Chapter Fifteen

Despite her stated contempt for women and magic, Caroline was clearly an accomplished mage. Darcy wondered absently who had taught her; perhaps Hurst understood more magic than he let on.

Guests surged away from Elizabeth with several shouts of “fire!” But she lifted her chin and calmly pulled water from the ether to douse the flames. Although she was standing in a scorched and soggy gown, Darcy had never seen anything more beautiful. “You ruined my best gown,” she growled at Caroline. “I am beginning to find you quite vexing.”

Elizabeth pulled down strands of ether, chanting a spell Darcy recognized as one designed to immobilize someone, illegal to use except in self-defense.

Knowing she was outmatched, Caroline chanted frantically, forming the ether into a giant fist. Just as Elizabeth finished the last words of her spell, the fist punched into her. She flew backward, slamming into the wall behind her with a loud crack and falling to the floor like a broken doll.

Enraged, Darcy rounded on Caroline. But Elizabeth’s spell had done its job; the other woman was completely wrapped in coils of ether, absolutely immobilizing her. His uncle stepped out of the crowd and called for two paladins to take charge of Caroline.

Darcy raced across the room to Elizabeth’s immobile form. She cannot be dead. Please God. His own blindness about Caroline could not have cost Elizabeth her life. How could he survive without her?

He knelt beside her, relieved to note the gentle rise and fall of her chest. As he was fumbling to find the pulse at her wrist, her eyes fluttered open.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “How do you feel? Is anything broken?”

She blinked several times. “I do not believe so. I pray you help me stand.”

He shook his head. “You should rest. Your head—”

“Help. Me. Stand.”

Darcy dared not ignore a command in that tone of voice. He kept an arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders as she clambered to her feet. She swayed a bit, leaning most of her weight on him, and craned her neck, searching for Caroline. “My uncle has Caroline in hand,” he reassured her. “We should find you a healer.”

Dark curls fell around her cheeks where they had escaped from her coiffure, and her face was bruised. With the addition of the bedraggled gown, Elizabeth could have recently come from a battlefield. A corner of her mouth curved upward as she gazed into Darcy’s eyes. “You are no longer engaged.”

“No,” he agreed, thrilled that she was well enough to tease him.

No force in the world could have prevented him from kissing her. The kiss was long and deep and thorough. And possibly scandalous. Some of the surrounding guests were murmuring and exclaiming. Darcy did not care. Elizabeth tasted of punch and victory. Finally, when the need for air became unbearable, he reluctantly pulled away but kept her pressed against his chest.

Only when he observed the other guests’ shocked and disapproving countenances did the magnitude of Darcy’s impropriety occur to him. He had kissed an unmarried woman quite thoroughly in front of hundreds of mages and their families. Bingley, who had pushed to the front of the crowd, was grinning. Uncle Matlock’s mouth was hanging open.

Elizabeth turned bright red and buried her face against his chest. Well, there was only one remedy.

“Er…” Darcy stepped backward so he could see Elizabeth’s face, but he retained his hold on her hand. “I suppose this should have been my first step. But as I now find myself without a fiancée, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

Although her eyes filled with tears, Elizabeth’s voice was steady. “I will.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the watchers. Darcy wanted to kiss her again, but perhaps he had exhibited enough shocking behavior for one day. He settled for pulling her against his chest. He wanted nothing other than to take her back to Darcy House and…Well, perhaps not yet, he chastised himself while simultaneously calculating how long they would need to wait before being wed. At the moment, he would settle for a nice walk with Elizabeth in the garden or a cup of tea with her in the parlor. Unfortunately, they still needed to contend with Hurst, the far greater threat.

The voice of the master of ceremonies called, prevailing upon the crowd to seat themselves so voting could commence. As the guests dispersed, taking seats at tables near the front of the room, Uncle Matlock approached them. “Elizabeth has consented to be my wife!” Darcy told him unnecessarily, but he was drunk with happiness.

“Yes, congratulations.” His uncle added hastily, “I had two paladins remove Miss Bingley. They will hold her in the Convocation prison until her trial.”

This reminder of harsh reality sobered Darcy immediately. “Did she say anything to implicate Hurst?” he asked.

His uncle shook his head. “I questioned her, but she would not say one word against him.”

“Do you believe that enough people consumed the punch to counteract the spell?” Elizabeth asked.

“I hope so.” With his mouth set in a straight line, Uncle Matlock strode toward the front of the room, taking his place beside Hurst on the dais.

The master of ceremonies was explaining the rules for voting as servants moved through the crowd, handing out ballots to Convocation members. Uncle Matlock glared at his rival. Hurst was smiling, doing his best to appear confident and comfortable, but a stiffness in his movements suggested tension. He was aware that Caroline’s arrest put him in a more vulnerable position.

“The election is now open!” the master of ceremonies announced, using a spell that projected his voice throughout the room.

But just as the mages bent their heads to their ballots, Uncle Matlock interrupted. “No.” Although he spoke in a normal tone, his voice carried over the crowd. “Attend to my words.” At least half the heads in the crowd jerked upward at the phrase used to activate a suasion spell. Darcy stifled an oath. He had been right; more than half the guests had been affected by the spell. If his uncle could not unravel it, he would lose the ballot.

As Uncle Matlock chanted in Latin, most of the mages stared in amazement. The archmage flung his arms wide as he pulled on every thread of ether contained in the room, gathering them as easily as picking handfuls of flowers. It was a feat of magical power that Darcy had never seen before.

With an intricate movement of his hands, Uncle Matlock wove a glittering net of ether that hovered over the crowd. It was a beautiful sight; many people gaped in awe. The archmage turned his palms in a downward motion, bringing the shimmering net over the crowd—as if capturing an exotic animal. A few mages bolted from the room in alarm, but most simply looked perplexed. A stout, red-faced man shouted, “Matlock, what are you about?”

The glowing strands of ether were drawing magic—sickly green-hued spells— from the bodies of multiple mages. An awed hush had fallen over the room as everyone watched the archmage work his magic. Some stared in amazement as the spells were pulled from their bodies, others collapsed in relief. Bingley’s eyes widened as the net drew the suasion spell from him. For a moment he stared into space, dazed, and then a horrified expression stole over his countenance. No doubt that is I how I appeared when I was freed from the spell.

“I have just uttered a counter spell to nullify suasion,” Uncle Matlock announced. A murmur of alarm went through the crowd. “A potion in the punch acted as a catalyst. The suasion spell was cast by John Hurst to encourage you to vote for him.”

The archmage uttered the words calmly, but they had an electric effect on the crowd. Shouts of outrage and disbelief rang out. “If your thoughts about Mage Hurst have changed from moments ago—if you are now less inclined to vote in his favor—you were probably influenced by his spell,” Uncle Matlock said. The anxious undercurrent of muttering in the crowd instantly rose in volume.

“Do not listen to Matlock!” Hurst cried. “This is a transparent attempt to win the election! A suasion spell? What a ridiculous notion! Why, everyone knows how difficult it is to power one suasion spell, let alone dozens.”

Some of the mages nodded agreement, ready to believe Hurst’s claims. Darcy’s uncle pointed an accusing finger at his rival. “You summoned goblins—goblin children— from their world and then killed them so you could absorb their etheric power.” Multiple gasps of horror sounded as the archmage turned back toward the crowd. “That is the cause of the goblin attacks—first in Hertfordshire and now here. The goblins are trying to prevent Hurst from committing more murders.”

“No! No! He lies!” Hurst cried, red-faced and perspiring freely.

But the archmage’s evidence appeared to convince most people. Muttering angrily, mages surged toward the dais. Hurst scrambled toward the back of the platform as Uncle Matlock turned toward his erstwhile rival. “John Hurst, I arrest you for the mass use of an illegal spell—”

Hurst made a desperate slashing movement and a portal opened behind him, shimmering like a doorway carved from glowing gold. Darcy gasped. He had never seen a portal opened so easily and quickly—or inside a building. Hurst’s lineage did indeed give him superior abilities.

The thing that emerged from the portal resembled a large dog, albeit one the size of a horse and with flaming eyes. Also of note: three heads. A phooka goblin. Darcy had never seen one. But they were the subject of Academy lectures in part because they were rumored to be impossible to kill. Staring at an eight-foot goblin with large, leathery wings and foot-long claws, Darcy had no difficulty believing the rumors. In 1789, one had destroyed three villages in Devonshire before disappearing; the Convocation had never discovered what had caused it to vanish.

The master of ceremonies jumped off the dais and ran, but Hurst paid him no attention. Instead he directed the goblin toward Uncle Matlock. Darcy’s gut clenched. Somehow Hurst had bound the phooka’s will, forcing it to obey his commands. For a moment the goblin only snarled at Hurst, naked hatred in its eyes as it thrashed its wings—crushing the lectern with a single flap. Darcy experienced a moment of sympathy for the beast, remembering his own battle against the hold of Hurst’s spell. But Hurst gestured toward Uncle Matlock again and shouted, “Attack!”

The goblin leapt toward Darcy’s uncle so fast it was a blur. The archmage had tried to create a shield of ether, but destroying the suasion spell had expended most of his energy, and the shield was a ragged thing. Darcy raced toward the dais, attempting to add his power to his uncle’s, but he was too far away.

The goblin ripped through the flimsy shield like paper, knocking Uncle Matlock off the dais and into the wall behind it. The phooka jumped off the dais as its middle head struck with lightning speed, burying its teeth in the archmage’s abdomen. Blood spurted as Darcy’s uncle screamed in pain.

People were fleeing toward the doors at the back of the room, but Hurst sealed them shut with a wave of his hand. Darcy could hear mages attempting different opening spells as he pushed his way through the panicked crowds, dimly aware that Elizabeth followed in his wake. Bingley reached the goblin first and slashed his bespelled sword at the monster’s right head. Although he successfully drew the right head’s attention, the middle head continued ravaging the archmage.

When Darcy reached the goblin, he immediately attacked the left head, but it moved startingly fast and nearly bit his right arm. Even with two of them, they were barely holding their own against the beast. Fortunately, the hall held at least a dozen paladins. Bingley and Darcy only needed to last until others could arrive to help.

The room was filled with the beast’s roars and the guests’ screams—while Hurst chanted calmly in Latin. That cannot possibly be good. The mage was standing beside a pair of ornately carved doors that led outside. We must not allow him to escape! But Darcy could not take his attention from the battle for even a moment. Sensing Darcy’s momentary distraction, the phooka renewed its attack. Darcy’s uncle was still lodged in the middle head’s jaws—dead or unconscious.

“Hurst is casting a sleeping spell!” Elizabeth called to Darcy. He stole a glance at the back of the room. Indeed people were beginning to collapse where they stood, even piling on top of each other. My God, the power Hurst commands!

The wave of etheric sleep was rolling toward the front of the room. No wonder Hurst wanted to be near the exit; he had probably commanded the spell to stay within the confines of the hall. Elizabeth had raised her hands and was attempting to halt the wave’s progress, but she could only slow it slightly.

If Darcy and Bingley succumbed to the sleeping spell, nothing would prevent the phooka from killing them—and everyone else in the room. Hurst had already slipped out of the room, leaving the ornate doors hanging open. “We must get outside!” Darcy shouted to Bingley, who nodded grimly in agreement. But the phooka stood between them and the door.

Between one moment and the next, mysterious figures appeared out of nowhere to stand beside Bingley. Five men wielding the glowing, bespelled swords of paladins.

Even as he continued to fight the goblin, Darcy puzzled over their presence. Where had they come from? Why were they not affected by the sleeping spell? And who were they?

Darcy knew every paladin by sight; these men were unfamiliar. Oddly, all the same height, their countenances were blurry and hard to distinguish. And their clothing…closely resembled Darcy’s own. When he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth staring intently at the men, he understood. Those paladins were as substantial as the phoenix in Meryton.

No wonder they were all dressed like Darcy; she had duplicated him five times! Hopefully the goblin did not have much fashion sense.

The illusory paladins brandished their swords at the goblin, forcing it backward toward the open doors without ever coming in contact. It dodged and weaved, unaware the paladins were not real.

The sleeping spell began to wash over the front of the room. Darcy could feel his limbs growing heavy. Bingley stumbled—barely raising his sword to fend off a nasty bite. Darcy reached over to grab Elizabeth’s arm, hoping that they could keep each other awake. Maintaining such a complex illusion had to be draining her energy. If we do not escape the room soon, the battle will be lost.

Elizabeth’s paladins kept up their relentless attack. Finally, with an angry roar, the phooka retreated backward through the doorway, knocking out a piece of the lintel as it did so. It still carried the archmage, who was moving feebly.

Bingley rushed after the beast with Darcy staggering after him, his arm around Elizabeth. They stepped out into blinding sunshine. As chilly air slapped him in the face, Darcy was instantly more alert. The illusory paladins had disappeared; the phooka growled and tossed its head as it realized it had been tricked.

The mages in the hall would not awaken for at least an hour. By then the battle would be over—for better or worse. In the meantime, Darcy, Bingley, and Elizabeth were on their own. Darcy would have preferred to send Elizabeth away from the fighting, but she would not go. Nor could he deny that her help had proved invaluable. If he could have chosen two people to help him fight a large and crafty goblin, Darcy would have selected Bingley and Elizabeth.

He glanced around, evaluating the terrain. The small walled garden was unfamiliar to him, a part of the Convocation grounds he had never visited. It was populated by a few trees, a quantity of bushes, and some jumbled ornamental rocks that once might have constituted a waterfall.

Hurst cowered in one corner of the garden, having ordered the goblin to stand in front of him. It would be impossible to reach the mage without dispatching the phooka. Darcy took a moment to curse Hurst for forcing them to kill a creature that did not even wish to fight them.

***

One of the goblin’s heads snapped perilously close to Mr. Darcy’s arm. Irrelevantly, Elizabeth thought, we’re engaged. Perhaps I can call him William in my own mind. Of course, at the rate things were going, it was likely to be a short engagement.

The phooka’s middle head jerked up and down, flinging around the archmage. The earl’s arms moved weakly, so he was still alive. But how much more could he take?

Elizabeth retreated to the back wall, wishing she had a sword or any sort of weapon. Not that she could wield one effectively. There had to be something she could do with magic. Perhaps another illusion? No, surely the goblin would not believe that trick again.

The phooka lunged out at her with its claws, but William was there just in time, forcing the beast backward with his sword. I am a liability to the paladins; they cannot fight effectively if they need to protect me. She cast about for a place that would give her some protection while still allowing her to see the action. On the other side of the garden was a cherry tree—with limbs close to the ground. She would be mostly hidden from the goblin in those leaves; of course, it could fly, but the tree would at least make it harder to reach her.

Swiftly, Elizabeth ran to the tree, grabbed the lowest branches, and pulled herself up into it. Her gown caught and snagged on branches, but it was unsalvageable anyway thanks to Miss Bingley. Of course, now I have her fiancé and she is in prison, so perhaps I got the better end of the bargain.

She crouched at a juncture where a large limb met the trunk, not far from the ground, taking a moment to be grateful for a misspent youth full of tree climbing. Now she could turn her attention to the battle. William and Mr. Bingley were harassing the goblin with their swords, but they were severely hampered by the existence of three heads, even though one had a mouthful of archmage. No matter what they did, one of the goblin’s heads was always snapping at them with fangs like knives. Hurst cowered behind the beast, occasionally shouting commands that Elizabeth could not hear. The paladins were not winning the battle, but at least they were preventing the beast from flying away with Hurst—which was certainly the mage’s plan.

A claw caught Mr. Bingley, ripping a gouge out of his left leg. He danced backward, but crimson blood seeped along the tear in his breeches. A moment later a head snapped out, unbelievably fast, to bite at William—who avoided losing his hand by a few inches. Mr. Bingley struck a shallow blow in the left head’s neck, but it only served to enrage the beast. With a violent roar, the middle head flung the archmage to the ground on the far side of the garden. The earl moved slightly but did not regain consciousness.

Now the phooka could attack the paladins with all three heads, outnumbering them. They were fighting valiantly, but they were growing weary. Elizabeth could see their movements slowing; it was only a matter of time before one of them made a mistake.

The middle head foamed at the mouth and rolled its eyes, resembling nothing so much as a lunatic from an asylum. Maybe there was some truth in the idea that the human world itself drove goblins to madness. Elizabeth experienced a pang of sympathy for the beast. It had not asked to be pulled into this alien world and enslaved to Mr. Hurst’s will.

If only I could banish the creature back to the goblin world. But the banishment spell had not worked with the knocker goblin. Nor did Elizabeth have luck with using other people’s spells. The phrasing was awkward, the timing was strange, and it always felt…wrong. A bit like wearing another person’s shoes.

In the past couple of days, Elizabeth had idly considered how she could modify the banishment spell to suit her magical style. But she certainly had not had the time or the opportunity to test it. And she had never crafted a spell of that size and complexity before.

She cried out when William was knocked to the ground by a lashing of the phooka’s tail. Mr. Bingley was bleeding from multiple shallow wounds and limping to favor his injured leg.

Elizabeth had only just found Fitzwilliam Darcy. She was not prepared to lose him.

Closing her eyes, she imagined the words of the spell as they had appeared in the book. She started the Latin chant, making subtle alterations—entirely based on instinct—as she went. She carefully gathered tendrils of ether; a spell of this size required her to pull on every thread she could reach. Creating a portal was difficult enough—but banishment required a special sort of portal that would exert a pull on the goblin.

Weaving the strands of ether together, she imagined them forming a tall gate not unlike the one that led to her family’s garden. The portal shimmered into existence, pressed up against the garden’s brick wall only a few yards from Hurst and the phooka. Perhaps that would make it easier to send the goblin through.

The portal was not the solid gold that she had expected, but a more translucent, insubstantial pale blue. Was that a sign it was not working? Was the portal wrong somehow? But Elizabeth did glimpse a rocky terrain within the confines of the portal. Perhaps it did lead to the goblin world.

Then William screamed.