Magic and Loss

now.”

“But your hand—!”

“What’s done is done,” he replied. “Ever since I put on the Gauntlet of Nydd, my mind has been filled with a thick fog. Sometimes I was aware of what was going on, but most of the time it was like I was watching myself in a dream. I could hear horrible, ugly words coming out of my mouth, and at the same time I was wondering ‘why am I saying this to her?’ It broke my heart to see the hurt look on your face, but I still couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. I realize my saying ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t begin to cover everything I’ve done and what I’ve put you through—”

“Of course I forgive you,” I said, cutting him off in midapology. “I knew something was wrong. You would never hurt me or our baby.”

“I had my forensics team go over the gauntlet,” Captain Horn interjected. “Turns out there was a puppetry spell woven into the original enchantment that allowed the spellcaster to exert control over whoever wore the gauntlet. I’ve never seen such an insidious bit of spellwork in all my years of investigation. Do you think this Madam Erys is the person responsible?”

“It has to be her,” Hexe replied. “She’s the one who approached me about the Gauntlet of Nydd and arranged for Moot to do the surgery.”

“I looked into this woman—there’s no evidence of her living either here or the Faubourg, at least under that name. It’s like she simply walked, full grown, from the Outer Dark. The landlord who actually owns the glover’s shop on Shoemaker Lane says she only paid him to rent the storefront for a month or two, and used cash to do it with. As soon as the two of you are clearheaded enough, I’ll send our picture-maker around to do an automatic drawing of the suspect, so my people will have an idea of who to look for.”

“First things first, though,” Lady Syra said firmly. “Once news of Hexe losing his hand begins to spread, both of you are going to need charms and spells for protection. You have plenty of enemies—not all of them Maladanti—who will no doubt make a move against you when they realize you are defenseless.”

“What do you propose we do?” Hexe asked.

“Just leave it to me. I am the Witch Queen, after all.”

* * *

After being released from Golgotham General, Hexe and I rode back to Lady Syra’s apartment building in her private coach, driven by the albino centauride Illuminata. The panacea I’d been given at the hospital had healed me, inside and out, but left me feeling like I’d just finished fifty laps in a swimming pool. Suddenly I felt the baby kick. I automatically reached out to place Hexe’s hand on my belly, only to have my fingers close upon thin air.

Lady Syra lived on Beke Street in a fifteen story neo-Gothic apartment building. Like my parents, her home was the penthouse, which was crowned by a copper-sheathed observatory that she used in order to draw up astrology charts for her clients. As we entered the ground floor lobby, the elevator doors began to open, prompting Hexe to hide his missing hand in his jacket pocket.

A second later Syra’s fellow tenant, Giles Gruff, accompanied by Mayor Lash, stepped out into the lobby. While Giles was dapper as ever, monocle in place and monogrammed cane in hand, Lash was nervously working the five-foot-long periwinkle blue braided ponytail he wore about his shoulders like a rosary. The two politicians were so heavily engaged in their conversation they did not seem to notice our little contingent.

“But I’ve always been able to count on you delivering the satyr and faun vote in the past, Giles—!” The mayor protested.

“Well, you should have thought about that before you decided to get into bed with Ronald Chess!” Giles replied sharply. “Because of you, my niece was kicked out of her apartment!”

“How else could I afford to campaign against O’Fae?” Lash snapped. “Do you have any idea how many pots of gold that sawed-off shyster has in his war coffer?”

Lady Syra scowled and mock-coughed into her fist. Mayor Lash started at the sound, his face losing all color as he realized who was standing before him. Giles, on the other hand, merely smirked as his companion quickly scurried across the lobby and out the front door.

“Your Majesty,” the satyr said, touching the brim of his top hat with his cane.

* * *

The first thing I noticed upon reaching Lady Syra’s penthouse was that there was no minotaur stationed outside the front door.

“What happened to Elmer?” I asked.

“I had to let the poor dear go,” she explained. “He was the proverbial bull in a china shop—always getting his horns caught in the chandeliers. He’s now working as a longshoreman down on the docks. I think he’s much happier there, to tell you the truth.”

As we entered the apartment, we were greeted by Lady Syra’s manservant, Amos, whose welcoming smile quickly dissolved as he caught sight of the beige-colored arm sock that covered the stump of Hexe’s right hand.

“My son’s condition is not to be discussed. Is that understood?” Lady Syra stated firmly.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Amos replied with a bow of his maroon buzz cut.

“Come with me,” Lady Syra said, motioning for us to follow her up the spiral staircase that led to her workshop.

The inside of the observatory reminded me of an inverted copper bowl and was dominated by an antique sixteen-inch refracting telescope measuring twenty feet in length. The gleaming brass eyepiece was positioned six feet off the floor and was accessible only by a wrought-iron gangway. The retractable roof was decorated with murals depicting the zodiac and other astrological signs, and the walls were lined with bookcases, pigeonhole bins full of rolled-up charts, and a glass display case containing a taxidermied crocodile—the hallmark of the Kymeran archmage. Lady Syra made a beeline to a large horseshoe-shaped table at the foot of the telescope.

“Perhaps I could have prevented you losing your hand if I’d cast your chart as a boy,” she said as she rifled through the collection of alchemical equipment, magical ingredients, and astrological charts before her. “But I have learned it isn’t wise to know too much of the future, especially of those you love. The temptation to muck about with that which has yet to be can be very strong, and often quite futile. If Greek tragedy has proven anything, it’s that attempting to evade the inevitable is what brings it about.”

“But didn’t you cast a horoscope for my father?” Hexe countered.

“There are different types of charts,” she replied. “The one I cast for your father was little more than a toy. And I certainly wouldn’t have given it to him as a birthday present if it revealed his death, or that of a loved one. In any case, blaming myself for not foreseeing what has happened does not change the fact it has occurred. This Erys woman, whoever she may be, seems determined to destroy you, and I’m not going to allow her to do any more damage than she already has.” After a few more moments spent rummaging about, she produced a small brass bowl, a large bottle of rosewater, an organic sponge, and a box of henna pens. “Okay—I need you two to strip down.”

“Down to what?” I asked uneasily.

“As far as you’re willing to go,” she replied. “I’ll need access to your entire torso. But first use the sponge to cleanse yourself with the rosewater.”

A few minutes later both Hexe and I were down to our skivvies and smelling like a rose garden.

“Are you ready?” Lady Syra asked.

“Take care of Tate first,” Hexe said firmly. “I can wait.”

His mother nodded her understanding and motioned for me to step forward. “Okay—let’s get started.” She uncapped the first henna pen and started to chant in Kymeran. As the tip of the applicator made contact with my skin, I felt an electric prickling that made the hair on my arms rise. For the next hour Lady Syra drew a series of interlocking symbols and patterns over my breasts, belly, and back, never once halting her sonorous incantation. By the time she was finished I was covered with an elaborate henna tattoo from my shoulder blades to my hips, with specific attention paid to my heart, spine, lungs, and belly.

“That should protect you from the majority of curses for the next thirty days, or when the temporary tattoos wear off, whichever comes first,” Lady Syra said, looking considerably drained from when we’d first started. “Your turn,” she said, motioning for Hexe to take my place.