River Running Page 2

  “General Asher was too lenient in the Armistice terms,” Daniel said. “Your father would not have shown such mercy to officers of a traitorous force.”

  Jackson could only agree. Henry had not been a man of many mercies. The magemark’s burn intensified beneath his clothing. A tight, strangled feeling rose in his throat. He battened down the panic and faked a yawn to release himself from the conversation.

  Offense smoldered in Daniel’s eyes, but before he could speak, another voice interrupted them.

  “Jackson Coal, my condolences.” Never in his life had Jackson imagined he’d be relieved to see Wilcott Blazen’s rotund figure, but as the older man approached, Jackson eagerly took his offered hand as a distraction from Daniel. “If nothing else, Henry would have been pleased to be honored on such an auspicious day. Spring equinox, you know. Time to get the indigo in.”

  “Indeed. Thank you, sir. Much appreciated,” Jackson said emptily.

  “The war tore families apart, son. I am not alone in being glad it’s over. Welcome back to the side of the righteous. I believe in forgiveness.” Blazen’s plump cheeks rounded with his smile.

  Jackson’s relief evaporated. He couldn’t stomach more Brotherhood platitudes.

  Daniel Lake seemed unimpressed by Master Blazen’s goodwill. Typical: watermages and firemages rarely saw eye-to-eye, although Daniel had never opposed mingling the two elements in magical works the way Henry Coal had. While Henry had beaten Jackson for playing too often with watermage Lige, Daniel had often encouraged the boys to practice spellwork together.

  But Daniel was all haughtiness now. He lifted his sharp chin and said, “General Asher may have granted you amnesty, Master Coal, but I do not mistake amnesty for forgiveness. Forgiveness must be earned. Good day, Master Coal, Master Blazen.” Daniel stalked toward the other Brotherhood bigwigs gathered near the back of the hall— kissing Mistress Eugenia Clay’s black lace glove and exchanging a whisper with Master Ambrose Zephyr. All three sent Jackson poisonous glares.

  “Don’t mind Daniel Lake,” Wilcott Blazen said. “He’s only concerned about his son, Elijah.” Blazen shifted uneasily. “He’s been missing since the end of the war.”

  Though Jackson’s internal pressure was reaching its boiling point, he smiled thinly at Master Blazen and offered a silent prayer to the memory of Lige. Blazen, a firemage, had always been eccentric, existing at the fringes of High Family society. Henry Coal had eschewed him, calling him “that fat scientist who aspires to positions greater than his power warrants.” Thus Blazen was unaware of the close friendship between Jackson and Elijah.

  “I did not know Lige Lake was missing.” Jackson nearly gagged on the lie, but Lige’s little boy needed his protection. There was no way to protect a halfmage child without access to a fullmage’s privileges. Jackson had to act as though he’d had no contact with Lige in years. Not only that—he had to convince these Brotherhood men that he was truly contrite for espousing Leveler politics: daring to think all people—mage, mundane, or mixed—were equal.

  And he had to rid himself of this plaguing magemark that could betray him to any member of the Brotherhood. Jackson didn’t know much about magemarks, but he did know that every mage cast his own unique mark; he feared his father’s friends would recognize Henry’s work and the curse’s origin. Jackson’s neck itched terribly.

  “Master Blazen, is it true that your family studies the Nanu lore about magefire marks?” Jackson wished he’d been more elegant in broaching the subject, but Master Blazen appeared happy to discuss it.

  “Oh, yes, my boy! Indeed we do. It’s a bit of a specialty, if you will.”

  “My father shared an interest in such marks,” Jackson segued. “I think—it would be a fitting honor to his memory—” Jackson suppressed a choke “—if I, too, learned of them.”

  “That’s my boy, Jackson!” crowed Master Blazen. “Of course! Come to my plantation at Blazenfields for a visit. I’d love to have you. We have several important Nanu bark books on the topic, though of course, they’re only for family, very rare, you understand. I have written my own treatise as well. And you can meet my daughter, Leah. She’s a likely girl. Fire-born and everything.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Jackson’s right hand snapped up and scratched his neck. “Thank you, Master Blazen. You can’t imagine how—how much this means to me. I’ll call on you soon.”

  As sweat beaded on his forehead, Jackson fled the auditorium. Blazing Fires, how was he going to live like this? Constantly lying, camouflaging his true beliefs, hiding a halfmage boy and a magefire mark? It would drive him insane in weeks.

  Jackson tore from the Capitol building, gulping deep draughts of Savana’s humid, early spring air. He leaned against one of the white pillars that girded the steps and closed his eyes.

  “Major Coal?”

  Jackson’s eyes flew open. No one should be calling him Major anymore. The Leveler Army was abolished.

  “It is you. Major, you look awful.” Sergeant Andrew Bloom, one of the men in Jackson’s Leveler battalion, smiled from beneath a black top hat, its brim shadowing his nearly black skin. He was from the Sea Islands that ran along the Arcanan coast, where his people, the Akwa, indigo-trading immigrants from Western Alkebulan, had settled over a century ago to take advantage of Arcanan indigo and opportunity.

  “Don’t call me Major, Bloom. It’s dangerous for us both.”

  “Oh, I apologize. I didn’t think.”

  “You accepted the pardon?” Jackson asked.

  “Of course. I have a wife, a daughter on the islands. A dead man’s of no use to them.”

  Jackson nodded, but inside, emptiness threatened to overtake him. Andrew Bloom had a family. Something to live for. Not only that, he was gainfully employed; the Sea Island Akwa specialized in making magical indigo cloth—a byproduct of the indigo essence that powered Arcana’s own Indigo Wells. Bloom seemed content to be entrenched into that way of life, with a purpose, a mission, a family.

  Jackson had no employment beyond a pittance farmer—a living he’d managed to scrape together after he’d fled his home and before the war had begun. He had no wife, and now he never would. What woman would want a cursed creature? His life was barren of love and always would be. Cleansing Flames, what was he going to do with a child?

  “Major Coal? Are you all right?”

  Jackson blinked. “I’m well enough. How is your family, Bloom?”

  Bloom brightened. “My baby girl grew up while I was away fighting. When I left she was still in pinafores, but this morning, my wife and I interviewed governesses! My girl’s old enough for a governess, can you imagine?”

  “A governess?” Jackson stilled. A good governess might be what Lige’s boy needed. “Where did you find a governess?”

  “Right over there.” Bloom pointed south toward Four Scythes Park. “Peachtree Orphanage. They train orphan girls from good families, mage and mundane alike, give ‘em an education, and then hire ‘em out as governesses or companions or nurses. We got a good girl, and for cheap.”

  “Excellent,” Jackson murmured. “Will you excuse me, Bloom? I’ve several errands to complete while I’m in Savana. Stay in touch.”

  Three days later, Jackson rode up White Acre Street toward Peachtree Orphanage. When a carriage wheel clattered over the cobbles, he twitched. Any loud and unexpected noise made his jaw clench so tightly he feared he’d break a tooth.

  He loosened his hand on the reins. He could only use the right with any skill; the injured one remained bandaged, painful, and clumsy. He patted bluntly at the collar of his coat with the injured limb, ensuring the stiff wool was turned up to cover his neck.

  Riders and carriages and pedestrians blurred before his eyes. Even women were out —a sure sign that war’s terror was fading, here in Savana, if not in Jackson’s mind.

  The ladies, shaded by parasols, wore their widest hoops covered by sprigged lawns or taffetas; men sported swallowtail coats and top hats, arms angled as props for
gloved hands, offering their smiles to the fairer sex.

  How quickly we revert to old patterns to soothe the whiplash of change.

  Jackson had already sent word to Blue Hill that he would fetch Lige’s child in two days. Grey Lake—or rather, Grey Tailor, as he was called for his own protection—was “seven years old, a sullen boy.” So wrote the boy’s guardian, who seemed only too happy to turn Grey over to Jackson. “He is an odd child,” she’d written, “temperamental and given to strong fancies that he pursues doggedly despite all intervention. I surely do not know how to raise such a child.”

  Acid anxiety ate at Jackson’s stomach as he passed bucolic park picnics too peaceful to be believed. What did he know of children? Any man who couldn’t sleep through the night without waking in a terrified sweat had no business taking on a child.

  The banality of his task—hiring a governess!—made it the hardest thing he’d yet tried since returning to post-war Savana. Without the furious stakes of war, Jackson barely knew how to function. He’d dithered all morning before saddling his gelding, Beau, and riding for the orphanage, rehearsing his request in vague terms that would still gain what he needed: a woman he could trust, if such a person existed. He’d decided upon a good catch-all phrasing: I am guardian to a child with special needs, a war orphan who requires a compassionate soul to care for him.

  He practiced the words as he rode. Somehow the park had remained untouched by the Arcanan Army’s final march of destruction to the sea. Here, the magnolias had not burned, the statues remained intact, the verdant lawn was pristine and lush.

  Memories of destruction haunted Jackson all the same. He’d had to leave Lige’s ruined body at the Chalton explosion. Only a few charred upright struts of the Brotherhood Headquarters had remained—bricks and shattered glass had been blown everywhere. The circle of magnolia trees had smoldered and hissed.

  Before leaving, exhausted Jackson had gathered the frail remaining resources of his magic and connected to the Indigo Wells, the center of a fullmage’s magic. The physical embodiment of the Wells was an enormous compound in north Chalton, built decades ago as a result of the Joint Investiture of the Indigo Wells arranged in 1812 between the Nanu tribes and the Arcanan Congress. The indigo quintessence—the ethereal component of the indigo that powered a fullmage’s magic—was held in a massive tower in the center of that compound, separated into four quadrants for the four elements. It fed fullmage elemental magic all over Arcana. When a mage “tapped” the Wells, he accessed the indigo quintessence, an intangible substance that emanated from the physical well but could only be sensed with one’s magical power. The quintessence powered all fullmage spellwork, though each element had its own variety—in Jackson’s case, fire. On that day in Chalton, when the world had exploded, he’d gathered fire power from the Eternal Flame within the Indigo Wells and lit Lige’s body with it. This had been the final protection he could offer his friend; no one would know Elijah Lake had played double agent for the Leveler rebels.

  Lige might have preferred that his true allegiance become known—as an expression of morality or justice; he’d been that kind of man. Jackson was more pragmatic. If Lige’s last betrayal were discovered, it would put young Grey at greater risk. Better that Daniel Lake and the other Brotherhood officers believe Lige a loyal fullmage Brother gone missing. Why else had Jackson and Lige undertaken to destroy the Brotherhood’s file, if not to protect every Leveler spy—men like Andrew Bloom, who had returned safely home to his family as a result of Lige’s sacrifice?

  Jackson had lingered at the explosion site long enough to see his fire become a bier strong enough to burn his dearest friend’s body past recognition. He would take Lige’s secrets to the grave.

  Jackson blinked. He’d been stopped at the northern corner of Four Scythes Park for long moments, staring into the distance as traffic flowed around him. He urged his mount into motion to cross Huntington Street. At the hitching post, he dismounted and secured his horse before a large, shabby building. A sign above the door read: Dunne’s Peachtree Orphanage.

  Jackson took a deep breath. “I’ll be back, Beau. It’s time to find a governess.” He smoothed his horse’s muzzle with a gloved hand and mounted the front steps.

  Chapter 2

  Manda

  A scream echoed off the thin walls of Peachtree Orphanage, trailing down the banisters to the kitchen where Manda Rivers gripped the iron. The heavy item slipped from her fingers with a crash that could have raised the dead. The sheet she'd been ironing lay pinned beneath the blistering metal. A hole seared through the off-white linsey-woolsey, blackening at the edges.

  Mrs. Hurley would punish her for that.

  Manda picked up the iron, replacing it on the hearth, and dusted her hands on her apron, moving to the door of the hot kitchen. “Enid, what was that scream?”

  The young black-haired maid looked up from the grate of the adjoining room where she dusted ash into a tray. “I don’t know. I thought it came from outside.”

  “It sounded closer than the street.” They had all grown accustomed to unpleasant outdoor sounds during the war. The silence these days was a blessing. Manda glanced at the stairs behind Enid. The floorboards at the top creaked, and a muttered oath accompanied the opening of a door.

  “Cleansing Flames! What were you playing at, child?”

  Heavy footsteps plodded down the stairs. One of the teachers appeared, her skirts trailing the steps, a sobbing bundle in her arms.

  “What happened, Miss Fernn?” Manda moved toward the teacher and the child. It took her a moment to recognize the young orphan, a sandy-haired girl of five or six years named Frances Lily. Manda smoothed the hair from the girl's sweaty forehead.

  “She fell down the upper staircase as we let the youngers out from their snack time. I thought we’d send someone for the doctor, but you know how tight Mrs. Hurley is.” Miss Fernn shot a guilty glance up the stairs. “Not speaking ill of the dear woman, of course,” she quickly amended.

  Anger flicked through Manda. “Of course,” she repeated, raw sarcasm biting.

  Miss Fernn softened. “I'm sorry, Manda. I know Hurley doesn’t treat you real well. I wish—”

  “If wishes were magic, evil would die,” Manda quoted briskly. “Thank you for your concern. Bring Frances in here.” Manda motioned to the kitchen, and the teacher preceded her into the room.

  “I can't do anything with her,” Miss Fernn said. She sat the girl on the table, but Frances screamed when the woman jarred her leg.

  Manda picked up a bucket. “Leave her here, and bring me some water from the pumphouse, please.”

  Miss Fernn assessed the bucket. “What’re you going to do?”

  “Just water, please,” she said, her voice firm. Miss Fernn took the bucket, edging from the kitchen.

  “Now Frances,” Manda said, smiling, “how long have you been with us?” She gently laid the girl on the table, wadding up the sheet she had been ironing and stuffing it beneath Frances’s head.

  “Don’t know.” Frances gripped her apron, her knuckles white.

  “Is time flying that fast for you?” Manda asked, pulling Frances’s skirts to her knee and pushing the stocking down around her ankle. The leg was crooked, but no skin was broken. It was not the first break Manda had seen at the orphanage. Throughout the war, it had been hard to get nutritious food for the children, and their bodies had become vulnerable to illness and injury.

  “Have you had a chance to get to Four Scythes Park yet?” Manda asked the girl to distract her.

  “No’m.” Frances’s hazel eyes remained fixed on Manda.

  “Some geese live in the pond in the middle of the park. When you’re all better, we can go and feed them.” Manda snatched a threadbare towel from a tea cart and slid it beneath the girl’s leg.

  Manda’s memory trailed to her childhood, to a similar wound. Bitter Root, her mother’s Nanu friend and her own mentor, had found her lying in the creek below the cypress tree from which she
had fallen, her wrist snapped and crooked.

  Keep still, Bitter Root had said. Magic easier with stillness, keep pain away. Feel water, let settle inside. It have life. Water is life for unmade mage like you. See? Like this. The woman’s gnarled fingers had pulled Manda’s wet wrist from the water, wrapping Manda’s free hand around her own wrist. Easy. Feel your unmade magic. Easy.

  Bitter Root had been right; the magic—illegal, halfmage magic, what Bitter Root and the Nanu tribespeople called “unmade” power—had wrapped her wrist, passed through her skin, and sunk into her bones with ease, healing the wrist with a single snick as the bones snapped back together.

  Frances’s face was as white as a sheet. Manda tilted up the girl’s chin. “Look at me, child. Do you know what is funny about geese? They like to eat, and they’ll gobble up anything you bring them.”

  A tiny smile peeked from the girl’s face. Manda slid Frances’s boot and stocking from her foot. “They tried to eat my apron last time I went to the pond. An old fat one nearly got away with it, too.”

  Miss Fernn entered with the bucket, the water sloshing within it. Manda took it from her and dipped both hands in the liquid. Feel water, let settle inside. It had been many years since Bitter Root had first taught her. Water-healing was second nature now. “The gander tore my apron clean off my dress and waddled away, flapping his wings like he’d take it to the skies.”

  Beneath Manda’s fingers, the water turned into a living thing. Vitality shimmered in the drops, vibrating on her palms, shaking with energy. Manda angled her body so her back was to Miss Fernn, obstructing the teacher’s view, and she clasped her hands around Frances’s knee. The girl sucked in her breath with a sharp cry.

  “Still, now, be still,” Manda murmured. Magic easier with stillness. “The pain’s almost gone.” She willed the moisture through the girl’s skin, feeling her magic burrowing into every sinew and fiber of the muscles beneath her palms, dipping into the bone. It was a compound fracture; the bone had been severed right through. She kept her voice light. “I chased that gander, hair wild, skirts flying, and of course, all of Savana was strolling through the park that day. That gander went first, my apron followed after, and I was the last one through the crowd of onlookers, excusing myself like I was a daughter of the High Families with somewhere important to go.”