Wayward Page 7

  “Green!” someone cried, as balls of a fifth colour intermingled with the others.

  Write-in candidates were not unheard of. Society Presidents often went on to have illustrious careers in a variety of fields, and opportunities abounded. It was no mystery some members campaigned hard even after they failed to make the ballot.

  But a significant number of balls were in at least four of the colours. Jupitus spoke over the chatter; something jovial about ambitious members. The watching Successors were splitting ever more into two groups: those shocked and curious at the turn of events, and those watching quietly. Some of the latter were buzzing with excitement themselves; others threw looks of outrage at Lev and Virgil, which grew in number as they whispered to one another.

  When the cascade of balls ended, Jan and Helia removed the box and placed the five jars of balls before Fisk, in order. This took longer than the crowd had patience for, and involved some counting and discussion between Helia and Jan. As they eventually arranged the bowls, whispers of the problem trickled through the onlookers to Cassia and Lev: three of the candidates had scored the exact same number of votes, and the winner had scraped a victory by one. Cassia shot a questioning glance at Lev, but he missed it; he was looking at Virgil, who was rubbing his eyes in a defeated gesture. A ridiculous fear popped into Cassia’s head. She banished it immediately.

  The spectacle of magic was not at an end. Starting with the clear loser, the bowl of green balls, Jupitus wrapped his fingers around the rim and cast the simpler enchantment that would carve the name of the nominee into the bowl. His face betrayed mild surprise as he turned it to face the crowd.

  Cassia’s betrayed significant surprise when the bowl read Lev Mallory. Any eyes that weren’t already on him swung round. Lev grinned broadly and shrugged.

  As a spatter of applause filled the room, he leaned close to Cassia and said, “Next time, I’m sure.”

  Humour lit his dark eyes as he winked at her.

  Jupitus moved on to the next bowl. Elric Verda was not nearly as gracious. He muttered something through gritted teeth and stalked off the dais. Cassia heard a nearby Successor whisper that he would age out of the Society before the next election.

  The candidate to place third was August Ledford. He struggled to mask his disappointment, but shook the remaining candidate’s hand and Jupitus’s before he joined his friends in the crowd, who clapped him on the back and threw their arms around his shoulders. Cassia looked again for Jasper, who should have been that support after her initiation. He was on the far side of the room, looking bored.

  Pella Olin and a write-in remained in the running. The members had fallen into silence. Cassia’s pulse skipped pleasantly. Drama in this city often meant death; the chance to indulge in something so frivolous as a coup for the presidency of the Society of Young Gifted Sorcerers – a bloodless coup, conducted among youths – was impossible to resist. She was sure Pella was nice enough, but she hoped she would lose.

  And she did.

  When Jupitus turned the second-to-last bowl around, the room erupted. Elric grumbled loudly about the race being rigged, and got some support from those in the room who were the most surprised. They were quieted by a vehement dismissal from Jupitus.

  “The right to run if one is not on the ballot is enshrined in Society law and has been for hundreds of years,” he said. Quiet descended. “This is a hallowed democratic process and all members will honour the result.”

  As Pella was clapped off the stage, Jupitus put a hand on the rim of the final bowl and conducted the spell again. He had been composed and unperturbed about the success of the write-in, projecting dutiful indifference even as the excitement in the room grew and grew. But his efforts jolted to a sudden end when the name appeared on his side of the bowl. His lips thinned to a tight line, the silver in his eyes turned to ice. The hairs on Cassia’s neck stood on end, and she took an involuntary step back. Jupitus’s expression alarmed a lot of the audience, but only Cassia knew how truly furious he was.

  The last time she had seen his face so marred was when…

  Wordlessly, Jupitus turned the bowl around, and the impossible suspicion that had burst into Cassia’s mind earlier was confirmed.

  The new President of the Society of Young Gifted Sorcerers was Ollivan Sims.

  Cassia looked at Lev. Lev looked at Virgil. Virgil sighed and vanished in place, transporting himself to stars knew where.

  Jupitus’s white-knuckled grip tightened on the edge of the bowl before he sent it crashing to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces.

  7

  When Ollivan and Virgil transported into the entrance hall of the Wending Place, the first thing Ollivan heard was the smash of glass.

  So his grandfather was here. Excellent.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the old man bellowed.

  Ollivan briefly checked his hair in the mirror and stepped into the doorway of the grand parlour. “I believe I can answer that, Grandfather.”

  He couldn’t help the joy that rose in him as the members of the Society of Young Gifted Sorcerers turned as one to look at him, parting in the centre to reveal the shattered ballot bowl at the foot of the dais.

  And above it, pale as snow and angry as a dragon, was High Sorcerer Jupitus Fisk. His grandfather.

  Ollivan broke into a smile. He hadn’t seen him in a year, after all.

  “Ollivan.” Jupitus’s voice was deceptively level. Now that he knew Ollivan himself was to blame for the election coup, the worst thing he could do was lose his temper further. “This is a surprise. An unfortunate one, I’m afraid, as you have no business here.”

  He made a gesture, and his enforcers advanced towards Ollivan. Jupitus never went anywhere without a handful of his most trusted militia. It increased his ability to intimidate. Few would dare to acknowledge that the High Sorcerer was also losing his edge, and relied on the enforcers for protection. Among those who did was Ollivan, who did not flinch like those around him as the militia came forward.

  “I have more business here than anyone,” he said, gesturing to the purple glass balls on the floor. “In fact, the charter for the Society of Young Gifted Sorcerers would find me essential. Isn’t that right, Jan?”

  Jan Lenniker had taken several slow steps back and off the dais when Ollivan made his entrance, and Ollivan didn’t blame him. He’d voted for him. If Ollivan were Jan, he’d be keeping his distance from the High Sorcerer too.

  Jan sighed defeatedly and addressed Jupitus, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “As you’re no doubt aware, High Sorcerer, our charter is magically binding. If the winning nominee isn’t inaugurated and awarded the pin at the election ceremony, the Wending Place will eject all Successors from within and seal the doors. The, uh, manner of the ejection is unclear, but the charter hints that it could be… painful.”

  The Successors stirred. The enforcers encroaching on Ollivan halted; one even rerouted to be closer to the door.

  “I’m familiar with the charter, Mr Lenniker, but be that as it may, my grandson is not a legal nominee.” He set his coldest glare on Ollivan, for only him to see. “He is banished.”

  Ollivan winced sympathetically. “Jan.”

  Jan looked skywards and muttered a curse. “I’m afraid, High Sorcerer, that banishment, or in fact any wrongdoing which leads to banishment, does not automatically revoke Society membership or otherwise make one ineligible to run for President.”

  “Get me the stars-damned charter,” snapped Jupitus before Jan had even finished speaking.

  “That’s funny, I thought you were familiar with the charter,” said Ollivan as Jan dashed off to fetch it. “Never mind, why don’t I tell you what it says?” He gripped his hands behind his back and paced slowly before the dais. “The charter of the Society of Young Gifted Sorcerers – a document written by six of our first and perhaps most pretentious members and enshrined in magic over five hundred years ago – requires only two things of a presidential nominee. That they have been a member for more than a year, and that they are younger than twenty, and so won’t age out of the Society before their two-year term has ended. What the charter requires of the President, though, is where it gets interesting.

  “The things required of the President are as follows: that they are present at the inauguration ceremony, which I am; that they accept the post willingly and knowingly, which I do; that they attend a minimum of four in five Society meetings for the duration of their term, which I will; and” – he paused in his pacing and faced the dais – “that they live in the Heart.”

  A smile relaxed Jupitus’s face. “Which you do not,” he said. “And therefore you are ineligible.”

  “Yes, one would think so. It probably would have been the sensible thing to do, but I suppose that’s the type of oversight that happens when you uphold a document written several centuries ago by self-important fifteen-year-olds who we can reasonably assume were drinking large quantities of mead at the time, since they spilled a great deal of it across pages six to eleven. One does not have to live in the Heart to be granted the presidency, but one does have to live here while they hold the post.”

  Jan returned with the charter and handed it to Jupitus.

  “Page eight,” said Ollivan helpfully. “Careful of the sticky parts.”

  “But you’re banished!” bellowed someone on his right. It was Elric Verda. The boy had turned the exact same shade of purple as the glass balls scattered across the floor. “You can’t live in the Heart.”

  “I’m afraid I must. If I am the President I must live here, and if I am not the President, according to the people in this room, then I suggest we all make a swift exit before forces unknown drag us from these halls, because I can assure you, the Wending Place feels
very strongly that I am.”

  Ollivan might have cast some magic to make the frame of the building groan at that moment, but there was no need. The delay in presenting him the pin already seemed to irk the old, spelled house, and an unnatural draft could be heard whistling through the nooks and crannies of the upstairs rooms before sweeping into the grand parlour and setting everyone’s evening attire fluttering. Several guests elected to leave. More than one Successor shouted to give Ollivan the stars-damned pin already.

  By his stars, Ollivan loved magic.

  Jupitus ignored the agitation of the house and levelled his gaze across the top of the charter at his grandson. “Miss Radlin,” he said. “When my grandson was banished from the Witherward and into the Otherworld, did you not think it fitting to also revoke his membership of the Society?”

  It was a credit to Helia Radlin, the outgoing President, that she answered honestly, and kept her head held high. “No, High Sorcerer, I didn’t. I’m sure you can understand that… this never occurred to me. Besides” – she shot a glance at Jan – “upholding Society bylaws is the Secretary’s job.”

  “Stars damn you, Helia,” snapped Jan. “Since we’re so concerned with the specifics of the charter, let me just find the line where it says to make sure I revoke the membership of all murderers.”

  “I’m not a murderer,” snapped Ollivan before the word had fully left Jan’s lips. The room quieted. So the rumour was out. Pity; Ollivan had been enjoying having all eyes on him until that moment. He forced a smile that felt painful on his face and pressed on.

  “Miss Radlin,” Jupitus said, speaking with an authority that told Ollivan what he was going to say next. “Would you be so good as to perform your moral duty and revoke Ollivan Sims’ membership at once?”

  Helia hesitated. Ollivan laughed. “She can do what she pleases – or should I say what you please – but I’m afraid, High Sorcerer” – he gestured to the ceiling, heart soaring as an even stronger draft rattled the windows and slammed the door closed – “that Helia is no longer the President of the Society of Young Gifted Sorcerers.” He spread his arms, as if anyone could have missed him. “I am.”

  8

  That would teach Cassia for thinking an evening couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  The tiny upside, if Cassia chose to see it, was that her grandfather was far too distracted to notice her slip out around the time they were pinning the President’s pin to her banished brother’s lapel.

  She alighted from the carriage in front of the Sims’ red-brick townhouse and climbed the steps, wearily acknowledging the militia guards on duty. Silently, so as not to rouse attention, Cassia went up to her room, where she clicked the door shut behind her with the utmost delicacy. Then she threw off her coat and shoes, and sank face first onto her bed. With her head pressed into the pillow, Cassia bellowed a scream.

  There was a knock at the door.

  She hadn’t managed to sneak in after all. Alana entered and hovered in the doorway, looking at her daughter like any sudden movements would scare her away.

  They both knew what Alana wished to ask.

  “I failed.”

  “You’ll have other chances,” came the reply far too quickly, and Cassia realised: all her talk of becoming President, and her mother had not believed Cassia would be initiated. She had not expected of her daughter what had been expected of her, of Ollivan, of everyone they knew. Because Cassia wasn’t one of them.

  “Not many,” Cassia mumbled.

  “Enough. And a whole other year to work on it. You’re descended from strong magic, Cassia, you should be able to cobble together a flashy spell to make the members cheer, for stars’ sake.” She finished with a laugh, but it was tainted with frustration.

  “Well.” Cassia went to her dressing table, unpinned her hair and removed her earrings, and tried to take her mother’s words the way Alana had hoped she would hear them, and not the way they came out. “Perhaps I should be able to. But I can’t.”

  “Is Jasper not a good tutor?”

  “It’s not Jasper.”

  “Perhaps if we hired back the older fellow.”

  “It’s not Jasper, Mother.” Cassia threw her earrings down in the rough vicinity of the trinket bowl in which she kept them. “It’s me.”

  Alana didn’t respond right away, which was all the response that was necessary. She perched on the edge of Cassia’s bed; a sure sign this conversation wouldn’t be over in a hurry.

  “I think, perhaps,” Alana said carefully, “that focusing all your energy onto the Society isn’t the best use of your time here. It’s not the most important thing in the world, after all.”

  “Perhaps that’s true, but even if it were, how would you know?” She turned to face her in challenge. “You passed the initiation first time. So did Father, so did Grandfather, and so did—”

  Ollivan. Her mother didn’t know. Alana noticed the hesitation, her posture stiffening the way it always did at the risk of mentioning her firstborn. They didn’t speak of him; they hadn’t in a year.

  Cassia didn’t want to be the one to tell her mother that Ollivan was back. She didn’t want to see whatever emotions crossed her face.

  “The point is,” she went on, scrabbling for her train of thought, “that it’s different for you. You’re the next High Sorcerer. You earned your place here. You’re… respected.”

  “And you’re my daughter. There’s respect attached to that too.”

  Cassia studied her. “Is that what you think? Is that how you imagine my life is?”

  “All I can do is imagine, Cassia,” said Alana blandly. “I hardly know you.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  The words were out before she could consider them, but in the aftermath, Cassia knew she was trying to hurt her. Perhaps it was a blessing that it didn’t appear to work.

  “My own, probably,” said her mother. “The stars know I was stretched too thin even before Hester dropped you back on our doorstep.”

  “I brought myself back. I wanted to be here. And I’m sorry it’s such an inconvenience to you.”

  “Cassia. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  It wasn’t a denial. Cassia waited for her to go on, but Alana was massaging her temples like one of her headaches was coming on. She was about to lose interest in the conversation altogether.

  “Let’s not fight,” she said, right on cue. “I was simply suggesting that you waste less energy obsessing over joining the Society. All too soon you’ll be on your way back to Camden and I—”

  “I haven’t decided that, yet,” Cassia cut in.

  She had said it enough times. Still, something in her reached out for the idea of going back and wrapped its jaws around it. It wasn’t what she really wanted, she reminded herself. There had been people at the Zoo – Hester, Gedeon, Fyfe – who treated her like family, so of course she missed them. Of course, in her loneliness, those memories were the strongest.

  But she had had only half a happy life in Camden, marred by an inescapable distance, as if she lived behind glass. She’d felt it every morning she practised her magic in a different room than her friends; every time someone whispered “that’s the Sorcerer child” as she passed; every time they talked about the centuries of fraught history that separated them, the Changelings, from the Psi, and the Wraiths, and the Sorcerers. If she had less happiness here in the Heart, it was only because she hadn’t proved herself yet. She hadn’t shown them that she wasn’t a Changeling. But these were her people. If Cassia couldn’t belong here, then she couldn’t belong anywhere.

  Alana looked at her pityingly. “And what if your grandfather decides returning to the Zoo is the best thing for you?”

  For you. There it was again. Neither of them was under the illusion that the decision would be made in Cassia’s best interests. The only reason she kept insisting that she hadn’t made up her mind about her future yet was the childish hope that if she said it enough times it would be true; the choice would miraculously be hers.

  Maybe it would be. Maybe there was a way Cassia could take her life into her own hands, but if there was, she hadn’t found it yet. Her request to come back to the Heart had only been granted on Hester Ravenswood’s insistence that it would benefit everybody, and the promise that the Zoo would welcome her back should Jupitus see fit. She wasn’t sure Hester could help her if that was the case.