The Royal Sorceress (2 page)

“And you will drive
me
insane,” her mother snapped back at her. “How do you think you will get a good husband if you keep doing…
that
?”

“Most of the men you have introduced me to are cads of the first order,” Gwen said, imitating the tone her brother had used during his teenage years. Like most aristocratic men, he’d spent them gambling, drinking and whoring – although Gwen wasn’t supposed to know about the whoring. At least her brother knew better than to try to lord it over her, no matter what the Church said about the duties of a sister to a brother. “I would sooner marry a muckraker than any of those weak-chinned vagabonds with titles.”

Her mother purpled. “And you’d be lucky if you married anyone,” she said, tartly. “It is not
right
, in a respectable society, for a woman to practice magic.”

Gwen’s eyes flashed and she felt the familiar pain behind her eyes, the sense that her magic was flaring up and demanding an outlet. She clamped down on it hard. Her father might be able to tolerate her scaring the staff, but losing control and harming – or killing – her mother would be disastrous. His reputation would be utterly destroyed. If she’d had proper training, perhaps it would be easier to control her magic. Young male magicians didn’t burn down houses by accident; they learned how to do it on purpose.

“I have no wish, my darling mother, to marry anyone,” she said, flatly. “You may as well stop trying to shove me into the arms of any passing nobleman. I will not marry him.”

Lady Mary glared down at her daughter. “You seem to be unaware of your place in society,” she said. “You were born into great wealth and power. Your position means…”

“That I have to do what I am told,” Gwen said, dryly. Her mother had said the same thing almost every day, ever since the day Gwen’s magic had first flared to life. She’d been nine years old at the time, verging on womanhood. Her life had turned upside down that day and would never be the same again. “You would prefer me to be like Lady Cecelia?”

“She does do honour to her parents,” Lady Mary pointed out.

“Cecelia is the most boring person in the world,” Gwen said. “All she talks about are horses and men, mainly the horses. Her parents have bought her over a hundred horses and a small staff to take care of them. And she can talk about nothing else!”

Her mother scowled. “It is more womanlike to care about horses than…”

There was a knock on the door and Lady Mary stopped in mid-sentence. The door opened, revealing a maid, one of the younger ones. Like most of the servants in Crichton House, she had nowhere else to go. Gwen’s reputation drove away servants who found employment elsewhere – but then, what could one expect from the lower classes? They expected her to wear black and cackle to herself while drowning eggshells in a caldron, or having midnight orgies with the devil and his servants. In some ways, Gwen envied the servants. They might face Lady Mary’s temper or the back of her hand, if they displeased her, but at least they weren’t suffocated under her towering ambitions.

“Begging your pardon, Lady Mary, Lady Gwen, but Lord Randolph requests the pleasure of Lady Gwen’s company in his study,” the maid said. She was short, with curly brown hair and eyes that refused to look up from the ground. Gwen terrified her. “He said it was urgent.”

“You’ve probably upset Henry so much he’s given in his notice,” Lady Mary said. Her voice could have cut through glass. “Go and see what your father wants, child. I’ll start looking for a new tutor.”

Gwen nodded and left the room, heading down the long corridor to her father’s side of the house. She rarely entered his study, if only because he flew into a rage at the slightest hint that anyone had tampered with his papers. Gwen had spent many happy hours in the library as a child, but now that she wanted more advanced books to read – particularly books on magic – her father had refused to buy them for her. And, as a woman, she wasn’t allowed any resources of her own. Whatever she inherited from her parents would go to her husband.

She stopped outside her father’s door and hesitated. Her father was a gentle man, outside his work, but she knew that he was growing increasingly exasperated with her. God alone knew what he would say; he might even decide to marry her off to someone, with or without her consent. Or perhaps he would do worse, if there
was
anything worse. Shaking her head, she lifted her hand and knocked twice on the hard wooden door. A moment later, her father’s voice bellowed for her to come in.

Her father’s study was a cosy room with a roaring fire, several shelves of books and a number of comfortable chairs. He wasn’t alone, she realised in shock, as she recognised Lord Mycroft, one of her father’s peers at work. He was an immensely fat man with sharp, intelligent eyes, wearing a suit that failed to conceal his spectacular bulk. Beside him, another man sat, wearing a black cape that covered his suit and holding a top hat in one hand. He looked up at her as Gwen hastily bobbled a curtsey and his blue eyes seemed to peer right into her very soul. His pinched face and greying hair suggested that he was old enough to be her grandfather; for a moment, Gwen wondered if she was about to be introduced to her new husband. The thought was absurd, she told herself firmly. Her father wouldn’t have invited Lord Mycroft to anything that wasn’t strictly government-related. It was strange enough seeing him outside his normal routine of office, his club and home.

Lord Randolph was as thin as his wife was fat, a hard-worker who had made himself rich and earned a peerage through careful speculation in the British shipping industry. He had pioneered the use of airships to connect Britain with Europe, Russia and even the Ottoman Empire, a trade that had brought the British Empire closer together. Lady Mary had the blood to ensure that her son rose to the very highest levels of society. It had been a match made in heaven.

“Gwen,” her father said. He didn’t seem annoyed with her, which suggested that Morrison hadn’t managed to complain to her father or hand in his notice. Perhaps he was just having a cup of tea with the cook. Tea was good to settle one’s nerves. “You know Lord Mycroft, of course” – Gwen nodded – “and this is Master Thomas, the Royal Sorcerer.”

Gwen stared at him. She had had no formal training in magic, and she’d had to learn by herself, but even she had heard of the Royal Sorcerer. The post belonged to the strongest magician of unimpeachable loyalty to the Crown and the British Empire. Only two magicians had ever held the post, if she recalled correctly. They’d both been men, of course.

“Charmed,” Master Thomas said. He took Gwen’s hand – Gwen fancied there was a tingle of magic as his hand touched hers – and raised it to his lips, kissing the air just above her bare skin. “I have wanted to meet you for quite some time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gwen stumbled. She rarely met anyone who had impressed her on first glance, even King George IV. The Royal Sorcerer had wanted to meet
her
? He could have visited at any time and Lady Mary would have been more than happy to play chaperone. “The pleasure is mine.”

Lord Mycroft cleared his throat loudly. “The Empire has something of a problem, Lady Gwen,” he said. His voice was sharp, as penetrating as his blue eyes. Lord Mycroft was a genius, a man who had made his own place in government. He had no discernible vices, or indeed any interests at all outside making the government run smoothly. “Our monopoly on magic has slipped over the past two decades.”

Gwen nodded, without speaking. The French and Spanish had originally persecuted the magicians who had appeared within their borders, even though magic had given the British Empire some of its most stunning victories. It was too much to hope that the Kings and Emperors of Europe – or Russia, or the Ottomans – would not eventually accept and even condone magic practiced in their name. Britain might have ruled a vast empire, but magicians seemed to appear almost at random. A slip in the magical monopoly would be disastrous. At the very least, any war with the French or Spanish would then be fought on even terms.

“It was originally hoped that a new Master Magician would appear who could take Master Thomas’s place when he retired,” Lord Mycroft continued. “At first, we had high hopes for one young magician who entered the service of the Crown, but matters came to a bad end. Finding people with the required…qualifications is not easy, and of course not all of them are suitable for the most sensitive post in the country. Master Thomas has convinced us that we must look outside the traditional boundaries for recruitment.”

“Lady Gwen,” Master Thomas said. “We first became aware of your magic during that…unfortunate incident when you were barely nine years old. Your parents were contacted by the Royal College and asked to keep an eye on any further development of magical potential. It was seriously considered to offer you a chance to train with us, but various other events prevented us from making a formal offer until now.”

His sharp eyes met hers. “I need an apprentice,” he said, flatly. “Would you be interested in serving your country as the next Royal Sorcerer?”

“Royal Sorceress,” Lord Mycroft corrected.

“I…” Gwen broke off, astonished. She hadn’t dared hope that they would make an offer of training, let alone offer her a post in government. If she succeeded Master Thomas, she would be the most powerful woman in Britain since Elizabeth I. And there had been people who had whispered that Queen Elizabeth had been a witch, although they hadn’t dared whisper it very loudly. “I would be honoured.”

Automatically, she glanced over at her father. Lord Rudolph wouldn’t like the idea, she was sure, but if Lord Mycroft was involved then the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, would have a hand in it somewhere. If he refused to allow Gwen to apprentice herself to the Royal Sorcerer, his career would hit a brick wall and he knew it. Lady Mary would not be charmed with the idea of her daughter leaving home as an apprentice, rather than a wife, but what could she do?

“I have provisionally granted my consent,” her father said. His voice was under tight control, but Gwen was sure that she detected a hint of…concern. Lady Mary was
not
going to like it, not even slightly. On the other hand, Gwen
would
be mixing with blue-blooded aristocratic magicians. She might find a much better match among their set. “Should you refuse, of course…?”

Gwen smiled. Her father loved her, despite everything. He hadn’t even taken a cane or his belt to her when she sent tutor after tutor fleeing in horror. And he wouldn’t have allowed Lady Mary to marry her off to a man she detested.

“I won’t lie to you, Lady Gwen,” Master Thomas said, quietly. “The position is difficult and very dangerous. You will be pressed to the limit; you’ll have to learn magic quicker than anyone else your age. We wouldn’t offer you the chance to learn if we didn’t think that you were capable of it, but we will understand if you reject the offer.”

Gwen didn’t hesitate. “I would be honoured,” she repeated. It was everything she had ever dared to dream of, when she allowed herself to consider a life without her social obligations. “Thank you, sir, thank you!”

She found herself dancing out of the room, leaving the adults behind to talk through the details of her apprenticeship. Her mother was waiting outside, looking angry enough to curdle milk. Perhaps she had some way of listening to her father’s meetings, or perhaps the Butler had told her who had come to visit.

Gwen jumped in before her mother could say anything. “Guess what, mother,” she said. “I’m going to be the Royal Sorceress!”

Her mother fainted dead away.

Chapter Two

C
avendish Hall,” Master Thomas said, quietly.

Gwen peered through the window as the carriage came to a halt. She saw iron railings, surrounding a small garden – and a massive black building, sitting only a short distance from the Houses of Parliament. The statue positioned neatly in front of the building was of an elderly man, staring down at her with an expression of quiet amusement at the world. She didn’t need Master Thomas to identify him as Professor Cavendish, the man who had first put the study of magic on a scientific footing. The British Empire owed its current supremacy to one man, and his disciples had never let anyone forget it.

The coachman opened the door and Gwen slipped through the hatch, jumping neatly down to the pavement. Her mother had tried to convince her to wear one of her formal dresses, but Gwen had ignored her and donned a light blue dress that clung to her body in a faintly scandalous manner. It also didn’t billow up or hamper her when she tried to run. She would have preferred the trousers she’d worn out in the country estate, where she’d learned to ride with her cousins, but that would have been a step too far. Everyone knew what kind of woman wore trousers in civilised company, particularly the people who weren’t supposed to know anything of the sort.

Outside, the air around the building seemed pregnant with possibility. She turned her head from side to side as Master Thomas strode up to the gate, holding a silver-tipped cane in one hand. The gate slid open without any visible means of locomotion, suggesting magic to her eyes. He beckoned her to follow him up the path to the house and she did, pausing long enough to take a closer look at the statue as they reached it. Professor Cavendish seemed to be smiling at her personally.

The doors in front of the building swung open as they approached, revealing a surprisingly ordinary lobby. A handful of men wearing black suits were on guard, but apart from a handful of surprised looks at Gwen they showed no visible reaction to the new arrivals. Gwen realised that they had to be trained magicians, ready to react at once to any hint of magical attack – or waiting for instructions from Master Thomas. They all looked tough and capable, although she knew that that might be an act. High Society taught the nobly born how to conceal their real feelings.

They passed through an archway into a long, gilded corridor. It was lined with portraits, starting with the latest official portrait of King George. A copy hung within every patriotic house in the land. Another showed Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of India, who was currently Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. His many conquests in India – painting the subcontinent pink – had earned him far more than just a comfortable position in the very heart of Britain. Gwen knew – from her mother’s gossip – that the Duke of India was tipped as a possible Prime Minster when Lord Liverpool finally shuffled off the mortal coil.