorm he’d called and how he first fought the enemy’s magic on the frozen plains. He spoke of Frostmire castle, and how Cormac and the other young Lords taunted and abused Eileen and the dance and the bloody battles that made Eileen a killer, too.

Thomas told them of his kidnapping and how the magic was drained from his body, and of how Eileen had burned a man alive to rescue him. Then of the march to Frostmire castle and the death of Richard Antonius, and their return home.

The Archbishop sent Father Alphonse for some wine and bread. Thomas ate ravenously.

Then he told them of everything in the past few weeks, up to the moment he’d walked in the door.

And when he was done, Thomas sank back in his chair and waited.

“That is…” the Archbishop looked for the proper words… “Quite a story.”

“It is indeed,” said Father Alphonse. “All that you left out is how you pledged yourself to the Banished to gain your powers.”

The Archbishop gave Father Alphonse a look clearly meant to silence him, and then asked. “Why did you tell it?”

“Because I need you to understand why I’m here,” said Thomas. “The king asked me to break down the Cathedral door and let his troops in. I asked him to let me talk to you instead.”

“How very noble,” said Father Alphonse.

“I’m broken,” Thomas’s words came out soft. “Ever since Bishop Malloy. I don’t sleep at night. When I do I dream of fire and blood and everyone I love being killed. Eileen… She’s so angry at everything and George,” Thomas shuddered, remembering George’s anguished face as he pounded his fists against the table. “My friends are broken. We’ve all killed so many people, and it’s broken us all, and I want it to stop.”

“Then give yourself over to us,” said Father Alphonse. “Surrender yourself and let us…”

“Torture me?” snapped Thomas. “Hang me? Burn me? And what about everyone else that has magic? Will you leave them alone once you have me?”

Father Alphonse shook his head. “Thomas, witchcraft must—”

“There is no such thing as witchcraft!” Thomas was on his feet without any memory of standing up. “There’s never been any such thing! The Church didn’t even call it witchcraft before the last war! If I surrender to you, how many other people are going to be broken? How many will have to kill someone or die?”

Thomas turned to Archbishop Culverton. “I can make this stop.” The words came out harsh and loud. “I can make it stop if you’ll listen to the king’s demands, or I can make it stop by killing you all, and
I don’t want to kill anymore!”
He stood, swaying, a moment longer, then collapsed in his chair.

Father Alphonse started forward, but the Archbishop stopped him with an upraised hand. He poured more wine in Thomas’s glass and held it out. Thomas took it with a shaking hand and drank. When the glass was half empty, the Archbishop asked, “What does the king want from me, Thomas?”

Relief coursed through Thomas like a river. He put down the glass. “He wants freedom of belief and worship for all four of the gods. He wants you to refute the Church of the High Father’s claim to supremacy over the throne, and to allow him peace to rule as he sees fit, without any interference.” Thomas’s lips curved up, though it wasn’t a smile. “And that includes the removal of all the powers of arrest and interrogation of the Inquisitors.”

“That is preposterous!” snapped Father Alphonse. “The Inquisitors are the protectors of the Church!”

“Be silent,” said the Archbishop.”

“I will not! The king would gut—”

“Enough!” The Archbishop’s voice was sharp, and Father Alphonse stilled his tongue. “And what do
you
want from me, Thomas?”

“I want you to honour the king’s declaration and profess that there is no such thing as witchcraft. I want Father Alphonse to stop hounding my friends and me. I want Lords Cormac, Anthony and Ethan turned over to the king. And I want you to let the king’s negotiators in here and bring this stupid war to an end.”

“We should not listen to him,” said Father Alphonse. “We should hang him on the church steps and let that be our message to the king.”

“And then the king will bring down this building, and all of us will be killed and war will rage for years,” said Archbishop Culverton. He put his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed, groaning as he rose to his feet. “My word, old bones are not suited to late nights.” He straightened slowly, rubbing at his back. “It must be getting on to morning, I should think. Will you give me your arm to lean on, Thomas?”

“Of course,” said Thomas, rising. The Archbishop put his hand into the crook of Thomas’s elbow.

“I will walk beside you to the door,” said the Archbishop. “And you may tell the king I will see his negotiators, and that I will declare there to be no such thing as witchcraft, and for all followers of the Church to loyally serve their king, in the High Father’s name.” Thomas’s own legs nearly buckled in relief. It took three deep breaths before he could steady himself, and he realized that the Archbishop was holding him up. Father Alphonse was staring in horror, his mouth opening and closing in wordless rage. Archbishop Culverton smiled at Thomas. “Come. Your young lady will be waiting, I am sure.”

The first bell of the morning sounded as Thomas stepped out of the Cathedral. A shout went up from the king’s men. Thomas was halfway across the square when Eileen shook off Sir Walter’s restraining hand and ran forward. Thomas stumbled to her, hugging her tight while she cried. George and Henry descended on them moments later.

“We’ve won,” said Thomas. “Tell the king. We’ve won.”

Epilogue

By late spring, the trees on the Academy grounds had spread their leaves, the grass had risen and turned green, and the warmth of the sun had everyone in shirtsleeves under their robes. Thomas and Henry leaned against the wall beside the gate, watching the other students passing through it.

Thomas kept expecting to see more faces he knew.

Fully a quarter of the Academy’s students had died in the fighting. The king had come to the Academy to praise their courage and offer his condolences to their families. There had been funerals and special church services and weeks of mourning.

The Broken Quill had painted their door black in memory of the students who died there.

But the Academy was still the Academy, and in three hundred fifty years it had not missed the spring exams once. And so for the past month the Academy had been a gripped in furious, studious activity. Students exchanged class notes and held study groups and quizzed one another. The library filled up with young men and boys pouring over their books and snapping at anyone who interrupted them.

And on the week of the exams, Eileen sat in a room with two hundred prospective students, and listened as the Headmaster read the Royal Decree announcing that the Academy would once more be open to girls and women. Then Eileen sat down and become the first girl in two hundred years to write the Academy Entrance Exam.