Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters (25 page)

With that Thomas fell limp. A gust of breeze picked at the loose collar of his undershirt. Thomas’s death-relaxed face seemed relieved.

“Be Gamba,”
Thomas had said earlier.

Be true. Be strong.

He felt his pa then. Felt his pa’s big hand on his small shoulder. Saw his face. He needed to be as strong as his anger. Strong as his desire. Thomas said he had three commands of his Elemental, and if that was true he had one left. He could tell it to kill William McKinley if he wanted, but while Thomas didn’t owe Nathaniel anything, Nathaniel knew the opposite wasn’t true.

Nathaniel raised his voice and sang a long melody filled with tones of sadness and glory. Then he looked at the Elemental and pointed to Thomas.

“Take him to the tallest hilltop in Georgia,” Nathaniel sang. “Bury him so he’s facing the morning sky.”

The Elemental groaned, but bent to his will and carried Thomas away on a wave of red soil.

*   *   *

Nathaniel walked the road north, thinking about the world, thinking about his song, thinking about what it meant to be a magician, and thinking about the promise he made to Thomas.

He said he wouldn’t mess with the dark magic until he understood it. But he understood dark magic already. He lived it every day. Lived it in Georgia and Alabama, and lived it in San Juan and South Carolina. Lived it when he lost his hand and when he drew stares from white folk he never done no harm to. Dark magic had eaten up his pa and his ma and eaten up Crazy Carl and the men who died on the hill without them even knowing what it was doing. He’d seen it. Oh, yes, he had. Seen it in the sheriff’s eyes.

His pa had said things would change.

Said Abe Lincoln had showed everyone the way, and that the world would just have to follow along now. He said Nathaniel just needed to be strong, and the day would come. The name came from that. Gamba. Warrior. Strength. Discipline. Maybe Pa was right. The world
was
different today than when he was just a boy.

Change came too damned slow, though.

He thought long and hard about Thomas’ warning.

In the end he came to this: A man’s got to do what he thinks is right. What he thinks is fair. And if the magic does rise up and take him, well . . . sometimes a man has to sacrifice something if he’s going to make a difference. King Billy sitting in the office wasn’t going to help things no more, and if the runnerboy’s reports were right, he was healing up right and proper.

The idea struck him wrong.

Lot of work here,
he thought.
Lot of work.

Somewhere as he walked, Nathaniel found he was singing. And in singing, he found he didn’t need Thomas to work his magic. Didn’t need no one. His cadence came to match the flow of his stride, and his stride came to match a clock that registered somewhere deep in the earth itself. He thought of the sheriff’s gun. He thought of his black brothers and sisters he’d seen beaten and killed. He thought of William McKinley sitting on his recovery bed with a bullet hole in his gut. He saw an image of his own gangrene-blackened hand. Fair’s only fair.

He shaped his song into a hard chorus of darkness and disease. He played with it, molded it into a festering, putrid infection. When the pressure built to where he felt it right, he called through the soil. The ground rose up around him to take on the spellwork. Nathaniel sang a picture of King Billy sitting and eating quail eggs and biscuits, sang the command of blackness spreading in the president’s gut like the blackness that had taken his own hand. He felt the ground below him rumble, smelled strength in limestone and granite, felt the scrub of sand.

He reached out, then, sending his thought eastward toward Washington.

*   *   *

The headlines came about a week later, when Nathaniel made Nashville. King Billy was dead of his wound. It went septic, they said. Painful in the end. Teddy Roosevelt took office that very day. Nathaniel didn’t know if Teddy would be better. Who could tell?

All Nathaniel could say for certain was that he was done drifting. He was strong. He knew wrong when he saw it. And he knew it was time to make a difference.

Queen of the Mountain

Kristin Schwengel

Lasair Connor leaned on the starboard rail of the steamship
Columbia
, letting the hint of a fresh breeze riffle her red hair and flutter her hat ribbons. Despite the way the salty winds and the sun chapped her skin, she had enjoyed the voyages. She admitted to the occasional vague uneasiness when she considered how isolated and tiny their ship was compared to the enormous ocean, but the storms they had encountered had not been severe, and she had never felt truly endangered. Lady Amara, of course, remained securely in her stateroom, as she had on the transatlantic crossing from England to New York.

Lasair glanced up at the rigging, but most of the great sails hung limp, with only a few of the smaller sails puffing out as tiny gusts caught them.

“Still not enough wind to speed us along, sadly.”

Lasair managed to convert her startled jump into a tolerably smooth turn to face the newcomer.

“Mr. Ayresbury,” she said with a slight nod, providing the minimum deference to emphasize that they were almost equals, despite his obvious wealth and her less obvious lack thereof. Her parents, after all, had been of good if unexalted family. After their fatal carriage accident, she had been raised as ward to another gentleman who had grown up with her father, and she was now respectably employed as companion to Lady Amara. She need not fear Conrad Ayresbury’s critical eye.

“Miss Connor,” he replied, the tilt of his head equally precise. He, at least, could forgo the necessity of wearing a hat while on the ship, his blond hair tousled by the breeze. “The Captain informs me that we should reach the islands tomorrow, perhaps even tomorrow morning.”

“Lady Amara will be delighted to hear that,” Lasair replied.

“And even more delighted to be on solid ground?” His lips did not twitch, but she could read the subtle jest in his eyes.

She nodded, not sure what other response could possibly be appropriate, and turned her head back to the bow of the ship, to the featureless blue horizon ahead of them.

“The steamships have certainly made this voyage easier than it would have been even twenty years ago,” she said at last, her voice as neutral as she could make it. What was it about him that unnerved her? Why did she see questions in his eyes?

“Indeed. No more need sailors fear a calm day.” There was more than a hint of laughter in his voice, although Lasair couldn’t imagine why.

The odd silence stretched between them until Lasair gave herself a small mental shake. Whatever he was trying to see in her was no business of hers. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and fled to Lady Amara’s stateroom without waiting for a reply.

*   *   *

The stateroom was a small suite, surprisingly well-appointed, consisting of Lady Amara’s sleeping and dressing chamber, Lasair’s own, smaller room, and a shared sitting room between them, which provided the entrance to the center passageway. It was here, near the slatted wall that allowed air to circulate, that Lasair found her mistress.

Leaning back in the broad wing chair, fanning herself in a desultory fashion, Lady Amara Feuerberg looked up as Lasair closed the door.

“There you are, my dear,” she murmured. “I wondered how long—” she broke off, her glance turning to an outright stare as Lasair removed her hat. “My dear, your hair! And your cheeks!” She waved toward Lasair’s room. “Take a moment to tidy up, and be sure to lotion!” No longer indolent, her voice crackled with energy. Lasair had learned early in her employment that although Lady Amara enjoyed playing the role of a lady filled with
ennui
, it was no more than a pretense.

“Yes, Lady Amara.” Lasair ducked a tiny curtsy, ignoring the exasperated head shake at the deference, and moved to her tiny chamber.

The tiny slip of silvered glass on the wall revealed that Lady Amara had been right about her hair. Quite a bit had pulled out of its pins, haloing her reddened face. Taking all of it down and wielding her brush before the slim mirror, Lasair set to reining in the auburn curls.
That was odd
, she thought. There hadn’t been that much wind—just brief puffs of air—and yet her hair seemed to have been picked out of its pinnings. Perhaps it had been that wildness in her appearance that had drawn Conrad Ayresbury’s quizzical attention. She bit the edge of her lip, not sure why the thought unsettled her.

Gathering all of the long strands, she twisted and wrapped, tucking the ends to create a neat bundle, a liberal application of pins securing the twist in place at the nape of her neck. She dug through her trunk to retrieve the nearly empty jar of rosewater lotion, dabbing a tiny bit on each cheek before straightening her skirt and rejoining Lady Amara.

“Much better, my dear,” the older woman said, scrutinizing Lasair before nodding approvingly. “Now, any news?”

“We should arrive at the Sandwich Islands tomorrow, according to Mr. Ayresbury, who had it from the Captain.”

“Thank the good Lord above,” Lady Amara sighed. “I shall be so happy to be off this ship and on our own again!” She fanned a little more vigorously.

Lasair glanced up, but Lady Amara did not offer any elaboration regarding her plans for what they would do upon their arrival. She had only been Lady Amara’s companion for less than a year, and was not quite certain how the older woman would respond if she inquired further. Even though Lady Amara treated her rather more like a daughter than a companion, she still felt that she knew very little of her employer. In fact, until her guardian, Mr. Rusbourne, had introduced them, she had never even heard him mention Lady Amara before, although they must have known each other a long time for him to place Lasair in her company.

*   *   *

The scenery of the island of O’ahu was astonishing—opulent greens of exotic flora, the air redolent with strange floral scents, the sounds of the harbor and the town punctuated by raucous birdcalls, and the looming mountains above it all. After a few short expeditions inland, however, Lady Amara had shown little inclination for further exploring, and had established herself and Lasair in a large suite at one of the finer hotels. She avoided most social obligations, paying only a single call to the English ambassador, instead spending her time seeking out guides and those who could tell her more about the islands, usually leaving Lasair at the hotel with only minor tasks to be completed while she was gone.

About a fortnight after their arrival, Lasair found herself once again alone in the suite. For the third time in a quarter hour, she glanced out the sitting room window, but there was no sign of Lady Amara. Restless in the absence of her normal duties, she began straightening the papers on the tiny writing desk. As she did, she spotted her own name written in the strong hand of her guardian.

. . . be discreet in your use of Lasair. Others have noted the decrease in my own apparent Power since she left my company. If you are suddenly seen to have significantly greater ability than before, surely there will be questions.

Hearing a noise in the street, Lasair looked up, her guilt warring with curiosity. A pony cart laden with flowers and fruit passed by, and all was again silent. Her fingers tightened on the paper. What was this Power, these abilities Mr. Rusbourne wrote of? And how did it relate to her?

She glanced over the desk. The two sheets of the letter had been pushed, as if in haste, under another letter, but not completely covered. Her ears prickling and her stomach roiling with trepidation, she eased the pages out and began reading.

Esteemed Madam,

I am pleased that your voyage passed without event. It must have been exceedingly difficult for one of our Nature to spend that much time enclosed, nay, imprisoned, by inimical Water. Suffice it to say that I hope you will find the results you experience at your destination to have been worth such a challenge.

I must, however, warn you as strongly as I can to be discreet in your use of Lasair. Others have noted the decrease in my own apparent Power since she left my company. If you are suddenly seen to have significantly greater ability than before, surely there will be questions. And it would not be impossible to find our common heritage.

I doubt that this message will find you before you continue from San Francisco to the Sandwich Islands, but again, I urge caution in acting on your plans. Do not doubt that the White Lodge can find some reach, even across the globe. Though the islands themselves may have been formed by Fire, they are still surrounded by Water.

Above all, keep the Blood safe.

Your most Dedicated,

Corven Rusbourne

With trembling hands, Lasair shuffled the letter back under the other papers, recreating the untidy pile. The shame she felt over reading Lady Amara’s correspondence warred with confusion over the contents. What was this Power that Mr. Rusbourne mentioned? What was the White Lodge? Or the Blood that must be kept safe? And, perhaps most importantly, what use was Lady Amara making of her that required urgings of caution? The role of lady’s traveling companion, after all, was a common position, and her duties varied little. She kept Lady Amara company, read to her, and attended to small errands. A breeze through the nearby window brought in the now-familiar floral perfume. This time, however, it was laced with acrid smoke, and she sat down abruptly as memory flooded over her.

A small, dark room, the smell of smoky incense heavy around her . . . a voice—Lady Amara’s?—or Mr. Rusbourne’s?—chanting in a strange language . . . the image of a stained piece of fabric, then a piercing headache and black silence.

Lasair blinked, her breathing rapid as she came back to her surroundings. The breeze must have shifted, for the air was now fresh and clear, with a bracing hint of the salty ocean coming from the harbor. She took deep breaths to calm herself before studying the strange memory. It must have been a true recollection—no imagined event could have felt so real. And why would she ever have imagined herself bound—but she now realized that she had been, as surely as if ties had been closed over her wrists—in a dark room with such strange sounds and smells? She could more easily believe the whole event to have been a nightmare, except that it was the middle of the afternoon, and she had been wide-awake.

A greeting called out by the hotel doorman disturbed her, and Lasair realized Lady Amara had returned. She bent down, thankful that she had collapsed onto the window seat, and pulled her knitting from the small basket tucked nearby. She bent her head over the needles, winding the thread through her fingers and placing the needle’s point into the next stitch of the lace pattern just as the door opened and Lady Amara swept into the room.

“Finally, all is settled,” she said, lowering herself onto the small sofa. “I have secured a boat, lodgings on the greater island, and a guide and horses so that we may explore all of the mountains there.”

“When do we depart?” Thankfully, Lasair managed to keep any trace of the distress she still felt from that strange memory out of her voice. An expedition to the big island had been Lady Amara’s single goal since they had landed in Honolulu. She had many times expressed her desire to see the active volcanoes, the “living, growing” mountains.

“The day after tomorrow. I could not secure an earlier time for us and still make arrangements for our accommodations. I have no desire to make a rough camp for any more days than I would need to!”

She laughed, and Lasair smiled back, relieved that Lady Amara had detected no alteration in her demeanor.

*   *   *

The small steamer left the harbor quite early, and Lady Amara professed to be barely awake, even as she anxiously stood at the rail as close to the bow as she could manage, studying the big island as they approached.

Lasair was disconcerted to find Mr. Ayresbury also among those headed to Hawai’i. As they boarded the little ship, he smiled a greeting to her. “I have spent some days studying the plants of O’ahu, and thought this an opportune time to visit the greater island to see if they grow differently there.”

“A student of Mr. Darwin?” Lasair kept her tone neutral. In some circles, to use Charles Darwin’s name was something akin to blasphemy.

The expression in Mr. Ayresbury’s eyes was questioning, as usual. “I have read some of his theories, and found them intriguing. It is, in fact, the main reason I traveled to the United States, and then here. Do you have an interest in botany?”

“Not in particular,” Lasair replied, glancing at where Lady Amara stood. “But Lady Amara’s tastes in reading are wide-ranging.”

“Indeed,” was all that Mr. Ayresbury offered, before Lady Amara turned to join them.

*   *   *

When they met their native guide the following morning, Lasair was unprepared for the torrent of foreign speech that greeted her. Perplexed, she turned to Lady Amara, who seemed just as confused. It was a moment before the man-of-all-work at the tiny cabin smoothed out his own wrinkled brow and spoke.

“You will forgive, my lady, but some of the inland people still cling to the old superstitions, as this one does.” Disapproval tinged his voice as he gestured at the guide, who had fallen silent and now stood with his head bent in Lasair’s direction. “He appears to believe that the young lady is a living incarnation of the goddess Pele, whom the superstitious still treat as the ruler of the volcanoes.” Lady Amara raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. “I believe it is the hair, my lady. Pele is often described as having hair of fire.”

Lady Amara burst into laughter as Lasair raised a hand to her head, making sure that her bright red hair was still neatly coiffed. A passing breeze had teased a few strands to float loose about her face, but otherwise the knot at the base of her skull remained secure.

“Well, if he will not provide us the service we require, we must look to engage someone else.” Lady Amara’s expression hardened, making the guide drop his head farther.

“If Pele wishes to observe her own mountain as a stranger, Hana’kahi will guide her,” he muttered, his accent thick. “Hana’kahi will serve in whatever the Lady of Fire commands.”