The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil Read online

  “A pin, with an anchor on his own person, from your reaction. Fuck,” Jonathan said, looking unhappy. “I was hoping it was an amateur making mischief. But not with a pin and anchor.” He looked up at Timothy, gentling his gaze and speaking in the voice Timothy had only heard him use when he was trying to talk a private with a mortal wound out of panic. “It’s very important you don’t fight this. I suspect you’re upset right now, if you managed to retain any of your will at all, but you need to heed me, mira: do not fight the spell. You can go mad. I’ve seen it happen, and if you go there, I can’t bring you back. Just ride it, and trust me as you know you can.” He reached out and took Timothy’s hands gently in his own. “There’s an alchemist in the inn yard. It’s important we go down to greet him and that you do exactly what he orders you to do, even if you think it’s going to hurt me. You cannot disobey him. Tell me you understand. Nod, if that’s all you can manage.”

  Timothy was breathing hard. No, he didn’t understand. This was insane! Spell! He wanted to shout at Jonathan that he was not enchanted! He was not! His breath came out in short, tense puffs of air, and his eyes began to burn.

  Jonathan squeezed his hands tighter. “Daghata, Timothy. Hold on for me. Do not let some slimy little alchemist beat you.”

  Timothy huffed out another breath, and a tear ran down his cheek. He means to hurt you, and I cannot stop it. I cannot even warn you!

  Jonathan reached up to touch Timothy’s cheek. “It will be fine. I promise you. But you must promise me you will not fight. Gata, mira? Do not fight, not until I free you. And do not worry for me. I will be safe, I swear.” He let go of Timothy and touched his own shirtfront. “You have seen my medallion. I told you it was from an old friend, and that’s true. It’s just that it’s from an old friend who was at that time training with a witch, the very one we are here to see. It isn’t just a medallion, Timothy; it’s a charm, one of the most powerful kinds my country makes. Everyone wears them here to ward off what just happened to you. I should have thought of it sooner and procured one for you. I’m sorry I didn’t. It’s not uncommon for a local to try and enchant a foreigner, but generally it’s harmless, and you look dangerous enough that I didn’t think they’d take you on. I never thought there would be an alchemist here. They never come this far north.”

  Timothy’s breath had begun to even out through Jonathan’s speech, the low, gentle tones soothing Timothy’s jangled nerves. He felt as if he were less separated now, though he could still feel the bands of the enchantment—or whatever it was—tempering his abilities. He began to understand why Jonathan was so insistent he not fight; it hadn’t been his imagination that he was separated from himself. But he couldn’t just surrender. That would make him more insane than fighting.

  Shutting his eyes, Timothy drew a deep breath, drawing on his old training, on his own “magic,” on the control and will that had kept him alive in the Cloister camps. He wasn’t warning Jonathan. He was luring him down to the inn yard as he was meant to. He was telling him everything so that he would move more quickly. He needed to tell him everything. He needed to be certain he went down to meet the stranger.

  Both strangers. He needed to tell about both strangers.

  Timothy felt the spell rising up to stop him, so he whispered quickly before it could. “Brother. Your brother.”

  His arm began to ache, and he clutched it as he cried out. Jonathan swore and gripped his hand. “I told you not to fight it!” But there was a new urgency in his tone as he went on. “Brother? My brother? You don’t even—No. He would never come back here.” He ran a hand over his mouth, then laughed blackly. “But an alchemist would bring him. And if anyone could be goat led—Fuck.”

  Still clutching his arm, Timothy stepped back as Jonathan used the walking stick to push to his feet. Timothy’s head was pounding, and he felt heavy, as if he were full of water. Jonathan glanced at him, paled, and took his arm again.

  “Do not fight it. This is not the time to play proud Catalian. If it helps you, I have a plan, but I can’t explain it to you because if I do, you’ll be obliged to sabotage it.” He reached into Timothy’s pocket and withdrew one of his finger knives, unfolding it before carefully placing it on Timothy’s finger. “You need to wear this, Timothy, to keep me in line. Because you know you must make certain I meet this man. You must use whatever force you need to. And you must not fight it. It will be all right, Timothy, so long as you follow his instructions. You’re going to lead me down now, and I’m unarmed, aren’t I? I don’t have any weapons. I’m too weak to lift them, aren’t I?”

  Timothy was finding it difficult to breathe. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, though more from fighting the enchantment than anything else. He wanted to weep, but he was having a difficult time holding on to himself.

  Jonathan drew Timothy’s unarmed hand up to his mouth and placed a kiss on the back of it.

  Now Timothy was weeping. That was not an erotic gesture—he’d given up on receiving any of those from Jonathan long ago—but it was the most humble, sincere sort of Catalian apology, and it broke Timothy. You’ve done nothing wrong! Timothy wanted to shout at Jonathan. It’s me who is betraying you!

  As if he had heard him, Jonathan smiled ruefully and shook his head. “No, Timothy. This is my country, and I know how it works, and it was I who failed to better prepare you. I have been selfish, because there is much I don’t want you to know about my life here. I’m apologizing because if I had been forthright with you, none of this would be happening. It is my pride this time, and I am very sorry it has brought you to this, because I know better than anyone how much this is tearing at you. I know you don’t believe in magic, and I know you hate this country. But I do believe, and I know what is waiting for us below.” He squeezed Timothy’s hand again. “Trust me, mira. Trust me as you have done before. Let go. Let the spell take you. I promise I will bring you back again.”

  Timothy didn’t want to let go. He wanted to keep fighting. But the waves were closing over his head now, and he could feel the fragile threads of his sanity beginning to unravel.

  Help me, he cried, though to whom he didn’t know.

  He felt soft, gentle hands rest on his shoulders; they stilled him, and they quieted his mind.

  “Daghata.”

  The voice appeared in his head as if it were his own thought. Perhaps it was.

  “Daghata, Raturjula D’lor. Daghata dur hi.”

  It was a woman’s voice, one he did not know, one that decidedly did not belong in his head, but it felt wonderful and soothing. My native tongue and my true name both—almost my name, anyway. The voice was softer and yet stronger than the spell, like a current flowing beneath it, a river no enchantment could ever reach. He didn’t understand what it was or how it was inside him, but he didn’t care. He could not surrender to a spell. But he found he could, quite easily, surrender to this.

  “Ma nur qu’in alah hjarta,” he whispered. He held fast to the sound of her voice, focused on the place he found her inside of him; Timothy’s eyes fell closed, and he let out a long, ragged sigh as he let himself go, sinking down past the enchantment and into the golden abyss.

  Soft, but very strong.

  Thin, feminine arms caught Timothy, but they were by no means frail or weak. He looked up at the woman who had caught him, but he could not see her face; it was veiled, allowing him to see through to her eyes and mouth to recognize that she was smiling and looking at him fondly, but he could not see her features distinctly. She glowed as if she, not her clothes, were luminescent.

  I don’t understand, Timothy tried to say, but she put her finger over his lips. The gesture was oddly comforting.

  “Do not try to speak,” she said. She righted him so that he stood beside her. They were of exactly equal height, though she seemed much, much taller. She smiled through her veil and took his hand. “We will walk now. You must not fight, not until it is time.”

  She didn’t wait for him to agree; she simply stepped for
ward, and Timothy came along with her before he realized what he was doing. For a moment he thought they were in a sort of forest, a real forest as they had back home, not these dour, muddy patches of damp and half-rotted wood. But then, no, they were at the inn again, and he was walking down the hall, Jonathan on his left, the strange woman on his right. Jonathan moved haltingly because of his injury; the woman had no trouble at all, not even with the walls. If Jonathan nudged her toward one, she simply went through it. And from Jonathan’s extraordinary lack of reaction to a gold-glowing woman of astonishing height walking through walls, Timothy had to assume he couldn’t see her, which probably meant he hadn’t heard her speak, either.

  Timothy tried to frown. This didn’t make sense.

  The woman tightened her hand on Timothy’s arm. “This is not the time for questions. This is the time for trust. Your friend has asked you to cede to his wisdom in this matter. It will go badly for everyone if you fail to do this.”

  Timothy wanted to ask who she was, to demand she explain what was going on, but he didn’t, in part because he knew she would just admonish him again, and in part because he felt so heavy. Jonathan made it look as if it were he leaning on Timothy as they came down the stairs and entered the pub room, but despite his mira’s injuries, it was the other way around. Timothy felt as if he were barely holding on, as if he might slide away at any moment. Sometimes he thought he could see it, a black chasm that opened up beneath his feet, a sucking darkness that would have claimed him were it not for Jonathan on the one side and the strange golden creature on the other.

  It isn’t logical! Timothy wanted to shout. He whimpered instead.

  “Do not fight it, or you will be sucked down and much will be lost, Raturjula,” the woman said.

  Jonathan leaned over as well, whispering to him as they passed through the now crowded pub room toward the door. “This will be my brother Charles outside, Timothy. We have an odd, unfortunate history. It’s strange that he is here. He swore he would never come again, and I don’t blame him.” He nodded to the curious eyes watching them, then spoke in Catalian. “The people here are very provincial. They fancy themselves religious because they have a powerful witch in residence, a witch so powerful she is on the witches’ Council. This particular parish is very, very pious. They are strict with rules and order. Aberrations frighten them, but fortunately for us, my family frightens them more. We are their ruling House, and the people know our history, and unlike most parishes, Rothborne still believes in the old magic because they see it every day. You have an advantage in being my equerry. If anything happens to me, produce your seal. Use it to command safe haven.”

  Jonathan kept speaking, his voice a soothing monotone, an anchor Timothy could hang his aching mind on. Jonathan, he knew, was simply trying to keep him occupied—telling him things, giving him information, yes, but mostly just talking to engage him. He was whispering now, but he did not stop talking. “Now we are out the door,” Jonathan was saying. “Now we are at the inn yard. I see my brother ahead. Hold on, Timothy. Hold fast.”

  Timothy’s head lolled as he tried to lift it to see. He wanted to see the man again. “Something wrong with him,” he croaked in Catalian. “With your brother. Needs help.”

  “Shh,” Jonathan said. “Remember, we are here to do whatever the alchemist wants. You won’t break his spell, and you won’t fight it. We are cooperating.”

  I want to help. I want to help your brother. The black chasm opened before him again in his mind’s eye, and he felt himself starting to go down.

  The woman pulled hard and fast on his arm. “You will have your moment to offer assistance to the beloved, but this is not that moment.”

  She had spoken in Catalian, and yet it was dialect he had never heard, containing strange echoes that seemed to go back to the dawn of time. The beloved? He frowned at her, but she only smiled and reached up to stroke his face.

  “Daghata, Raturjula D’lor.”

  Timothy frowned harder at that, because that was the second time she’d called him D’lor. But then the pin in his arm began to ache, and he felt his head swing around in time to see the strangers from the pub room emerge from the shadows. Timothy wanted to look at the one who had said he was Jonathan’s brother—Charles, Jonathan had called him—but he could only look at the other, the taller, thinner one, standing in the center of the yard, smiling serenely with his hands tucked into his pockets.

  The alchemist.

  “Welcome home, Jonathan Perry,” he said, removing one hand from his pocket to place it over his abdomen as he made a formal bow. “Allow me to introduce myself; I am Martin Smith, a practical alchemist.”

  “Ah.” Jonathan spoke casually. “I did wonder what a guild alchemist would be doing this far north. Now I understand: you are one of the renegades.”

  Smith waved his hand airily. “We prefer practical alchemists, but yes, you are correct. I am not of the guild.” The alchemist’s eyes darkened; both Timothy and Charles swayed as the alchemist spoke again. “We have business between us, Jonathan Perry.”

  Jonathan walked forward, and Timothy came along, his feet all but floating off the ground. The chasm below him was huge now, sucking so hard he felt it in the center of his chest. He looked up at Jonathan’s brother, wondering if he felt it too. He couldn’t tell; Charles Perry simply looked dull and lost, and he kept his head down. Jonathan, however, seemed entirely unaffected, and he continued with Timothy at his side out to the place where the alchemist stood, his only hindrance his ruined leg.

  “I can’t see what business I have with an alchemist,” Jonathan replied breezily. “I’m here only for a brief visit; I was injured in the war, and I come to seek healing from the Morgan. I doubt she will willingly tolerate any alchemists in her parish, practical or otherwise.”

  The note of warning in Jonathan’s voice made Timothy think the alchemist would be apprehensive, but Smith in fact only seemed to gloat more. “Oh, this is unfortunate. I suppose you would not have heard, having been not just out of the parish but of the country. The Morgan is dead. Her Apprentice is standing in her place.” Timothy felt Jonathan’s shock at the news; even as he was still reeling, the alchemist went on. “You might be happier for it, however; her Apprentice is an old friend of yours, I understand. Madeline Elliott.”

  Jonathan’s knee gave way, and he leaned hard on Timothy, who in turn had to lean on the woman or he would have fallen to the ground. Jonathan was shaking. Whoever this Apprentice was, the mere mention of her made him very upset. Timothy wanted to comfort him, but he felt the spell pushing at him, holding him back. The vortex in his mind opened wider, and he felt now as if he stood on the edge of a knife, high wind whipping all around him. Only the glowing woman kept him from teetering away.

  “Stop it.” Jonathan regained his footing and propped Timothy up again. “Stop pushing on his mind. You have me here before you, which is what you wanted. There is no need to torture my equerry.”

  “No, there is no need,” Smith conceded, “but it does seem to alleviate some of my frustration at not being able to enchant you. Besides,” he added, smiling wickedly at Timothy, “he’s something of a collector’s piece, isn’t he? A Catalian pleasure slave. I thought they had all been tortured to death in the Cloister camps, and yet here he is.”

  Court concubine, Timothy tried to growl at him, but he no more than formed the angry thought and he was reeling again, crying out and sagging between Jonathan and the woman’s arms as his head threatened to split in two.

  Smith was laughing. Timothy lifted his head and saw, through blurred vision, Smith leering at him, tucking both hands into his pockets. “And such will. I must have him as soon as I deal with you, Mr. Perry. The possibilities simply enchant me.”

  “And how do you propose to deal with me?” Jonathan had shifted his grip on Timothy’s arm, gently forcing Timothy’s hand open, and with the gesture opening the finger knife mechanism as well.

  Smith pulled his hands from his pockets
and guided Charles out in front of him, holding him firmly in place by the shoulders. “With my little pet,” he said, then yanked hard on the back of Charles’s hair, lifting his face.

  The pale, dull eyes were no longer blue. They had no iris or pupil, and they glowed a hot, angry gold.

  Beside Timothy, Jonathan tensed, then buckled. Then Jonathan roared.

  “Yes!” Smith cried. He lifted one of Charles’s arms, which Timothy realized held a sword; the alchemist murmured a word, and Charles lifted it up farther on his own, ready to strike.

  Jonathan straightened, no longer hampered by his injury. He pushed the release button on the side of his walking stick, sending the casing skittering away on the ground as he raised his own blade. Timothy caught a look at Jonathan, and he staggered back at the ferocious expression on his face and the unnatural red light of his companion’s eyes.

  “Daghata,” the gold woman whispered, holding Timothy up the way Smith was holding Charles, though by his arms, not by his hair. She kept Timothy’s hand inside Jonathan’s grip by the force of her own. “It is almost time. Keep your hand in his. It is almost time to fight.”

  Timothy didn’t want to keep his hand in Jonathan’s. “I have a demon inside of me,” Jonathan had said. Timothy had always assumed Jonathan was being metaphorical. And yet if Timothy had to describe what he was looking at now, he would have to say he was looking at something demonic. It was not a virus. Not an infection. There was something else wearing Jonathan’s skin. Something dark and terrible.

  A demon. He was not standing next to Jonathan. He was standing next to a demon.

  And then, like the flicker of a flame, it was Jonathan again, just for a moment. Then it happened again, and again. Charles Perry had nearly drawn the sword fully over his head, and he still looked completely possessed by the alchemist’s spell, but Jonathan was fighting whatever had come over him. The flicker became a beam; the demon vanished, and Jonathan turned to Timothy, wrapping his hand tighter around his friend’s wrist.