A Scheme of Sorcery

Excerpt

A Scheme of Sorcery
Ennis Rook Bashe © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Sariva couldn’t finish the beaded bag before her caravan reached the castle, so she tidied away her supplies and peeked out the carriage window. “Are we—”

“Don’t worry, miss, we’re not going past the haunted ruins.”

Strange. She’d only wanted to know when they’d arrive.

The carriage rolled over uneven streets made of pale mountain stone, passing low whitewashed houses with flat-eared cats on their doorsteps. The scent of daffodils and cyclamen filled the air as distant silver bells rang, calling people to pray to the sky. Even without the bag completed, her outfit seemed presentable. Everyone who noticed her would believe she belonged. Did she appear marriageable though? She touched the swirl of her plaits. Her rhinestone hairpins still held. Would anyone be able to tell how she’d altered her mother’s old dress? Would they think of her as resourceful or unfashionable? Shining gates swiveled open, presenting a terraced courtyard, a burbling fountain, and tall palm trees in painted pots. As the carriage driver halted his bay roans, she rubbed her heirloom moon pendant for reassurance as her mother had so often done.

A slender woman with warm-olive skin hurried across the courtyard, sandals pattering on the stone. She bobbed a curtsy and shook Sariva’s hand in both of hers. “So pleased to finally meet you. I’ve had the honor of reviewing your list of qualifications and your letters of recommendation—we’ve all agreed you’d be a lovely addition to the queen’s service. Lady Ava of Valency, and you are Lady…Broth, is it?”

“Sorry, it’s Be-roth.” No one ever got her name right. “Rolled R, accent on the second syllable.”

“Well, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. We have a formal dinner among the court tonight—I have time to show you your quarters.” They left the courtyard through an archway and turned onto a path between ornamental lemon trees.

A young woman passing by in the other direction paused with a displeased moue, raising plucked-thin eyebrows. “Oh, I wasn’t aware of a foreign dignitary arriving today.”

“Lisette, this is Lady Sariva Beroth. Her parents fled serving the sultan, and we’re even luckier to have her at our Almesian court.” Ava gestured to the woman. “Lady Sariva, may I introduce you to Lady Lisette? She is a splendid dancer.”

“Bah-rroth?” Lisette’s delicate features creased, perplexed with worry. “I’m so sorry, your name is just so hard to pronounce. What does it mean?”

“It means cypress,” Sariva began, feeling suspicious, “but—”

Lisette beamed. “It would be so rude to get your name wrong, right? I mean, I’d absolutely hate myself for mispronouncing it. I’ll just call you Lady Cypress if I have need of you, and then we can be great friends.”

Did Lisette think she’d change her surname just because fools kept mangling it? Absolutely not. Sariva made herself smile. “Indeed, I do look forward to us spending time together.”

“Yes, of course! Northerners are always awfully clever. If I have any figures to evaluate, I’ll be certain to call on you.”

She wanted to say “I’m horrid at sums” or “What next, will you accuse me of having killed infants for the Northern sultan?” Instead, she curtsied and nodded.

Even though nearly everyone who’d fled the North did so because they objected to the government or refused to serve in the military, people accused them of lying. Didn’t a fortune in furs hide amongst the Northern mountains, and weren’t all its inhabitants mages? Didn’t most people in the North worship the Goddess of All-That-Is? How could anyone flee the North with less than a fortune in stolen gold? Once a new pupil at the village school had told all the others, “Sariva’s family drinks blood. They only came south ’cause the people who didn’t worship their nasty Goddess caught them. That’s why her little brother is so weak because everyone else drinks his blood.” Of course, a lady didn’t stab classmates with pens or hit them over the head with writing tablets, more’s the pity.

Magazines included subtler taunts: concern about secret mages, wealthy Northerners harming trade, assuming even refugees from the North supported the sultan’s every policy. In the city, maybe people would only mangle her name, not her reputation. She remembered her mother’s words: “It’s much more cosmopolitan in the capitol, my dearest. Islanders, desert nomads, people of the tree faith, and of course, plenty of Northerners if you feel homesick or want others to pray with—even though many of them support the sultanate, my friends say you’ll meet some lovely young radicals.”

Sword crashed against sword. Voices shouted. Would she need to run for her life? “Is there some sort of trouble?” Her town’s largest Northern specialty store had gone up in flames a few months ago. She’d heard about a timed fire-starting charm amongst the sacks of imported food, customers praying as they ran for their lives. Swinging her shopping sack, she’d turned the corner and stopped, mouth open. In childhood, she’d picked out ornately carved candles for the family’s rituals there.

Ava gave a reassuring smile, waving off her concerns. “It’s only the squires practicing. In summer they stage mock sieges in the cellars, but this time of the year, they still use the outdoor ring.”

“How…nice.” Her heart still pounded. Would it ever stop?

“Indeed, our knights are some of the most adept on the continent. We might go watch them if you wish.”

Sariva would rather stitch a tapestry of a battle than ride off to join one, but she liked the idea of strong warriors protecting her. “Of course.”

She followed Ava down the path and into a field. In a makeshift arena of packed dirt and wooden stakes, surrounded by tiers of stone benches, trainees brawled with blunt weapons.

The scrawniest one had the upper hand.

His hair shone a muddy, undistinguished color, clay and ochre; his body appeared sparse of all but knees and elbows like an over-articulated marionette. But he fought like a mosquito the bigger boys attempted to swat—dodging, weaving, shoving others in front of him as impromptu shields. One by one, the others trailed from the arena, nursing bruises and casting baleful glares.

Sariva saw the squire’s face—small pointy chin, full sulky lips. “That squire, the short one…are they a girl?”

Ava smiled, evidently proud. “Edwynne’s the only girl in Queensguard training. The entrance test gives an advantage to taller people, which weeds out most girls. Queen Oradel hasn’t yet managed to change it.”

Maybe Sariva did find watching combat worthwhile. She gazed unashamedly down at the girl, who flung a handful of dust at one squire’s eyes, aimed a booted foot at another’s ankles, and dodged away from the clumped-up melee, her sharp features tightening in concentration.

Another squire trudged out of the arena. Another limped out, swearing. Only two remained, whirlwind Edwynne and a wide young man, his bare arms lumpy with muscle.

Sariva’s jaw clenched. She wanted to watch the end of the fight. She needed this squire to watch her.

Edwynne glared into the stands.

With a growl of rage, the other squire left in the arena dragged himself to his feet. He heaved his sword from the dust and stomped toward her.

Sariva’s mouth felt like sand.

“Look out, dumbass!” a boy outside the arena cried. The larger squire roared, clenching his bulging muscles, and shifted to strike.

Still, Edwynne stared at her like a commander seeking out their enemy across the battlefield.

As the sword descended, Edwynne spun around. She dropped to the ground—surrender?—and rolled a perfect somersault right through his legs.

Before the larger, older squire could react, she’d kicked his knees out from under him. He sprawled in the dirt. Folding her arms, she told him, “You lost, Calder, and what’s done is done.”

Scowling, he got to his feet and accepted her offered hand. “Fine.”

“All right, squires, get some water from the pump! I’d like to go a whole week without any students getting heatstroke,” yelled a man in uniform.

The squire gulped down the cold river water and shook herself to let the droplets collect in her curls. After a quick exchange of shoves with another trainee, she threw one last handful of water on her neck and glanced toward the stands. She walked with an easy, dangerous gait…up through the arena, right toward where Sariva and Ava sat. Sariva clapped her hands to her mouth and squeaked. Goddess, she had no skill in talking to pretty girls! If only prayer could keep her from making a fool of herself. At least this problem would vanish soon since she didn’t plan on marrying for love…

She glared at Ava. “Why are you bringing people to distract me? We see a great deal of each other already.”

Ava sighed, her shoulders lowering though her bright expression didn’t change. “Edwynne, meet Lady Sariva. She’s new to the palace, and I thought perhaps you might take an interest in—”

Edwynne’s eyes widened. “Does your necklace mean your family worships the Goddess? Are there any temples near here? I want to go to one.”

Why would anyone want to voluntarily join an unpopular minority? Sariva raised her eyebrows, skeptical. “You’re kidding.”

The sunlight went out of her expression. “How come you’re making me explain myself to you? I like your religion. I want to be part of it.”

Sariva could handle her name being mispronounced, as usual, but this sulky, demanding girl, her stick-insect limbs and her sullen pale face, infuriated her in a whole new way. “You know what? Culture isn’t a buffet. You can’t grab a handful of whatever looks tasty. And if you’re thinking converting will get you money or connections? Forget about it. You disgust me.” She couldn’t take it back—didn’t want to, honestly.

Edwynne’s cheeks flushed. “I wouldn’t want to go to any temple that would have you as a member anyway. You’re a useless, ornamental, selfish waste.”

Why did she act like such a brat? “Useless? We entertain the queen, create gifts for visiting dignitaries, arrange palace festivities—”

“If you ever wish to learn something actually useful,” Edwynne continued, casual, “why not join in with the pages? A girl about eight years old arrived yesterday. I think she’d have plenty to teach you.”

She wouldn’t let anyone treat her this way. “I believe the youngest lady-in-waiting here is around the same age. If you ever decide to trade your sword for something more practical, she’d be an excellent tutor.”

“Milady, if you want my honest opinion—”

“I don’t, thank you!” Her face felt hot, and not just from the sun.

“Sariva, shall we—” Ava began.

Edwynne’s deep brown eyes seemed to look right through Sariva. “You’ll make an advantageous marriage, stand around looking attractive, and perhaps host a few banquets. And that will be the sum total of your life’s accomplishments. You think sitting around looking pretty is how you serve a deity? Well, I’ve saved people’s lives, so there.” Fuming, she swept an elaborate bow before stalking off.

Ava touched Sariva’s shoulder. “Are you quite all right?”

Sariva grasped at something politely ambiguous to say. “Well, I certainly found her behavior unexpected.”

“Would it help if I mentioned she’s not usually like this?”

“What is she usually like?” A toad? A snowstorm? Sariva generally tried to think the best of others, but sometimes one needed the solace of spite. So much for the palace presenting an unassailable haven.

“She squires for my fiancé, and at first, I believe she quite disapproved of my presence.”

Only at first?

“Still,” continued Ava, “our disagreements have never gone further than uncharitable mutterings. I’m sure if you stay out of her way, she’ll trouble you no further. Come, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

“Has she ever mentioned wanting to convert before?”

“No, I suppose she meant it as a joke.”

Sariva didn’t own her future. Still, she didn’t submit without a fight—especially not to someone who made a joke of her faith.

A tall girl with neat hair in tiny plaits passed them, and Ava stopped her with a friendly gesture. “Mattie, darling, come meet our new friend.”

The girl turned around. “Yes?”

“This is Mathilda, my sister-in-law to be. Mathilda, Sariva al-Beroth, our newest arrival. I’ll let you two get acquainted.”

Sariva curtsied, putting on a friendly smile. She liked the pale-green piping on the girl’s simple lilac dress, and the fabric flowers woven into her three plaits made her look like a garden sprite. “Hello, Mathilda. I’m sure I’ll need a lot of help remembering where everything is. You won’t mind pointing things out to me, will you?”

Instead of curtsying, the girl sprinted up to her and gave a vigorous handshake. “Call me Mattie, please. My mum and da call me Mattie, and so does my brother Stellan. He’s a knight in the Queensguard. You’ve got to be brilliant to get in the Queensguard.”

“I’ll make sure to remember.” She searched the girl’s innocent face and big shining brown eyes and revised her estimate of age downward. Twelve? Certainly not. A mature-looking nine at the most. “How old are you, Mattie?”

“Eight and a half,” she mumbled, shifting from foot to foot.

Sariva sat down beside her. “That’s awfully young to be sent away from home, isn’t it?” The girl seemed younger than Sariva’s brothers. She couldn’t imagine sending either of them away to live with strangers.

Mattie nodded, fidgeting with her full skirt. “I’m a junior lady-in-waiting, more like an assistant or a page.”

“You must miss your home. I know I do too even though I’m practically twice your age. My mother always tells me how much she missed her home when the prime minister forced her to flee across the mountains.”

“Miles and miles! Wasn’t she sad and angry? You must have been angry.”

“Only at first. Then she found out there were good things about this country too.”

Mattie considered this for a minute. “I suppose I like the paintings in the queen’s gallery. There’s one of a meadow of wildflowers, and it makes me feel peaceful.”

“That sounds good. I hope I’ll find things to like about the palace too,” Sariva said, smiling at her.

“Did your mother ever get to go back to the North?” Melancholy tinged her young voice.

“No, the ways are dangerous. But she writes home on holidays.” If letters came, they carried heavy inkblots of censorship. “I’m sure you’ll get to go home eventually. In the meantime, why don’t we make something for your friends to let them know you’re thinking of them?” She opened her sewing satchel, showing Mattie the embroidery floss wrapped around wooden bobbins, the brand-new skeins still tied in twisted loops, and her felted needle books.

She peered into the bag and touched the different textures of fiber and fabric. “I know a few stitches. You have more colors of thread than I do though. What could we make?”

“In flower language, onion blossoms mean safety, and white hibiscus means good health. We could embroider a bouquet on a bag or a tablecloth. For now, why don’t you go play?”

Mattie considered the suggestion for a moment before mumbling agreement and scampering off.

Ava took her arm. “Let’s go meet the others.”

She led Sariva up a swirling staircase, through a richly tapestried hallway, and into a big, sunny room with lots of places to sit and read. Ava cleared her throat, and seven women glanced up from their work. “Right, ladies. This is Sariva. She’s here to help us serve the queen, and—”

A graceful crone with snowy hair who wore pants pursed her thin lips. “I didn’t hear anything about a new addition.”

Sariva shrugged, tried to smile. “I mean, here I am. Letter from the queen and everything.”

“I mean, personally I find Northerners inefficient comrades. They’re always talking about Northern issues,” Lisette murmured sotto voce to a girl bent over a large book. “Solidarity much?”

The other girl nodded, wide-eyed, and fiddled with her pink-chiffon hair ribbons—purple when they caught a glint of late afternoon sunlight. Gorgeous fabric.

Another old woman, stepping forward, evaluated her. She had cerulean-dyed springy hair tucked up in a bun held by a thin metal spike. “I’m sure if Zerena is genuine, she won’t mind making herself useful.”

“Um, terribly sorry, but it’s Sariva—” No one heard her, thankfully.

Ava had said something to the snowy-haired woman, who replied, “I can’t say I’ve heard of the family.”

Time to fling out a rapid-fire talking point. “My mother served as a former secret services operative in the sultan’s government, and my father worked for the diplomatic corps—but they both left because they felt uncomfortable with the sultan’s policies and felt what he asked of them wasn’t morally right, and they fled to this country with practically nothing and are considered, umm, leaders in the expatriate activist community. And their opinions, I mean, the actions they’ve taken—it’s all had a strong commitment on my impact, I mean, a strong impact on my commitment to social justice. And that’s why I stand before you. Today.”

She wanted to go home. Goddess, she’d rehearsed her speech. What good had it done? But the curly-haired woman, who seemed the least terrifying, softened. “Well, we’re glad to have anyone who’s truly committed to the work of activism, Sariva.”

“Let’s see. I’m Paveya, and you’ve met Lisette and Ava already—Fabiola is over there—”

The girl with the huge book peered up with a half smile.

“And this is Melisant. Say hello, Melisant.” She elbowed the taller woman with snowy-white hair, who didn’t budge.

Under Melisant’s gaze, Sariva felt even smaller.

“Which policy of the queen’s do you think has most impacted your village?”

A test—but one she could pass. “The additional funding for schools, even small ones like ours. We’ve gotten enough books for everyone and hired another teacher. My youngest brother misses a lot of school because of health issues, so having textbooks at home means he can stay caught up.”

“All right. What about policies that haven’t been enacted into law yet?”

Another answer she’d rehearsed.

“The Land Stewardship and Disposal of Magical Waste Act. Wizard byproducts, especially from combat spells, are hazardous. Look at what’s happened to the old palace, for instance, and how many people die there yearly. It’s commonsense legislation.”

Please like me, Sariva prayed. Please let me work with you. You can hate me, but let me help the cause—

Melisant dropped a stack of papers into her arms. The weight made her stagger. “Come along then.”

Sariva scurried through long, carpeted hallways behind Melisant’s longer strides, heading—where? She didn’t care. She’d get to stay!