Short Stories from the Network Series Read online

  “Your Greatness. You have a visitor.”

  Marten waited just behind Nasir, his hands folded in front of him. His arms itched. Sweat beaded on his neck and trickled into his shirt collar. The hot, dusty air of the Western Network made his throat tickle—he longed for a deep, cool glass of water. But he’d take no form of refreshment from Mabel.

  He came for only one thing. This exchange wouldn’t last long.

  Mabel straightened, as if surprised. “Marten? What a lovely surprise.”

  “Is it?”

  Mabel smiled with full, ruby red lips, though the haughtiness in her glacial eyes remained unchanged. Despite the heat, everything about her reminded him of the lakes of black ice boasted by the Southern Network. Cold. Dangerous.

  Marten advanced into the room several steps, leaving Nasir on the floor behind him. “A lovely home you have here.” He cast his eyes around the room, chilling in its austerity. He couldn’t imagine what horrors she enjoyed committing from such a throne.

  She waved a hand. “It’s a work in progress.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You came on behalf of Mildred, I presume?” she drawled. “I can’t imagine you’d venture to the Western Network for any personal reasons. Oh, wait. Mildred is a personal reason for you, isn’t she? Our loyal, well-deserving High Priestess who never breaks tradition.”

  He ignored her attempt to bait him, but her confidence made him wonder what—or how much—she knew. Soon enough, it wouldn’t matter. He swallowed past his dry throat where the words sat, nearly choking him. He could do this. He had to do this.

  “I came to speak with you about the Inheritance curse you hold over Bianca Monroe,” he said.

  “Desperate, are you?”

  Incredibly so, he thought, recalling all the many avenues he’d already explored to break the horrific curse. The relentless tenacity of an Inheritance curse was one of the many reasons they’d been banned from use in the Central Network. Nothing had come of his attempts, which left him here in the Western Network, at Mabel’s throne, just as Mildred had predicted from the beginning. Still. He had to try.

  “Not yet,” he said. “But there’s no reason to reach that extreme.”

  Mabel inhaled slowly, as if savoring a delicious sent. “What a lovely statement. It reeks of desperation. You’re not a very good liar, Ambassador Marten. Isn’t that your job as a diplomat?”

  “Some would say.”

  Mabel leaned forward. “Mildred can’t figure out a way to remove it, can she? Inheritance curses are quite fickle that way. If you are here, she must be willing to bargain. Then again, there’s very little I’m willing to accept in exchange.”

  “An inevitability we already planned for.”

  Mabel smiled. “Perhaps you do have some skill as an Ambassador. What is Mildred going to give me if I set that brat free from her curse?”

  The words stuck in Marten’s throat again. So many ways to fail, he thought. Mildred had accepted her fate so readily, but he couldn’t. He knew more about Bianca than Mildred could ever dream. A young girl’s life rested on the success of this exchange. Perhaps that was the source of his strength. Bianca wasn’t just anyone. How else could he give the life of the woman he’d desperately loved for decades to someone as vile as Mabel?

  He pulled in a breath and set his shoulders, forcing the words from deep within his chest, where he’d buried them beneath his heart. Speaking them wrenched his very soul.

  “Mildred will exchange Bianca’s life for her own.”

  Mabel’s amused expression smoothed out. “Interesting,” she murmured. “So she is desperate. It appears you are a better liar than you led me to believe, Marten. Well done. I love a good puzzle.”

  Marten folded his hands behind his back and suppressed the urge to vomit. Nothing about this situation felt right. Mildred’s offer gave Mabel too much power. Too much incentive. The passing moments while Mabel considered the offer felt like an eternity.

  Mabel stood, the folds of her linen dress falling in graceful waves. The left side rose to her knee and cascaded in layers around a perfectly sculpted leg.

  “I’ll take the offer on one condition.”

  He waited, never taking his gaze from hers, but the words turned his blood to ice. So that’s it, he thought with a fissure of his heart. Mildred will die.

  Marten cleared his throat. “What is your condition?”

  Mabel summoned her Book of Contracts from where it lay beside her on the throne and held it in the crook of her left arm.

  “I dictate the time and place.”

  “No.”

  “You mistake yourself, Marten. This isn’t your choice.”

  “Those terms are unacceptable.”

  The image of all the ways Mabel could kill Mildred sent his head reeling. He knew this game: Mabel would make it as public and humiliating as possible. Mildred deserved better. If she’d die for her Network—for her granddaughter—at least she should pick the terms.

  “Fine,” Mabel hissed. “Then Bianca dies.”

  His mouth bobbed open, silent. Mabel advanced forward several steps, eyes gleaming. “Mildred can’t always get what she wants, Marten.”

  A whirlwind of memories slipped through his mind. Endless nights. Piles of paperwork and letters. Bleary eyes. The birth of their child—and Mildred’s tear-filled face afterward. Marten said nothing.

  “Mildred can wait. And she will. Because I’m the one who has the power here, not her.”

  Marten drew in a long, slow breath. Rage swirled in his heart, spinning with a mighty thrust of power. He could attempt to kill Mabel right now: but the certainty that he would fail and die in the attempt held him back. The magic of the Mansfeld Pact wouldn’t allow an Ambassador to kill a witch while on a diplomatic mission. Besides, he’d be of no use to his family dead.

  Mabel grinned at his silence.

  “I’ll be in touch when I have my answer.” She waved him to the door. “Leave. Don’t attempt to return. My West Guards will kill you on sight.”

  Marten clenched his jaw. Do your job for Bianca’s sake, he told himself. For your son, your granddaughter, and your beloved Mildred.

  “I understand and will inform Mildred,” he said, maintaining a bland, even tone by sheer willpower.

  Marten backed away. Sometime in their conversation, Nasir had disappeared. A layer of protective magic undulated above Marten, silent, but powerful. He couldn’t transport home from her throne room, but he wouldn’t turn around either. Their gazes locked as he stepped back. A flash of amusement moved across her lazy lips.

  Very good, she seemed to be saying. You’re a fool, but not as big a one as I thought.

  Marten stepped into the hall, closed his eyes, and with a heavy heart, transported back to the Central Network. Mildred, he thought with a heavy lump in his throat. My dear Mildred.

  Achieving a diplomatic outcome had never been so devastating.

  Heritage

  Although short, this scene with Derek and Marten wields power.

  Marten has known Derek as his son for all of Derek’s life, even though Derek has no idea that his biological father checks in with him from time to time. (Or that his biological father is still alive, for that matter.) Derek, an angsty teenager stuck in an orphanage after his adoptive family is killed by disease, finalizes his rebellion by joining the Guardians early at fifteen years old.

  Marten eagerly takes advantage of the opportunity to begin mentoring his son. This scene is how that relationship began.

  Presenting a sword to any inexperienced witch posed dangers; but handing them out to pubescent teenage boys—some of whom hadn’t even reached their seventeenth birthdays—was another matter entirely.

  Marten, Ambassador for the Central Network, watched the new Guardian recruits with a practiced eye. Nearly all of them shuffled around in wide-eyed disbelief. Their spiny, gangly limbs seemed to go on forever.

  Immature boys without much strength, he thought, tsking under his brea
th. Some can barely lift their half-armor.

  The recruits didn’t look at all like they could have passed the infamous Wringer and made it this far into training.

  Except for one.

  Derek Black, the orphan who had snuck into this group of Guardians at fifteen, had already made quite a name for himself. His fast smile and flattering tongue distracted the female witch in charge of the paperwork. She hadn’t noticed or checked for enchanted dates on his paperwork. Despite his youth, Derek had used a complicated spell to force a Network scroll to lie about his age—a spell most adults couldn’t do. Marten could have reported him to Liam, the Head of Guardians, but couldn’t bring himself to get the boy in trouble. Derek needed an outlet. His personality and talent had been too big for that orphanage for years.

  Marten kept a wary eye out for him but couldn’t locate the dark hair and stormy eyes. He’d seen firsthand Derek running barefoot amongst the lions of Letum Wood like a savage. When the lions attacked, Derek transported away, laughing. He snuck out of the orphanage to climb trees, lifting heavy limbs and swimming in the mossy ponds to amuse himself out of boredom. Such a hellion would have immense skill in the Guardians. Not because of talent, or anything as ethereal as that.

  Because of heritage.

  “Derek,” he murmured, as if to the solitary piles of swords surrounding him. “My courageous, fierce boy.”

  The uncertain, chattering group of recruits yesterday had transformed into quiet, sober boys today. Short hair cuts. New clothes. Weary eyes from a long night. They had been sorted, given uniforms, and thoroughly tested through a long run in the forest. Now they stood in the lower bailey in perfect formation. Liam strolled amongst them, his voice bounding off the stone walls.

  “Every contingent is assigned to a Captain specializing in a certain skill. Archery, sword fighting, hand-to-hand combat, apothecary spells, and leadership. Each contingent will have six weeks in each course to learn…”

  Liam’s voice droned into the background as Marten slid deeper into thought. All the recruits blurred together from this distance. Steeling himself for another interminable wait—he’d watched Derek from a distance for almost sixteen years, he could wait twenty more minutes—he leaned back against the wall and sighed.

  Twenty minutes later, the six contingents of new recruits broke apart in a fan, hustling to different places in the lower and upper baileys. One contingent headed his direction. Marten’s stomach somersaulted.

  The long-awaited moment had arrived.

  A witch transported next to him, jangling his already irritated nerves. Marten clenched his fist as Liam coughed right next to his ear, slamming a heavy hand into his shoulder.

  “Any questions, Marten?”

  Liam’s grizzled blond hair sprouted like the roots of an upturned plant in the sweltering summer heat. Sweat dripped down the sides of his round face. His nose stuck off his face in a knobby knuckle.

  “No, thank you.” Marten shook his head. “Your instructions were sufficient. I’ll match the boys to their swords first, review the basics, and then split into one-on-one instruction periods beginning tomorrow morning.”

  Liam snorted as he stepped away. “Good. Give ‘em a hard time. If you make ‘em cry, I’ll give you twenty sacrans. And thanks for the help. If there’s anyone that can teach sword fighting, it’s you.”

  He transported away just as Marten’s contingent closed the final gap, still in formation. They halted ten paces away.

  “Contingent Leader,” Marten called. “Present yourself.”

  Two feet approached with a distinct, heavy cadence they’d been taught the night before. New recruits were usually frightened enough to behave the first two weeks. But with a boy like Derek? One never knew.

  A sweaty, thick-haired boy stood before him. Marten knew the defiant glint in Derek’s eye the moment he saw it. Derek had not only wormed his way into the Guardians at fifteen, but he’d been chosen as Contingent Leader.

  Impressive, Marten thought.

  “Contingent Leader?” he asked.

  Derek’s fist thumped into his own chest in the Guardian salute. “Derek Black, sir. I lead Contingent Balto.”

  A pair of hazel eyes underneath a mop of freshly-cut, coffee-colored hair met Marten’s gaze. They had a hardened edge, like most orphans. A continual invitation to test their mettle. A pang of guilt ached in his gut, but Marten pushed it aside. We didn’t have a choice, he wanted to say. We wanted you.

  But Derek didn’t even know that his biological parents still lived. Marten comforted himself with the ugly truth: Derek had strength that would never have been unlocked without the trials he’d faced. Good things came from difficult circumstances.

  “Hold out your arm, Derek Black.”

  He obeyed. Nothing about Derek seemed impressively different at first. But he’d set himself apart during the Wringer with one of the fastest finish times ever achieved. Not only that, but Marten suspected Derek had filched something from a Captain on a dare, earning the loyalty of many recruits.

  Forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand, Marten studied Derek’s figure, still skinny from orphanage life. The sword Marten had commissioned would fit him perfectly. A bevy of swords, differing in length and weight, waited in the bins. But Derek wasn’t just any witch. He deserved better than just any sword.

  Marten ordered Derek to heft a few swords, testing them in the open space while the rest of the contingent watched. Derek demonstrated a silent, powerful respect for the weapons. Marten observed with pride Derek’s natural grip, strong forearms, gritty determination.

  Definitely his son.

  “This one feels good.” Derek flexed his hand around a sword that had been through several Guardian recruits. The edges had chipped. It needed a good polish and sharpening, something Derek would learn to do throughout Marten’s six-week course.

  “No,” Marten said. “That’s not a good sword for you.”

  A skeptical eyebrow rose on Derek’s youthful face. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. His nostrils flared, but he said nothing. Marten reached for a sword tucked against the side of the bin. He lifted it by the hilt, extending it for Derek’s inspection.

  “I’m no Ensis,” Marten said, “but I’d say this may be the perfect sword for you.”

  Derek’s brow furrowed. “Sir?”

  “Just try it.”

  Derek studied it for a full ten seconds before he accepted the blade, running the tips of his calloused fingers over the metal. Marten held his breath. He’d commissioned the sword specifically for Derek a year before, from a witch who lived on the fringes of society and rarely ventured in.

  The sword had twice the strength as the other standard-issue Guardian swords and metal that rarely rusted or turned brittle. Next to an expert Ensis blade, it was the best sword that currency could buy in the Central Network. By sight, nothing separated it from the other Guardian swords, of course. Derek would never know that he held a blade worth three times what his cohorts used. But with luck, it would endure throughout his whole career. And Marten swelled at this fledgling moment of being part of his son’s life. Derek pumped the sword up and down, swinging it in wide arcs.

  “It’s light, sir.”

  “Yes. Some Guardians prefer a heavier blade, but I think you’ll do best without. Heavy blades have their place, but not with you, I think.”

  Derek hefted it in one hand. He couldn’t wield it the way the sword deserved yet, but that would come. Derek wrapped both hands around it, his lips puckered in thought.

  “Light, but durable,” Marten continued. “A fitting blade for a natural-born leader.”

  Derek’s eyes snapped to Marten, then back to the sword. Marten straightened.

  “It’s a bit long for you now, but you have some growing to do still, I imagine. At your age, anyway.”

  Derek ignored that comment.

  “I will be teaching one-on-one classes with the Guardian recruits this time around,” Marten continued. �
�You and I will get to know that sword very well.”

  Derek rolled his wrist, spinning the blade in a wide circle. The sharp sides whistled slightly with the movement.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Derek hadn’t taken his eyes off the weapon, giving Marten a chance to study him up close. Physically, he held no resemblance to Mildred except a fiery expression and the regal set of his shoulders. A hint of Marten’s brother lingered in Derek’s eyes. His strong legs, wide shoulders, and dark hair hailed from his family. Derek would never know it, but he looked just like his grandfather.

  Marten pulled out of his thoughts to find Derek peering at him, one eye narrowed.

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  Marten cleared his throat.

  “No. Sheathe it, and strap it to your hips. Send the next witch. I will see you tomorrow bright and early for your first lesson. As Contingent Leader, you will be first. I expect you to be at the top of your contingent in terms of performance.”

  Derek re-sheathed the sword, strapped it to his hips, saluted, and departed. Marten watched him go with a tickle of amusement.

  What a familiar swagger the boy had.

  You and Me

  Although Marie and Bianca were close, Derek’s influence really sculpted Bianca. I created him in the image of my husband. Derek will always be special because, in many ways, he is my favorite.

  For some reason, it was important for me to know what happened during—and after—Bianca’s birth. Marie was in a difficult position: if she has a girl, her family curse will continue. If she has a boy, the curse will be broken.

  I imagined Derek, officially helpless just like any father, wouldn’t take kindly to watching Marie suffer and not being able to fix it.

  A frightening time for anyone.

  Derek stared up at the ceiling, one arm propped behind his head, and tracked a dancing cobweb.

  Outside, the rain drizzled on the thatched roof. The air smelled musty, like wet reeds and hay. Marie lay next to him, curled on her right side, lost to sleep. Yet, her nose wrinkled; her forehead furrowed. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. She stirred, but didn’t awaken.