Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 2

After three weeks aboard a merchant ship, Bacchus’s head ached for land almost as much as his legs did. He swore he could feel his sanity slipping. He’d made the trip more times than he could count in his twenty-seven years, and yet he never had accustomed himself to it. The Atlantic always felt so much broader than he remembered it. On a voyage that long, he craved solid ground. And oranges. These merchant ships abounded in good food, but all of it was for profit, not for crewmen or passengers.

As Bacchus looked up at accumulating rain clouds and listened to the English lilt of the sailors hurrying to dock, his home in Barbados felt very far away. He’d spent just as many years in England with his father as he had on the island, but he’d never truly felt he belonged anywhere but the Caribbean. He’d visited his mother’s homeland, the Algarve, only twice. His poor grasp of Portuguese had always made him feel like he stood on the outside looking in. He had no desire to return.

He nodded to John and Rainer, servants from his household, who scrambled to collect his suitcases. He’d tried to pack light, but he didn’t know how long his stay would be. He could be in England for a mere week, or he could be here for months. It all depended on how accommodating the Physical Atheneum would be.

He had a feeling accommodation wasn’t the atheneum’s strong suit.

Grabbing a bag himself and urging strength into his limbs, Bacchus marched for the gangplank leading to the dock. A few of the sailors stepped aside to let him pass. He was not yet a titled man, certainly not here in England, but he was a well-dressed landowner and an aspector ready to test for master status, which in this uptight society would shove him somewhere above a clergyman and below a baron. Unfortunately, the test was not the only hurdle he faced in English society. As soon as he stepped ashore, he felt eyes on his face, his hair, his hands. Even the finest clothes couldn’t hide his foreign heritage. Despite having an English father, he didn’t look English, and his skin was all the darker from a lifetime in the sun.

But Bacchus was accustomed to stares.

Fortunately, as a breeze reeking of fish blew through his thick hair, bound at the nape of his neck, he saw a familiar face among the onlookers, standing on the edge of the road across from low-lodging houses. It was a face as pale as the whites of Bacchus’s eyes, framed by hair even lighter. A hooked nose, a regal bearing despite his years. A waistcoat embroidered with gold thread.

Isaiah Scott, Duke of Kent.

Bacchus grinned and charged forward. This time, when the Englishmen scattered from his path, it was because his stride demanded it, as did his height and breadth. He may have been a copper coin against a sea of silver, but he was a large coin—a fact he often used to his advantage. He clasped hands with the duke. Bacchus’s father had become close with the family after attending university with the duke’s youngest brother, Matthew. He’d maintained the connection from afar after moving to Barbados to claim his inheritance. The first time Bacchus’s father had brought him to England, or at least the first time Bacchus remembered, had been to pay his respects to the Scotts after Matthew passed away in a hunting incident. Although Bacchus’s father had since passed on, Bacchus had stayed close with them. They felt like family.

“I didn’t think it possible, but you’ve grown.” The Duke of Kent had a glint in his eye.

Although the man had turned seventy last month, his grip was strong as ever.

“Only because we’re at sea level.” Bacchus’s tongue easily slipped into a British accent. “Once we ride up those green hills by your estate, we’ll see eye to eye.”

The duke chuckled. “You need a lesson in physics. Are you sure you picked the right alignment?”

Bacchus had studied physical aspecting—magic that affected the physical world—since he was an adolescent. His father, being a landowner on a prosperous sugarcane plantation, had been able to fund his studies. It hadn’t been hard for him to choose a specialization. The last thing he wanted was to give the English another reason to distrust him, so the rational arts were out. He didn’t need anyone suspecting he’d bewitched their thoughts. Spiritual magic dealt fundamentally with blessings and curses, which seemed a poor investment for day-to-day life. And temporal magic had always come off as vain to him. A temporal aspector couldn’t change time, only time’s effects. And while aging plant sprouts and turning back the clock for livestock could prove beneficial back home, Bacchus knew he’d more often be hired to lighten wrinkles and strip the rust from antiques. He used to think poorly of those who spent their life’s savings on temporal spells, assuming they were driven by vanity.

Until the day he’d needed one for himself.

His men, John and Rainer, stepped up beside him, bug-eyed as they looked around. John, the older of the two, had been to Europe once before, on Bacchus’s last trip three years ago. Rainer was new and absorbed everything as though the cobbles and clouds were nails pounded into his bones.

He wouldn’t like it here.

“Come.” The duke placed a hand on Bacchus’s shoulder and led him down the narrow road to a carriage awaiting them. “You must be tired from such a long journey. Your room is ready, and I brought a cushion in case you can’t wait the hour it will take to arrive there.”

“Truly, I’d like nothing more than to run until my legs give out.” Which took less time than it once had. Hiding a grimace, Bacchus glanced down at his legs, then rubbed a spot on his chest. “That ship is a cage, and the ocean its bars.”

“So poetic,” the duke said. One of his servants opened the carriage door, and Bacchus stepped back to allow his friend—though he’d always been more of an uncle—to enter first. Bacchus followed after, feeling the carriage shift as he sat down.

“If it isn’t much trouble,” Bacchus said after the carriage door shut and his bags were loaded onto the back, “I’d like to contact the Physical Atheneum as soon as possible.”

The duke clasped his hands over his knees. “Is there a reason for the rush?”

“Not a rush, merely a desire to utilize the time given me. I’d rather not waste it.”

“Ah, so time with me is wasted?” The duke quirked his brow.

Bacchus chuckled. “I suppose that depends on what leisure you have planned for us. I did receive your letter about the estate; I’d be obliged to help you where I can.”

The duke nodded. “I greatly appreciate it. As for the atheneum, I’ve been trying to throw my weight to get you an earlier meeting. I think it’s working. With luck, I’ll hear back in the morning.”

Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Bacchus nodded his thanks before looking out the window as the carriage jerked forward. As an aspector registered with the London Physical Atheneum, he was entitled to a meeting. But as with everything, there were politics involved, and his appointment had been set for the end of summer. The four-month wait was preposterous, especially given that he’d petitioned for the meeting in February. While the duke was not a spellmaker of any sort, he was an influential aristocrat with money to his name, and thus could hopefully bend the politics in Bacchus’s favor. Either way, he feared his meeting would not go smoothly.

He watched the docks pass by, rubbing the light beard encircling his mouth. While such a thing was fashionable here, his long hair certainly wasn’t. But long hair ultimately required less upkeep than short. He supposed he’d consider cutting it if it would make a better impression on the Assembly of the London Physical Atheneum.

He knew the spell he wanted. He’d known it for years now, and aspired to claim it far more vigorously than he did any title. The ambulation spell would allow him to move an object—any object—without touching it. The trick was convincing the self-righteous hermits in the atheneum to let him have it. Although hundreds of spells existed for each alignment, the atheneums guarded the powerful ones as carefully as a miser did his money, selling them only to those deemed worthy and reliable. And even if a spell was made available to an aspector, there still remained the challenge of absorbing it—a costly procedure that did not always work.

Bacchus rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he was more tired than he cared to admit. It would do him well to get a full night’s rest at the Duke of Kent’s estate before tackling his mission in the morning. He needed to think clearly and tread carefully if he didn’t want to mix himself up in these aspectors’ games.