Aethereal

By Kerry Reed

Magic versus science. Wyst versus Etruria. The solution: a royal wedding to join the two warring lands.

The Lady Emrys Bruma arrives at court, but not for the ceremony. Her task is to find the secret behind an old family disgrace.

She becomes entangled with the crown prince, his future bride and his best friend. Soon it is difficult to determine where her loyalties lie.

And who can be trusted.

With spies, assassination attempts and the age-old superstition against magic, Emrys walks a fine line between two worlds.
But nothing is as it seems.

Especially the Lady Emrys Bruma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellysian Press
• Release date: Nov 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781941637685

Book preview

(The Royal House of Wyst – Descendants of Wyster)

ETRURIAN QUEENS, SUCCESSION

(Descendants of Ettra)

KEY NAMES

FAMILIES/COURTIERS/CHARACTERS:

The Brumas (of Brumalis)

The Dunnings (of Dunnivel)

Lord Fedwor (of Fedwor)

Lady Tinley-Rey (of Tinitin, Lady Wards)

Maximus Parycelsus (untitled)

Ezak, the North Country

DEDICATION

For Calvin, Owen, and Jaime

PROLOGUE

Legend says it was an alchemist, the first alchemist, who stirred the Aether from the Unending Night and filled the heavens with its quintessence, and who ordered the earthly elements – air, fire, water, and earth – that made the world without and within. Which was ironic since alchemy was forbidden. Taboo. Unnatural. The mixing of two things that should not mix: science and magic.

We Wystese believed in the elements. The elements were scientific fact. But we did not believe in magic. It existed of course. That was undeniable. We simply chose to reject it. Science and magic were two sides of a coin. One chose one’s side. And yet the world had been made from both.

I never knew what to think of that story.

CHAPTER ONE

Mounted high on the receiving room wall was the shield of Wyst, a broad field divided into quadrants, one for each of the earthbound elements. Atop the helm, the Wystese crest: an Aether bolt, pure quintessence.

The Winistre family had no escutcheon of their own. They had no need; they were Wyst. Their lineage traced back to Wyster himself, which meant the Aether itself ran in their veins. Allegedly. Ever-flowing proof of their sovereignty, as the heavenly element supersedes the other four. Again, allegedly.

***

The herald announced, The Lady Emrys Bruma, and I stepped forward and curtsied, smiling demurely at the extended royal family as the court scrivener inscribed my name into the Great Book. I was neither the morning’s first nor the only presentee, and several of the assembled royals showed signs of fatigue. Queen Tabora did not. She was a small woman, but she sat straight-backed and unyielding on her throne, and her eyes were sharp. Stand steady, I schooled myself. For the queen was no fool. Wyst’s first in centuries, she had held her crown since seventeen – my own age, in fact – more than half her lifetime ago.

I hadn’t known what to expect, exactly, but aside from a brief murmuring, which might have been commentary on my person or choice of gown as much as my name, my introduction passed quietly.

I resumed my seat and released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I’d been more nervous than I’d allowed myself to admit. Needlessly it seemed. No eyebrows had been raised, no red flags thrown. No one had doubted me. I was in.

Father had said it would be easy. The House and Line of Bruma had long dwelt in the remote Uplands, seldom visiting at court even before the Disgrace. To be the Lady Emrys Bruma, bearing my honor to court for the royal wedding would be, if anything, an unexpected display of fealty. No one would question my birth-line too closely.

Well, it seemed he’d been right.

There was a time when connecting the two, Lady and Emrys, would have seemed ridiculous on every level, a mocking joke or the worst of irony, but I looked and spoke the part. At times I could almost believe it myself. But never quite, which was for the best. Because if I allowed myself to believe in Lady Emrys, I might forget what was owed, what I owed. I promised myself I never would.

I glanced again at the royals, snug in their courtly existence, smug in their perfidious peace, revered – even feared – for the accidental fact that they’d been born Winistre.

I was not there to pay my respects, to bear them any portion of honor. They had no idea.

Forgotten for the moment, I fell to contemplating individual members of the royal family. I’d arrived at court two days previously but had thus far caught only glimpses of them. On the queen’s right was her son and heir, His Grace the Crown Prince Ryland Winistre. Ari, the lady’s maid who’d appeared in my rooms before dawn to help ready me for this morning’s honor, as having my name read into the Great Book before an assemblage of bored nobility was dubbed – had described him as glorious. Ari was all chirp and gush, but she wasn’t wrong. The prince was more than handsome. Tall and golden, he looked quite literally princely – almost absurdly so. He observed the presentees with polite interest, oblivious to the looks he garnered in return. He was either unaware of them or else they were so expected, so apiece with the rights of royalty he had ceased to notice.

Beside Prince Ryland sat his newly minted fiancée, Milady Tania Keating, and there was nothing unconscious about her looks. Porcelain pale with rose-gold hair worn long and loose, she was dressed sumptuously in cloth of silver. She looked lovely – and well aware of it. She also looked entirely uninterested in the proceedings at hand. She was a cousin of the prince’s, I believed. Of course, Milady Tania was also part Etrurian – an Ossi. It made marrying her the perfect political peacekeeping gesture according to Ari.

Stationed behind Milady Tania were two women. Rather, a woman and a girl. The girl had flame-orange hair pulled into a prim plait from which rogue curls were already escaping. The woman, who from her looks was Tania’s mother, was even more elaborately dressed than the princess-to-be. Gaudy. Presumptuous too, she outdid Queen Tabora. But Etrurians were said to be arrogant by nature. And many other worse things too.

On the queen’s far side, a little like an afterthought sat her husband, Prince Rynor. The prince was honorific, the title granted a queen’s consort. He would never be king. If he minded, nothing in his appearance gave hint of it. His expression was perfectly apathetic. His face was vaguely handsome but weak, his skin doughy. He bore no resemblance to his son whatsoever.

I glanced at the prince again and was surprised to find I had his attention. Catching my eye, he gave me a friendly smile. Reflexively I looked away before I remembered this was the prince. The crown prince. The future king. Rudeness was not my best idea. Nor in my interest. I forced myself to look again. His smile was amused.

As if I were amusing?

I tried to decide how to interpret that, how to factor it into my as yet limited knowledge of Prince Ryland Winistre of Wyst.

I am never amusing.

CHAPTER TWO

To be presented at court was a high honor, accorded to those of rank, age, or prestige or some combination of the three. A mere heir such as the Lady Emrys Bruma would never garner such attention alone, but Father was invited and had sent me in his stead.

You must be my eyes and ears, he’d reminded me repeatedly.

His eyes and ears – and also his face, the face of the Brumas. Father, like every Bruma since the Disgrace, was a confirmed recluse. He had come to court out of dire necessity but would go no further. He had yet to leave his rooms, and I half-doubted he ever would.

I am counting on you, Emrys. As a daughter.

Daughter. I swallowed, remembering, just thinking of it. Daughter. It was only the second time he’d used that word in connection with me ever, and my chest squeezed to hear it. It was painful what one word could do. Father was never sentimental. His outlook was purely phlegmatic, dispassionate. I generally tried to follow his example, but sometimes I could feel the emotion leaking through. It always felt like doubt. Daughter was a lot to live up to.

Of course, he wasn’t really my father.

And Lady Emrys Bruma did not exist.

***

I was eleven when I ran from the Wards, the orphan halls – home to the destitute, the abandoned, and the forgotten.

I had dreamed of running away for as long as I could remember, longer probably, but figured I had one shot only. If I failed, the punishment would be severe. I would never be given another chance. So I’d taught myself some small patience and to pick locks, hoarding castoff hairpins and practicing in secret until I was perfect. I’d dared tell no one my plans – the Lady Wards, who had charge of us all, rewarded tattling, delighted in it. I would be sold out for a joint of mutton or a bit of marzipan, a kind word even, had the Lady ever said one. And so I’d bided my time and watched and waited for the right moment. My one shot.

It came finally on a moonless night. It was black in the Wards. Blacker than black. Lanterns were deemed unnecessary, a needless expense for those not on evening work-shift. In truth the funds officially allocated for candles and the like were unofficially redistributed by the Lady for her own use, silks and furs and exotic perfumes, generally. As a result, come sundown we were abed mostly. Even so I was fully dressed down to my shoes. The Wards was a lawless place. Anything left unattended was fair game and theft was common. I’d done my share. Fighting was another fact of life, and I kicked back harder with my boots on. Hard enough that most of my fellow inmates knew to leave me alone.

I never learned what happened that night, what it was that drew every warden and nursemaid from their posts so that I could make my escape. I didn’t wait to see. I didn’t want to see. Still, I remember the screaming. It echoed in my ears as I worked the lock on the girls’ hall door, as I slipped silently down the dark corridors and beyond.

A last door opened, and the night air rushed in. I rushed out – outside – and I was free. I had a single pair of already-filthy breeches and a much-patched smock, old boots, no food, no money, no anything, but I was free. I started running and didn’t stop for a very long time.

I would never forget my first glimpse of Brumalis, how the White Tower gleamed against the thick, impenetrable forest like a beacon. Lit by special lamps of Father’s invention, although it would be some time before he explained his hobby. To me it seemed as though the Aether itself had descended from the Heavens. My practical side was certain there’d be money in a place like this. The ten-foot wall enclosing the central grounds, the heaviness of the black iron gate seemed to confirm it. Which made it a hopeful spot for pilferage.

Little did I know.

I’d run from the Wards in midsummer, traveling north and east though I did not realize it at the time. All that mattered was the distance I covered. Summer had turned to autumn. The days were crisp, the nights cool. I would need a plan for winter. But that night I was more focused on finding a meal.

I climbed the wall and crept toward the outhouses – the castle itself shone too brightly to be safe, no matter the temptation. I found the chicken coop stocked with warm fat hens. Easy pickings.

My hands were fast and light; the hens never stirred. I had three eggs stowed safely in my sleeve when a pair of knobby hands grabbed me with the firmness of a vice. The eggs cracked, yolks running down my forearm. My stomach cringed at the waste.

And I was dragged kicking and screaming into the castle proper.

I suppose I was expecting the dungeon or some such place. Instead I found myself in a sort of study, a large room filled with profound strangeness. There were specimens in glass jars, bottles of jewel-colored liquids, books splayed open on tables and chairs, odd-shaped tools, measurement devices, contraptions. Against one wall stood an immense pendulum clock modified with an array of gears and three additional faces, none of which gave the time. Bright lanterns hung from hooks and poles, burning blue-white instead of red-orange.

What have you brought, Lynd? The voice rang out low and resonant from behind a silk screen.

The screen was a patchwork, scraps pieced together to form a picture. I recognized the scene. Any Wystese would. It was The Creation, the hand of the Alchemist as he pulled the Aether from the Black, the Aether surrounded by the four earthly elements, the world-sphere within the Aether-sphere. I knew little of finery, but even I could see it was exquisitely done. Unique.

This is she as was in with the chickens, Lynd said, still pinching my arm. Not but what she scarce looks a girl.

Let me go! I said, twisting in his grasp.

Let her go, the voice echoed, and a man stepped out from behind the screen.

Lynd released me, and I fell silent, staring at him. The master of the house, clearly. I saw that at once.

He was imposingly tall with piercing eyes, one gray, one green. Younger than I’d thought at first. Or maybe older. He looked so frail it was hard to say. Like a collection of bones stitched together to form a man. And yet he was also startlingly alive. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but forceful. You listened. He had power.

My eyes strayed again to the silk screen. It suited him.

My mother made that, he told me. Beautiful, is it not?

It was beautiful, indisputably so. I didn’t bother to answer, just waited.

Well, child, he said after another moment. Explain yourself. What were you doing in my henhouse?

I frowned. Was this a trick question? Hadn’t it been obvious? I wanted an egg, I said. My lord, I added belatedly, haughty even to my own ears.

I had no reverence for titles, for anyone.

His expression didn’t change, and yet I thought if he’d been a different sort of man he might have smiled. Instead he looked at me appraisingly. What is your name?

It had been so long since anyone had asked me that. So long since anyone had cared. Emrys, I said more softly.

Emrys what?

Just Emrys.

This time he did smile slightly. And where do you come from, Just Emrys?

I froze. Nowhere, I said but quailed beneath his gaze. As though he’d drawn the words from me, I admitted, I ran away. From the Wards.

His expression became thoughtful. You are a child of the Wards?

No, I am not, I said firmly. Not anymore. And never again.

For an extended moment he said nothing. Abruptly he turned to Lynd and said, Find Just Emrys a bath and something to wear and bring her back to me. I may have a proposition for her.

I understood little of that, nor was I particularly interested in a bath, but before I could say no, before I could say anything, he’d retreated behind the screen and Lynd had my arm again.

You do know how to bathe? Lynd had asked me.

I supposed I didn’t look as though I did. I couldn’t remember my last wash. Even before I’d left the Wards, bathing-time was rare.

Newly clean and clothed in an ill-fitting but spotless shift I was escorted back to the study-room where the man behind the screen waited. A table was laid with food: bread and figs and cheese. A simple meal for a lord’s table but my mouth began to water. At the same time I felt shy and exposed, as though the coat of dirt and grime I’d shed had been a protective armor. He sat at the head of the table in an ornate chair. Not even the Lady Wards had anything so lovely.

Well, that is a slight improvement, he said. He beckoned me closer, examining me from head to toe. He reached out to touch my hair, the streak of white amongst the dark. Where did you get this? he asked me sharply.

I’ve always had it, I said. I could think of nothing but the food.

After another moment he withdrew his hand and invited me to sit, eat.

I see your table manners will need work, he commented mildly.

I barely heard him, busily filling my face as I was. He did not eat, I noticed in passing, merely sipped from a goblet – a draught of his own invention I would later learn.

When my rabid feasting had slowed somewhat, he asked, Do you believe in fate, Just Emrys? It is not rational, and yet I sometimes think it must exist. Perhaps fate has sent you to me.

I didn’t understand.

He continued, I was wondering if you would like to make a deal?

In the ancient stories this is where the girl makes her deal with the demon. Father does not believe in demons. Nor do I – least, not the supernatural sort. The only demons I’ve ever met have been all too flesh and blood.

What sort of deal? I asked.

This is Brumalis. The ancestral home of the Brumas, he told me.

What sort of deal, Lord Bruma? I asked again. My patience still needed work.

This got me another slight smile. I have no heirs, no daughter . . .

I blinked, disbelieving. You want me for a daughter?

I want your help.

Why? I said. What I meant was why me? He was Lord Bruma of Brumalis, and I was a runaway ward – whether I liked to remember it or not.

He didn’t answer me directly. I have always believed that the ends justify the means, that there are times when one must do what is necessary to achieve success – to achieve justice. I suspect you can help me in this.

I didn’t totally understand him at the time. Later, I would realize just how much his thinking did appeal to me, someone who had done what was necessary for far too long. One who had taken what was needed because it was the only way. Who had grasped and clutched at the idea that someday things would be better, that I would be better. That day I only knew that I wanted to trust in what he believed – whatever it was – because it seemed that he believed in me.

***

A bare six years later I had been successfully presented at court as the Lady Emrys Bruma. So far so good.

When the morning’s final presentee had been read into the Great Book, Queen Tabora stood and exited the hall in grand style, a train of royal Winistres in her wake, and we were formally dismissed. While my fellow presentees greeted and gossiped in the long corridor beyond the receiving room, I made my way to the guest wing to give Father my report. The guest wing was practically a second palace unto itself, and my own rooms were nowhere near Father’s, a fact that annoyed him slightly.

Lynd answered my knock. Mistress, he said with his usual impassivity. Lynd was always careful. After six years I still wasn’t certain what he felt about me, if he felt anything at all. He had come with us from Brumalis of course. I could not imagine Father without Lynd. I could not imagine Lynd without Father. I may not have known what he thought of me, but his loyalty to Father was obvious and unshakeable.

Father was in the back room behind his customary silk screen – we’d brought that with us as well.

It’s done. I’m presented— I broke off in shock as I rounded the screen.

Because behind it Father was not alone. Father, who never saw visitors. Father, who had brought a screen from Brumalis to ensure that he never accidentally saw visitors.

I hardly knew what to say. I stood staring, gaping. Like a fish. He – the visitor – was a small man with a ferrety face. He wore the livery of a Winistre steward, and I disliked him on sight. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. I wondered if he’d come on some official errand, one that overrode Father’s standard request for constant and absolute privacy. Some formal greeting, maybe.

Or was he there for me? Had I slipped in some way? Did they know? What did they know?

I glanced at Father. He didn’t appear upset, but when did he ever?

I was still running through the possibilities and trying to decide how to proceed when Father spoke. You may relax, Emrys, he said. This is Revyk. One of my most valuable associates. As you can see, he is extremely well placed for our purposes.

Revyk smiled, a smug sort of preening smirk. My lord, he said, licking his lips and bowing elaborately. I am, as always, at your service, your most loyal and humble servant.

Oh, I said, adjusting my ideas and resisting the urge to gag at the excessive obsequiousness. This self-satisfied ferret of a man was to be an ally?

So this is Emrys, he said, as though he had any right to my name. He was sizing me up now, through