Give me Henrietta Howel
When I was a very little girl, my aunt Agnes took me to the seaside. I raced through the waves, my head filled with the pounding surf. It was like that now as I looked on the horrible words. Were people talking? Arguing? Shouting? I’d no idea. All I heard was the pulse of blood in my ears.
Why? Why did he want me?
Several months ago, R’hlem had wished to take me for one of his personal Familiars, to “train me for great power.” But he couldn’t want that now, not when I’d destroyed Korozoth. His intentions had to be grisly. Had to be punishment.
I found my feet. As I rose, the hubbub around me died.
“Did he say why?” My voice sounded surprisingly clear, considering I was about to burst into flame. Sparks trailed from my fingertips; embers glinted at the bottom of my sleeves. I could feel Dee and Blackwood inch away.
The Imperator shook his head. “He did not.”
“We won’t do it!” Dee shouted, standing beside me. To my shock, many sorcerers surged to their feet in agreement, applauding Dee.
“We don’t negotiate with demons!” someone cried.
“Perhaps R’hlem knows,” one lone voice called out. The cheering quieted as a sorcerer stood. He was a short young man with hooded blue eyes and an imperious sort of air.
“Wonderful, it’s Valens,” I muttered.
Of course it would be him. Valens was the captain of my squadron. All newly commended sorcerers were formed into squadrons to be overseen and trained for battle, unless they went to the navy or the Speakers’ priory. Valens had never made any secret about disliking me. Not only was I a liar, a magician, and not the chosen one, but I’d been involved in Master Palehook’s death. Though Valens had joined the Order in speaking out against the horrible things Palehook had done to keep our ward up—killing innocent people and draining their souls didn’t sit well with sorcerers—he’d still been one of Palehook’s old Incumbents. He probably felt a deep loyalty to his Master, the way I felt for Agrippa. While I could understand that, Valens thought the Imperator showed favoritism by not punishing me.
So he’d decided he’d punish me for the Imperator. Whenever we ran drills at the barracks yard, he searched for any flaw of mine. Was I even slightly out of step when forming a waterspout? Do it fifteen more times. He would force everyone to join in another set if I made even one mistake, which made me very unpopular.
It didn’t surprise me at all that he was speaking out now.
Valens stared me down from across the room. “Perhaps he knows that Howel is not truly one of us.”
“I was commended, the same as you,” I said. Perhaps it wasn’t ladylike, but I refused to let him run roughshod over me. “I can use a stave, just the same as you. And unlike you, I helped to destroy Korozoth.”
“Yes, that again.” Valens sighed. That again, like I’d insisted on showing everyone my embroidery for the eighth time. “We never fail to hear of that particular exploit. But it’s been months since your commendation, Howel. What have you done since?”
I’ve stopped myself from blasting you in the face with a fireball.
“Everyone, be seated,” Whitechurch boomed. I sat, and Blackwood nudged me with his elbow. To support or to chastise me, I couldn’t tell. “It shocks me that any of our members would attempt to sow discord at a time like this.” He stared at both Valens and me, respectively.
The two of us kept silent, though Valens threw angry glances at me across the room. Glances that I returned, happily. Bother being demure.
“Where were the queen’s guards?” Blackwood asked, frowning. “Our soldiers know better than to leave a room unattended, and Mab’s court was supposed to help guard Her Majesty’s chambers.”
Indeed. The dark Fae had agreed to send more arms and soldiers now that the ward had fallen. They’d also set up an enchanted ring around the city, adding to the sorcerers’ barrier. The faerie knights and our own sorcerer elite should have been at the chamber door.
Whitechurch sighed. “There seems to have been an error with the changing of the guard.” If the naturally unorganized Fae were helping to run things, that didn’t surprise me. “I wished to share this news before proceeding with the meeting. We must discuss strengthening the barriers. Now, our warders—”
It was my first meeting, and I should have been paying attention. I should have hung on the Imperator’s every word, riveted. But all I could think of was R’hlem ordering his creature to write those words in some poor servant’s blood. That person had died for a stupid message targeted at me. My temples throbbed; my fault. It had been my fault.
What would R’hlem do if he got me? Tear me apart piece by piece? That was one of the kinder things he could do.
When the meeting was over, I rose with Blackwood and Dee. We started to file down the steps, but Whitechurch called, “Howel. Blackwood. Meet me in my chambers.” With that, he turned and walked through a small door directly behind his throne.
“Best of luck,” Dee murmured. Gritting my teeth, I marched down the stairs, Blackwood behind me.
I’d expected the Imperator’s rooms to look as grand and austere as the obsidian palace outside. I’d imagined a stone chamber with Grecian pillars and scowling busts of Homer. Instead, Whitechurch’s private office was rather homey. The Turkish rug was worn and threadbare, with bright reds and yellows that had faded over time. Two green-striped and overstuffed chairs slouched before the fire, their cushions frayed at the edges. A brown-spotted porcelain bulldog sat on a table, and Whitechurch absently touched its head as he took a seat.
“So,” he said to me, as if starting a normal conversation. “How do you feel?”
I didn’t expect the lord of all the magic in England to care about my feelings.
“Guilty.” I cast my eyes to the carpet, noticing some crumbs sprinkled near the Imperator’s chair. “I don’t understand what he wants.”
“You wounded R’hlem’s pride as well as his army when you killed Korozoth,” Whitechurch said. “He wants to punish you and hurt us.”
“Should I go to him?” All I could picture was that poor servant, dead on the floor. “Perhaps he won’t hurt me. Perhaps we could set up some sort of operation where I spy on him, or he…” My voice trailed away. My breath wasn’t coming right; perhaps my corset was too tightly strung. I pressed my hands to my stomach, and when my hands trembled, I forced them to stop.
“Agrippa told me about this quality of yours,” Whitechurch said. His gravelly voice gentled a bit. “You couldn’t bear to feel useless, he said. I saw his pride even before you…mastered your abilities.”
Whitechurch knew I’d lied to him about my magician birth. When the queen had first commended me, it was no secret that he disliked me. At first, he’d been cold whenever we met or spoke. But it had changed these past few weeks, as I kept pace with my squadron—despite Valens’s best efforts—and patrolled the barrier with the others.
“I don’t want anyone else to suffer on my behalf,” I mumbled. I was not going to cry.
“Which is why you must not think of going to him.” Whitechurch cracked his knuckles. “He believes you are our greatest asset. He probably wants to show the public that we are so weak we could not protect the person we’ve raised up as our salvation.”
That was smart. As far as the people of England knew, the sorcerers had found their prophesied one. When we walked through the rubble-filled streets of the city or in the shantytowns near the barrier, I could see how people’s faces brightened when I passed. Sometimes little girls would run up with a gift of a flower or a bit of ribbon. While it made me happy to see them so happy, that nagging guilt would return at once. I was not their savior, but I pretended to be. And now that I had R’hlem’s attention, I put every person around me in greater danger, danger that I couldn’t bloody protect them from.