A Smuggler's Path: The Enchanted Isles, #1

By I.L. Cruz

In Canto, magic is a commodity, outlawed by the elites after losing a devastating war and brokered by smugglers on the hidden market. But some know it's more—a weapon for change.

Inez Garza moves through two worlds. She's a member of the noble class who works as a magical arms dealer—a fact either group would gladly use against her. Neither know her true purpose—funding Birthright, an underground group determined to return magic to all at any cost.

But the discovery of a powerful relic from before the Rending threatens her delicate balance.

Inez's inherent magic, which lies dormant in all the Canti, has been awakened. Now the Duchess's daughter, radical and smuggler must assume another forbidden title—mage, a capital crime. This will bring her to the attention of factions at home—fanatical rebels bent on revolution, a royal family determined to avoid another magical war, her mercenary colleagues at the hidden market willing to sell her abilities to the highest bidder—and in Mythos, victors of the war and architects of the Rending.

Evasion has become Inez's specialty, but even she isn't skilled enough to hide from everyone—and deny the powers drawing her down a new path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bosky Flame Press
• Release date: Jul 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732547100

I.L. Cruz

I.L. Cruz wants to live in a world where words are chosen with care, shoes are as comfy as socks, and reading time is sacred. As someone who’s taken the plunge into writing, she’s been working on a fantasy series, posting on her blog and searching valiantly for her perfect writing tribe. When she’s not distracted by the voices of characters in her head you can find her wrangling her daughter and a super-mutt named Dipper, indulging in her guilty pleasure of predictable Christmas movies or fanboy flicks, and planning European escapes with her husband (where we always end up in a park).

Book preview

Prologue

It didn’t take a seer to know what was coming, but Beata warned her sisters all the same. The fires of the Spanish Inquisition were coming for them, and all their kind:

Mages. Wielders of magic.

The mundanes, those who didn’t have magic and shunned the practitioners of enchantments, wanted magic banished from the world. Some mages wanted to stay and fight, but others sought the strongest of their kind in the hopes of finding a better solution. The Ardea sisters, Amata, Donata and Beata, agreed. They proposed La Repoblación, the resettlement. A new world where magic would be welcome had to be found. From the depths of the North Atlantic Ocean, the sisters raised an atoll and shrouded it from the mundane world. They named it Pélago.

Each sister was given a domain to govern as she saw fit. Traditional and disciplined Amata, the eldest and a Martial mage, took Mythos and the title of Arbiter. Mercurial Donata, a Custodial mage, called herself the Matriarch and governed Faery. Beata was the youngest—a rebel Abstract mage—and thought a new home meant a new way and ruled Canto as its queen.

For a time, The Enchanted Isles, as they were called collectively, were indeed enchanted—full of magical innovation and cooperation. Safety gave rise to new ideas both accepted... and dangerous.

No longer burdened with the worries of the mundane world, differences of opinion were brought to light. The sisters were no longer united in their belief of what came next for mages. And there were whispers of creating a Ternion, a magical being composed of mingled magic, both powerful and perilous. The Feud Wars tore through the Enchanted Isles like a scythe, taking any and all that stood in their path. When the fighting ended, one sister, Amata, won the day and exacted a high price for the destruction her sisters had wrought. Only mages from her domain of Mythos could retain their magic and the rest of the inhabitants of the Enchanted Isles would be stripped of their innate abilities. But even a powerful mage doesn’t have complete control over magic. Or the damaging effects cutting the domains off from each other would have on the Isles.

Centuries later it didn’t take a seer to know what was coming...

I.

He knew he was dying . And it was all his fault.

Even now, he reached for excuses instead of a way to break his fall.

Accidents happen...Instincts took over... It could have happened to anyone...

Not everyone had access to all that Power, a doubting voice whispered.

The Power was meant for another... How could I have known...?

The pain was excruciating—the magic unrelenting. He deserved worse. Pins and needles coursed through his body. A terrible ache crushed his heart. The split-second fall from a fifty- foot drop seemed like hours of horrible contemplation.

On another night, he would have basked in the moonlight—commented on the early chill. Where had he gone wrong? He was sharply aware that this moment was the result of not asking these questions sooner.

The business would continue—a blessing and a curse without him there to steer it. He left behind his family—a broken one, but his. A strong, if distant mother. A talented brother. The love of his life, the mother of his child. Did it make a difference that the woman he loved wasn’t the one who had given him his daughter, Austra? Maybe it made all the difference. It didn’t matter now. He briefly thought of his daughter. His flesh and blood. A stranger.

His breath came in tight, short bursts. The pain was the worst at his throat and in his lungs. This was a powerful spell. Old magic. Mage magic. He prayed to the Goddess that he’d die before he hit the ground.

The instant before he died, Delaware Humphrey considered himself lucky. Death meant release from all his secrets, all his troubles. Their slow suffocation a torture in comparison to a relatively quick death.

It was his fault, but it wasn’t his problem anymore. And there was plenty of blame to go around.

But for Canto and the rest of the Enchanted Isles, Delaware knew his murder would start the unravelling of secrets and troubles that could bring all the Isles tumbling down.

II.

The plaintive cry of a treaty bird followed me through the woods. She was well hidden, but so was I. Even so, I imagined her perched somewhere, her blue and gold feathers muted in the dawn light, watching my movements. She likely watched as I rifled through her carefully chosen hiding spots, searching for the eggs she’d laid. Did she worry I would steal her chicks? No, by now she had to be used to it. She knew I wasn’t here for live birds.

I’d seen someone else’s rough handling of an egg. Likely a newcomer to the market or some careless raider that didn’t know the rules. Breaking a treaty bird egg that had a viable bird within was a punishable offense in the hidden market and with the King’s Men. The only rule law enforcement and outlaws agreed on, but they differed on punishment. The King’s Men, the strong arm of the Royal Family believed imprisonment was enough—one year and one month, the gestational period of a treaty bird. The hidden market took a more direct approach, the loss of a finger. The stink from a treaty bird egg lingered for weeks on clothes and skin. Whoever it was that broke the egg had better stay hidden.

I trod carefully off a dirt path into the muddy recesses of the woods. It was the kind of area a treaty bird favored, lots of bushes and undergrowth to hide their treasures. Treaty birds laid three eggs every time and each in a different spot to ensure at least one lived. She buried them deep enough for warmth, but shallow enough to allow the newly hatched chicks to burrow into the fresh air. But one was different than the others. One was always a decoy—an enchanted egg.

I continued my trudging. The ground was soft from last night’s storm, but a fine mist still fell. My waterproofed coat was dry, but I felt the early stirrings of the coming cool weather. Mabon. The Wheel of the Year was turning again and soon treaty birds would hibernate. But not yet. For now, my livelihood was safe with only the squelch of my boots and the treaty bird’s song as my companions.

She was definitely watching me. My profession gave me a healthy sense of paranoia. It kept me alive and out of the hands of the King’s Men and anyone else enforcing the laws. I sensed eyes on me, but they lacked menace. My search continued despite the stalker, but I picked up the pace. Another cry—maybe her mate—pierced the morning stillness.

My quarry wasn’t always called a treaty bird and the mournful conversation I heard between the two birds reminded me. When our ancestors first came to Canto and heard the sad song of the native birds they were named Lloras—Cries. Their sorrowful melody was like a dirge for the ones left behind—the ones who never saw Pélago. The one’s who didn’t make it out of the Mundane world to the Enchanted Isles.

A glint of gold shone through the muck and brambles. Gloves kept my hands clean and protected me from any thorns.

The egg came out of the ground with a soft sucking sound, lighter than it looked. I knew the mother was long gone by now. I shook the shell to assure myself it didn’t have a chick inside.

No liquid swished within. No living bird inside. Useless to the mother.

For smugglers like me, they were a small fortune.

Inside the decoy egg was a small stash of pure magic. Soft rain rinsed away the dirt making the egg shimmer in the misty morning. I added it to the sack I carried, heard it tap the others I’d already collected. A small haul, but a lucrative one.

I’d considered camping out during storms to ensure I was there the moment the rain revealed the eggs. But the King’s Men had stepped up their overnight patrols lately. A campsite would be a dead giveaway to smuggler activity.

The air held remnants of a cool dampness that would dissipate when the sun climbed higher in the sky. I pulled my jacket down to keep the cold off my back. The stillness of the birds alerted me that I was no longer alone in the woods. It could be anyone, King’s Men, other smugglers or even the new addition—the Humphrey security force. The latter were still clumsy in their attempts to catch treaty bird raiders.

I listened closely for anything out of the ordinary. I’d ventured further than I ever had because of the patrols. Canto’s fairgrounds and my hand-off appointment felt miles away. My stomach growled a protest.

Visualize breakfast and keep moving, I told myself aloud, a bad habit I’d developed working alone in dark places. The lonely work didn’t scare me anymore, but the habit of talking to myself remained. Switching shoulders, I trudged on, thinking of delicious pumpkin pancakes waiting for me at the diner.

My walk back to the handoff would have been more direct if I hadn’t been avoiding the patrols. There were ways through the forest where one could escape notice because there were no cleared areas or marked paths. I was one of the few people who knew most of them, but I couldn’t discount the knowledge of the animals. Or other smugglers hunting for the same enchanted eggs to merchandize. Plus, enchanted eggs weren’t the only magical contraband to be found in the woods.

I heard soft footfalls approaching and decided to double back to avoid an ambush. A particularly thorny rosebush snagged my pants and pierced my skin. I hissed involuntarily. But when I was silent again the sound continued.

The rustling, was now just two bushes over, and closing. The thump of my heart echoed in my ear. Panic was something I was accustomed to, and I had learned to manage it to a point that my desire to freeze up could be overcome. I dropped deeper into the roses, instantly regretting my hiding spot. A cool breeze bit into the new lacerations on my lower back.

I waited, counting to a hundred, then reached for a small, handheld mirror imbued with magic in my pocket. If it was the patrol, the bag full of enchanted eggs and the deflecting mirror I held would be bigger concerns than a few cuts and scrapes. In truth, if I were caught, my magical contraband was enough to send me to a Mythos prison, permanently. It was ironic that the very people who regulated the use of magic and made my business possible were the people I had to avoid at all costs now.

It had been centuries since the Canti lost their innate magic. Mythos’s ruler, The Arbiter, had demanded it after the Feud Wars. The loss had been a terrible blow, but the early inhabitants of the Enchanted Isles were resourceful. They’d spent years hiding magic in the Mundane and those skills hadn’t been forgotten. The treaty may have taken magic away from the people, but not from everything else.

There were Canti who resisted the new laws barring innate Power and became the first smugglers, seizing and selling the bits of magic they found. The loss of magic founded the hidden market, along with a myriad of other movements interested in getting Canti magic back. But dwelling on that was moot now— all history and politics—because I knew commerce was what made real changes for ordinary people.

My body tensed to spring as the rustling moved even closer. I readied my deflecting mirror—preparing to blind and deafen my assailant, when I heard a familiar and distinctly canine growl.

Dammit, are you serious? I could have done some real damage. Never sneak up on me, I snapped as I slid my weapon back in my pocket and hefted the bag over my shoulder.

Ms. Garza, I come to you because I seek to help the Canti out of their misfortune, not profit by it, said Rowley, who was busy shuffling leaves with his back paws to obscure his trail. His cuddly exterior obscured his membership in The Canti Birthright, the militant arm of Magical Return that I armed and funded, secretly. The implication that I was only in it for the money stung, but it meant he believed what I’d worked hard to have everyone in Birthright assume—that I was just another smuggler. Rowley and his rebels thought I was a capitalist, not a crusader, and their certainty suited my purposes just fine. Smuggling magic was dangerous, but arming a rebellion was a death sentence.

How did you know where I’d be? I asked. I already knew the answer, but stalling gave me a moment to untangle myself from the brambles and cover any signs of vulnerability.

My nose can find anything, especially someone who reeks of magic, he grumbled. It was my own fault, asking a dog that question. Rowley’s floppy ears tempted even the hardest heart to pet him, but anyone, even those who knew him, did so at their peril. Rowley wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type. And true to his nature, his midnight fur blended with the forest in the early morning light. Only Rowley’s nearly human eyes shone.

Well, my sordid profits are how I keep my abilities honed for your so-called noble causes, Row. And pay for any damages, I quipped.

Inez Garza, never for a moment assume you fool me with your story of the well-intentioned rogue. We both know better. If the money I pay you faltered, so would your interest in my jobs. This was an old argument, and I didn’t feel like rehashing.

What’s the job? I tapped my foot and waited.

He raised his nose and sniffed the air.

It’s a delicate matter. We’ll talk on the way. Hurry, I can smell the approaching patrol, he said and took off at a slow trot, not bothering to ensure I followed. I hefted my bag and found a cold plant, one of the many valuable indigenous plants our ancestors encountered when they found the Enchanted Isles. I carefully opened its frigid blue petals—their size twice my arm span. Despite being stuffed with eggs, the sack fit snugly at the flower’s center. I barely pulled my hand free before it snapped shut against the rays of sunlight. Rowley was far ahead, but hiding it from him was pointless—he could smell magic. I would return for it when it opened on its own under the glow of the full moon. I pulled a message plume from my pocket; the downy white quill could easily be mistaken for a writing implement. I fought to keep up with Rowley as I prepared to send my message to my buyer, Jacque.

Meet me tonight at the fairgrounds, I whispered against the soft down. Rowley yipped faintly as the feather vanished. I hoped it found Jacque alone.

Some objects of great historical significance and—

And of Power, I assume? I interrupted.

Yes, he continued. They have...resurfaced and I need your help to recover them. It would go a long way to accelerating our cause...

"Did you forget who you’re speaking to? Yours is not our cause, Row. You know my fee." The familiar twinge I used to feel when I lied had all but disappeared. These days it was a necessary lie—one finely tuned skill for survival. I could help Rowley and members of his movement, but they could never know how much I helped. Or how committed I actually was to their cause.

Rowley growled softly, his hackles raised, but still he nodded. He started off again.

The spongy bracken we moved through gradually gave way to hard-packed earth and gravel. The fairgrounds were straight ahead and I wondered if I might make my scheduled meeting with Jacque after all. As I glanced ahead, for some reason I couldn’t fathom, I was filled with unease...

A large wall shadowed the blank space that would soon be filled with booths and rides for the Mabon Fair. Beside the wall, a body lay as still as my breath in that moment. Rowley picked up the scent and ran ahead, pawing the ground next to it. I watched in fascination as Rowley dug up an egg-like object, one too shiny and colorful to be an enchanted egg. He picked it up with his mouth and carried it the distance between us. He plopped the shell on my outstretched hand. I blinked. And blinked again, waiting for an explanation.

It was a large seashell shaped like an egg on one side, and flat with a slashed opening on the other. A purple cowry.

If I’m right about what this cowry shell is, there were three more of these. But I’ve searched the area and they’re not here, Rowley said with a nonchalance that impressed me. There weren’t many people I knew that could look over a landscape with a dead body and not flinch. And most of the people I knew were criminals.

My fingers explored the shell’s smooth surface and it was hard to look away from it. I shoved it in my pocket, troubled by my attraction to it.

Rule number one for smugglers: Smugglers’ thoughts are their own. Smugglers have to learn to school their facial expressions, so they don’t give too much away.

Rowley cocked his head to the side in an unspoken analysis of my reaction. Instead of asking about it, he said to me, If we can find the rest of these cowry shells, magic will return to all the Enchanted Isles and Mythos will be powerless to stop it.

III.

Apossibility of restoring magic to Canto was a heady thought—what we’d all worked for in our own ways. But any excitement was dampened by what lay before me. The body lay still in the clearing, in the gathering light. Something about the body rang familiar, even from a distance. Despite my suspicions, my reaction remained composed as I approached the corpse.

Yes. I had known him and wanted to linger, to figure out what happened, but I knew to sort things out on the spot was just too dangerous. Still, I couldn’t help but stare at Delaware Humphrey’s body. Delaware Humphrey of Humphrey Farms. His face had taken on the grayish pallor of the recently deceased.

Soon the Canti would be up and out wandering the cobbled paths of Nubis, Canto’s center, and if we remained there, someone would stumble upon our macabre trio—me, a dog and a dead body.

Delaware’s flamboyant suit was striking, despite stray wisps of dirt splattered upon it. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a dead body, yet there was something strange about the marks around his collar. I hesitated to touch them because they looked like scorch marks, not marks from the muddy ground. And his body had sunk into the ground as though the ground had softened and tried to welcome him home. I had no logical explanation.

My eyes wandered up the rickety scaffolding that leaned against the wall and something about the placement of the body, so close to it, bothered me.

Was he pushed? I asked. Then I thought of other scenarios.

It could have been an accident, but if so, why was he here? A rich man dying in the shadows like a smuggler?

There had been little love lost between Delaware and me—professionally. His farm patrol made my job more dangerous and that much harder because the Humphrey family wanted to destroy all wild magic. They stood to gain because they held a charter from the Royal Family of Canto allowing them to collect enchanted eggs and they had devised the only mechanism that could extract and contain the wild magic within them.

And there was always the other side to consider: Delaware Humphrey was the man my mother had loved and almost married, once upon a time. Strange that I should be the one to find him dead next to a magical relic. Why had he come there? Who was to blame if blame had to be assigned?

I said a quick prayer to the Goddess for all of us—including Delaware. A part of me was afraid as well. Depending on what was understood about Delaware’s death, a mallet could fall down on all of us if this wasn’t handled properly. And that meant getting out of the picture that was developing here...

Rowley, who had been digging madly, must have read my mind.

Humphrey’s death is not our concern. Our concern is getting away from here so you can find the other relics, the seashells, he snapped. He used his paws to smooth the ground and conceal the hole he had made. I helped but because everything was wet from the storm the sucking mud took care of any and all traces we’d been there anyway.

When I stood up the cowry shell felt heavier than it should have in my pocket.

"Row, I accept that your ventures come with a certain amount of risk, but you never mentioned people could die—killed with Power. Even I can smell the magic on this thing. If there are more shells, can’t you find them?" I asked.

Now the real Inez emerges, he said, impatience punctuating his words. Is this your way of asking for more money? We can discuss your fee as soon as we leave, but— Rowley lifted his head and sniffed the air. His ears flapped as he threw his head back. Hurry!

There was very little cover at the fairgrounds, especially in the hours just before booths and games set up there for the fair. Luckily, this was one of my preferred spots to meet with buyers and I knew all the hiding places—including a bush that wasn’t a bush though it appeared to be one.

I led the way to what looked to be a ring of ordinary thorny bushes, not unlike the thicket Rowley had found me in earlier. From my pocket, I fished out a wrought iron key with the handle shaped like the head of a mournful woman.

What kind of key is that? asked Rowley, curiosity lighting his eyes as he studied it. I wasn’t surprised her didn’t know about my key. It was the only one of its kind that I knew of. A magical key that opened any door. Lita had given the Pandora Key to me before she died, and told me never to use it in front of anyone. I’d kept my promise until now. Even now I wondered if she knew I was destined to be a smuggler. Who else would need such a key?

"Shh! I have to chant or it’s useless. I touched the mysterious key. A little spark painfully inched its way up from my fingertips, through my fingers. The Pandora Key was something I rarely used and my lack of practice with it cost me dearly in that moment. Small muscles in my hand contracted, forming a vise grip on the wrought iron shaft. A shot of Power that felt like icicles pricking through my muscles made me grit my teeth. Magh... Magh... Magh," I chanted in a monotone as softly as I could.

Beside me, Rowley tensed. He’d likely heard me. The key softly glowed.

In the distance I heard approaching hoofbeats and in the same instant a curious humming began in my pocket.

"Do ag," I said with some urgency. All became still as the key pulled me toward a small hidden cavity in the ground. I’d discovered this added feature of the key accidentally. Running from a similar patrol one early morning, the key had flown from my pocket. Instead of waiting to be retrieved like any other key, it slid across the ground and then lodged itself in what I later learned was a hidden keyhole.

Sharp pain brought me back to the present. It eased and gave way to a warmth I’d come to recognize as the signal the key had been awakened. With a click, like a soft sigh, a trap door opened to expectant darkness. An underground hideout.

I dropped down into the shadows and then reached for Rowley, but he moved away.

Inez Garza, I-I must go. Stay hidden and I’ll look for you later, he said as he inched backwards. He startled me then by throwing back his head in a howl before vanishing along the wall, headed toward the opposite side of the fairgrounds.

Snap! The door above me slid back into place, revealing a one-way mirror, directed upward. Seeing it filled me with relief. With the mirror in place, anyone coming this way would see only the bushes and a tangle of leaves and thorns, instead of me crouching beneath the surface in my hideout. Though they would be blocked from seeing me, I would see everything. Another mirror had been installed close to the wall so, by looking through both, I would know when it was safe to escape.

Why had Rowley left? Then I considered what I’d do: If I had magic like his, I would go anywhere I wanted and never hide in the ground either. With time to kill, I took another look around.

The Pandora Key was still in my hand, pleasantly warm from its exertions. I put it back in my pocket, and stretched my hand to release the residual pins and needles that tingled there. As I did, a few ornate blaze burners sparked to life because of my presence, revealing cobwebs and a layer of dried leaves covering the earthen floor in the space. These burners were pewter, with oblong canisters and scrollwork instead of being made of common cylindrical glass.

I’d found dozens of them throughout Canto. Magical retreats, a remnant from the time of the Feud Wars. I knew they were a part of our forgotten history. I also knew I wasn’t the only person who used them.

My nose, wrinkling in the stale air, told me this particular retreat had been empty for a while. The clay walls formed a surface of flat green, interrupted only by the occasional scribbled note or doodle. A cold dirt floor provided little comfort, but comfort was not what this place was created for. A ceramic bowl with decaying fruit sat in a corner and my stomach lurched at the stench.

Briefly, I thought about the pumpkin pancakes I’d hoped to feast on for breakfast.  My rumbling belly and thoughts shifted from food when I heard the King’s Men arrive in the square above me. When the mirror confirmed it, I settled in for a long wait.

They arrived on horseback, wearing their uniforms of dark brown and forest green, emblazoned with Canto’s emblem—a blade of grass standing as tall as the trees that flanked it. One blade as mighty as a tree. Their murmuring lulled me, and I began to drift off... Then one voice startled me awake.

Who reported it? he asked, his voice carrying through the tunnels all around me.

Anonymous tip, but it was a woman. She refused to give her name or stick around for a statement. There was a pause while they appeared to take in and evaluate the scene.

Think he fell? a new voice asked.

No. Look at the scorch marks on his neck. Likely, magic caused those...and then he fell from up there, the familiar voice said.

If that particular man had been alone, I probably would have revealed myself. But I’d heard at least three horses approaching. Zavier Cole was obviously not alone.

I knew him because Zavier and I had grown up together. In those days it hadn’t mattered that he was a prince. Or that I’d been a countess’s daughter. In those days that had probably been helpful. Zavier was in my house just as often as I was at the palace. As we grew toward adulthood, our childish regard began to turn to something more and we talked and dreamed of a future together. It seemed possible, because Mamá’s title of countess afforded me a level of privilege, but Zavier said he wouldn’t have cared if I had been the maid’s daughter. He claimed, even then, that he knew how he felt and nothing would change that.

He’d made that clear again recently, on the day I learned I could never inherit Mamá’s title. Zavier and I fought over the likely consequence of that latest development.

I believed our friendship would have to end. He said my lack of title changed nothing—but I