Modern Magick

The Fifth Britain: 14

The ballroom was already crowded by the time we arrived. We were among the last to squeeze our way into the vaulted chamber, and there was barely space enough for us. I was relieved to find Rob just inside the door, apparently on the watch for us. 'Is she all right?' he said at once, already reaching for Zareen.

'I'm fine,' said Zar, and she was recovering by then, though still rather weak. She straightened up, shaking me off, and lifted her chin. Her eyes, thankfully, were normal again.

Mercer had revived after a couple of minutes, but refused to come with us. He'd staggered off into the bowels of the castle, and we had let him go.

Rob nodded. 'Trouble?'

Zareen gave him a quick account of the ten (or more) Waymasters she had sensed locked into the walls, and I watched as Rob's face grew very grave. 'Ten Waymasters ought to be enough to move a castle, wouldn't you think?' he said when she had finished.

'Fair chance of it.'

A small stage occupied the far end of the ballroom, raised up very high. A smattering of applause broke out as a woman strode out onto it, dressed in a dazzling gown that glittered like the night sky. When her identity became clear, the applause became thunderous.

I was too astonished to move.

'That's Fenella Beaumont,' I hissed.

Let me tell you about the Beaumonts. They were a powerful magickal family some few hundred years ago, and Ashdown Castle had been their principal seat for many generations. But they'd withered away down the ages; their powers and their fortune had declined at about equal rates, and most of them had died out. Fenella Beaumont was one of only two surviving members of the family — and she had not been seen or heard from in so long, some had begun to say she, too, was dead.

Well, she wasn't. With her silvery hair swept up in a fairy-tale style and her still slender figure encased in sparkling velvet, she was causing a sensation up on the stage.

'Welcome to my ancestral home!' she said, when at last the applause began to die down. 'It is a pleasure to see my beloved Ashdown Castle not only restored to its former glory but also hosting such a distinguished set of guests. I hope you have all been suitably supplied with champagne?'

A roar of assent.

'Her home?' I whispered to Rob. 'Ancestria Magicka bought this place last year.'

'From Everett Beaumont,' said Rob. 'Her uncle.'

Everett Beaumont was famously destitute, hence the appalling state of disrepair the castle had fallen into — and its sale. Fenella Beaumont was as broke as the rest of them, so what was she doing up there in a designer gown, diamonds flashing at her ears and throat?

'Let me introduce you to Ancestria Magicka,' Fenella was saying, flashing a charming smile. 'Many have called for a progressive, forward-thinking organisation for the magickal among us. Many have chafed against the needless restrictions laid down by our sisters and brothers at the Ministry, among the Courts of the Fae, and the many other establishments tasked with the protection and preservation of our kind. And they do fine work, do they not? But it isn't enough.' Fenella began to pace back and forth across the stage. A good move, I had to admit: she had a fluid, graceful stride, and the sparkle sent up by her gown and her jewels had a nearly mesmeric quality. 'It isn't enough to be safe. It isn't enough to be careful. If we want to regain what we've lost, well, somebody has to take risks!'

She stopped, and looked seriously out over her audience. 'We all know what we've lost, don't we? Our arts have declined with every passing century, smothered by the relentless rise of modernity and technology. Even the greatest of our living practitioners has nothing to compare with the witches and sorcerers, the waymasters and necromancers, of ages long past. This isn't right. Where will we be in another hundred years? Another two centuries? Will there be anything of magick left?