Risen, p.32
Risen, page 32
part #12 of Alex Verus Series
‘Well, look who’s back.’ Alex’s face is turned away and he doesn’t stop his movements, but it sounds like he’s smiling. ‘Shop too much for you?’
‘You have no idea.’ There’s a fallen tree to one side of the clearing and I walk over to sit down. ‘How did you get customers to take no for an answer? Because I swear they don’t listen to a word I say.’
‘Pretty sure I asked myself that a few times.’
I complain for a while. It’s kind of selfish, but after a day behind the counter it’s nice to moan a bit. Alex listens, still working through his staff form.
‘. . . and then the other customer turns to me with this expectant look, like it’s my job to explain why it happened! It’s like he thinks Richard was supposed to follow his plan and the fact that he didn’t is my fault!’
‘Welcome to being a teacher.’ Alex turns towards me; he keeps his eyes up as he brings the staff around in a parry, but I swear he’s got an amused look.
‘I’m not a teacher!’
‘You’re the only person they can ask about this stuff.’ The parry becomes a strike. ‘Works out the same.’
‘Oh, glad you’re getting a laugh out of it,’ I tell him sourly. ‘You didn’t hear this guy. He was doing a play-by-play of the war like he was a football commentator. Except he got like two-thirds of the things wrong, and he expected me to tell him why Richard and Morden did them. I’d say he was my dumbest customer of the week, except yesterday was Monday!’
‘See?’ Alex draws back into a guard. ‘You’re a shop proprietor, you’re a teacher –’ He crouches and sweeps at ankle height. ‘– and now you’re becoming an expert on London magical society.’ Back to guard. ‘Look at all the things you’re learning.’
‘If you tell me this is all part of my education, I am going to throw something at you.’
‘It’s all part of your education.’
I throw a stick. Alex pivots smoothly and it glances off the staff with a clack. ‘Cheat,’ I tell him.
Alex lowers the staff and walks over. As he gets closer, I see his skin is dry. ‘Still not sweating?’ I ask.
‘I should be,’ Alex says as he sits. ‘Anne says the sweat glands work, but they’re not triggering for some reason. Maybe this body just doesn’t produce as much heat.’
Alex looks stranger up close. It’s not his shape so much – his body’s leaner and harder, and the lack of body hair is kind of odd, but none of that looks super-unnatural. It’s the colour that’s the problem. Alex’s skin looks like white marble, only a little darker than the fateweaver. I used to be fairer than Alex, but now when I sit next to him I look like I’ve been tanning in a sunbed.
I still don’t know exactly what Anne did. Both she and Alex tried to explain it, but Anne was really vague, and Alex wasn’t in much of a condition to take notes given that he was, you know, dying at the time. As far as I understand it, Anne couldn’t heal Alex because the fateweaver was transforming his heart, and she couldn’t reverse the transformation because it was too advanced. So she went the other way. She supercharged it, getting the fateweaver to transmute all of Alex’s body until his body and the fateweaver were the same thing.
Alex claims she wouldn’t have been able to do it on her own, that the fateweaver pushed it to work because it was the only way for it to stay alive. It’s weird to think about. I never realised that Anne could do anything like that, but that’s what life magic does, right? Dominion over all living creatures. Though even so, I get the feeling this was right at her limit. Anne’s had to put a ton of work into Alex’s body to get it this far, and apparently she’s still working out the kinks.
‘Oh, right, Saffron dropped by,’ I say. ‘The Council still think you’re dead, but they’ve got her sniffing around anyway. I think they’ve got their suspicions.’
Alex nods.
‘Can you keep blocking their auguries? I know that fate magic’s powerful, but . . .’
‘I’m not blocking their auguries.’
‘Then who is?’
‘No one.’
I frown at him. ‘Their auguries say you’re dead.’
Alex just looks at me.
‘Okay,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘How do you think tracking and divination spells find someone?’
‘Depends on the type of magic, doesn’t it?’
Alex nods, then walks over to where his shirt and top hang from a branch. ‘Most tracking spells are living family,’ he says, slipping on his shirt. ‘Life or death type. They look for your biological signature.’
‘And yours would have changed,’ I realise. ‘So Anne doesn’t need to shroud you.’ I think for a second. ‘That wouldn’t fool divination though. Are you using that trick from Helikaon?’
‘No, my optasia isn’t good enough.’ Alex finishes doing up his buttons and walks back over. ‘But even auguries have to look for something. And for mages, one of the standard things they search for is your magical signature.’
‘Okay?’
Alex reaches into his pocket and takes out a small plaque. It’s metal mounted on leather, coloured silver and gold. ‘Remember this?’
‘Your Keeper signet?’
Alex nods. ‘They personalise them to your magical signature. Like cutting a key from a blank. Once they’ve been set, they won’t work for anyone else.’
‘Okay.’
‘Mine doesn’t work any more.’
‘Really?’
‘My magic’s changed.’ Alex sits back down on the tree trunk. ‘For one thing, the fateweaver’s integrated with me. It doesn’t feel like I’m using it any more; it’s just part of who I am. But my divination’s changed as well. Weaker. My precognition is fine, but it’s harder to path-walk, especially long range. Can’t focus on it the way I used to.’
‘Does that bother you?’ I ask curiously.
‘Weirdly, no.’ Alex leans back on the tree, resting on his hands. ‘It would have once, but I suppose I’m . . . just less interested in the far future? The present seems more important.’
‘Huh.’
‘So you can see why their auguries aren’t showing me up as alive.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. If Alex has a different body and a different magic type, what are they going to search for? But still . . . ‘You can’t hide in the forest for ever.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you ever going to come back?’
‘I don’t think we can.’
‘Ever?’
‘Never’s a long time,’ Alex says. ‘But the fact is, with Richard and Morden gone, we might be the two most hated mages in the British Isles.’
‘Not by everyone,’ I say. ‘People are still figuring out what to think, but from bits and pieces that I’m hearing, most of the adepts and independents out there aren’t blaming you. And the fact that you were the one who finally negotiated that surrender is getting a lot of notice. I think another six months and people are going to be seeing you as a hero.’
‘Maybe some of them,’ Alex says. ‘But think about how many people lost friends or relatives because of what we did. We go back, and even if the Council stick strictly to the terms of that truce – and that’s a big if – we’ll be getting assassination attempts for the rest of our lives. Any place we go will be a potential war zone; any cause we join will be suspect because we’re associated with it.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t see any path where it’s a good idea for us to go back. And even in the ones where it’s the least bad option, we’d have to wait years. No, I think we’re going to be in exile for a long time.’
I sigh. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
I wait while Alex gathers up his things and puts on his top. ‘There’s one other reason,’ he says as he picks up his staff.
‘What?’
Alex starts walking, keeping to a slow pace, and I fall in beside him. ‘Those moves I was working through?’ he tells me as we walk. ‘It’s the staff form of a martial art called carë.’ He pronounces it kah-reh. ‘Its last living practitioner died around two thousand years ago. There are no records left of the style.’
I look at Alex with a frown, waiting for him to go on. He doesn’t. ‘Then how—?’
‘I remember it,’ Alex says simply.
I stare at him for a second, then I get it.
‘The fateweaver,’ Alex says with a nod. ‘Other things too. I’ve been having dreams. Battles I was never part of, cities I’ve never seen. They’re patchy, like memories from when you’re very young.’
‘You’re remembering things the fateweaver saw.’
‘When I realised that, I started thinking,’ Alex says. ‘And I kept coming back to that conversation we had. The night in Sagash’s shadow realm, before the battle. You remember what you told me, about how I’d changed?’
I nod.
‘Well, I kept turning it over,’ Alex says. We’re coming up to the path; he stops and leans against a tree. ‘And the more I thought about it, the more I had to admit that you were right. Now, some of it I could put down to Anne and the Council and losing my hand, but when I thought back, the point at which I really started acting differently was when I took up the fateweaver.’ Alex looks at me. ‘Imbued items are made for a purpose. My mist cloak was built to hide its wearer. The sovnya was made to kill magical creatures. My armour’s meant to protect. The fateweaver? It was made as a tool for generals. To win battles.’
‘But it was you making those decisions, not the fateweaver.’
‘Oh, I made the decisions,’ Alex says. ‘But after you’ve decided what to do, you still have to figure out how to do it. And if you’ve got an imbued item that’s really good at solving problems one particular way . . . well, don’t you think it’s a funny coincidence that right after I bond to an imbued item built for war, I start facing and killing my enemies on the battlefield? And less than a month after that, I’m commanding an army?’
I look at him.
Alex shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not going to take me over. The fateweaver was made as a tool. It’s not bloodthirsty like the sovnya. But . . .’ He looks past me, into the distance. ‘Between the two of us, I think Anne might be the less dangerous one now. If I ended up taking power again, I’d still care about right and wrong, but there’d be nothing to soften the edge any more. Justice without mercy.’
‘So what, you’re staying away just to be on the safe side?’
Alex grins, and all of a sudden he looks like he did in the old days, back when his biggest worries were me and his shop. ‘Probably best not to take the risk.’
We walk out onto the path, and I think about asking Alex the question that I’ve been wanting to ask, the one that’s been hovering at the back of my mind. Was it worth it? The people we lost – Sonder, Arachne, Caldera, Ilmarin, all of those soldiers and adepts who fought and died. Did it count for anything?
But I know it’s unfair. Every one of us who fought in that war played a part in how things turned out. Alex was at the centre, but he wasn’t behind it. And most of the ones who were behind it are dead or gone. Maybe we’ve earned some rest.
Instead, as the house comes into view, I ask the important thing. ‘Alex? Are you happy?’
Up ahead, the door opens. Anne steps out and turns to wave.
Alex waves back, and as he does his face softens in a smile. It’s not the kind of smile he had when we first met; it’s fuller, purer. He looks down at me to answer, but I already know what he’s going to say. ‘Yes.’
Looking at his face, I’m not worried any more. I’m glad I came today.
The war is over, but our stories are just beginning. The afternoon sun shines down out of a clear sky.
We walk together down the hill, to where Anne and Hermes are waiting.
Author’s Note
In 2008, I started work on a novel. It was my tenth; out of the previous nine, seven had been rejected by every publisher that saw them, while the last two had been published but failed to sell. So when I sat down to write the first words of what would eventually become Fated, my hopes weren’t high. The last thing I was expecting was for it to turn into a series.
But it did, and the first three sold well enough that my publishers were interested in more. I wrote a fourth Alex Verus novel, then a fifth. My contracts were extended, then extended again. Year by year, and step by step, and somewhere along the way, without ever noticing exactly when, I went from being a failed author to a successful one. And now it’s almost nine years since Fated’s release, and for the first time in my life, I’m going to see a series I started be published all the way to its end.
None of this would have been possible without my readers, so my biggest reason for writing this Author’s Note is to say a thank you to everyone who’s been buying and reading my books. If not for you, the Alex Verus series would probably never have existed, and without your continued support, it could never have been finished.
Ever since I announced that book twelve would be the last, I’ve had people asking if I could keep the series going. I’ve always had to say no, and now that you’ve read this book, you can hopefully understand why. I’ve never liked it when a series goes on and on for ever, and I’d much rather leave Alex at the end of Risen, in the woods with Anne. There’s probably room for more stories in the Alex Verus setting, but Alex’s one is over. Besides, after everything that’s happened, I think he’s earned a happy ending.
Instead, I’d much rather move on to something new! Since mid-2020 I’ve been putting together ideas for a new urban fantasy series, one with some similarities to the Alex Verus setting but a lot of differences too. If all goes to plan, I’ll start writing it this year, and the first book will come out in 2022 or 2023.
But that’s all in the future. For now, thank you to all of you who’ve followed Alex on his journey. I wish you the best of luck with your own.
Benedict Jacka, January 2021
extras
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about the author
Benedict Jacka became a writer almost by accident, when at nineteen he sat in his school library and started a story in the back of an exercise book. Since then he has studied philosophy at Cambridge, lived in China and worked as everything from civil servant to bouncer to teacher before returning to London to take up law.
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if you enjoyed
RISEN
look out for
INK & SIGIL
by
Kevin Hearne
Al MacBharrais is both blessed and cursed. He is blessed with an extraordinary white moustache, an appreciation for craft cocktails – and a most unique magical talent. He can cast spells with magically enchanted ink and he uses his gifts to protect our world from rogue minions of various pantheons, especially the Fae.
But he is also cursed. Anyone who hears his voice will begin to feel an inexplicable hatred for Al, so he can only communicate through the written word or speech apps. And his apprentices keep dying in peculiar freak accidents. As his personal life crumbles around him, he devotes his life to his work, all the while trying to crack the secret of his curse.
But when his latest apprentice, Gordie, turns up dead in his Glasgow flat, Al discovers evidence that Gordie was living a secret life of crime. Now Al is forced to play detective – while avoiding actual detectives who are wondering why death seems to always follow Al. Investigating his apprentice’s death will take him through Scotland’s magical underworld, and he’ll need the help of a mischievous hobgoblin if he’s to survive.
Chapter 1
Scones Should Come with a Warning
Deid apprentices tend to tarnish a man’s reputation after a while. I’m beginning to wonder when mine will be beyond repair.
Fergus was crushed by a poorly tossed caber at the Highland Games.
Abigail’s parachute didn’t open when she went skydiving.
Beatrice was an amateur mycologist and swallowed poison mushrooms.
Ramsey was run over by American tourists driving on the wrong bloody side of the road.
Nigel went to Toronto on holiday and got his skull cracked by a hockey puck.
Alice was stabbed in a spot of bother with some football hooligans.
And now Gordie, who was supposed to be my lucky number seven, choked to death on a scone this morning. It had raisins in it, so that was bloody daft, as raisins are ill-omened abominations and he should have known better. Regardless of their ingredients, one should never eat a scone alone. Poor wee man.
None of their deaths was my fault, and they were completely unrelated to their training in my discipline, so that’s in my favor, at least. But still. People are starting to wonder if I’m capable of training a successor.
I’m starting to wonder too. And I’d like to have a successor soon, as I’m past sixty and rather wishing I could spend my time on sunny beaches, or in sunny gardens, or indeed anyplace where I might see the sun more often. Scotland is not known for its sunshine. The Highlands get two hundred sixty days of rain per year. But it’s no fun for people in other countries to think of us as perpetually drenched, so I believe the popular imagination has painted us with kilts and bagpipes and unfortunate cuisine.
The muscle-bound constable standing outside Gordie’s flat in Maryhill and doing a fair job of blocking the entrance held up a hand as I moved to step around him and reach for the door. He was in no mood to give me a polite redirection. ‘The fuck ye daein’, bampot? Away an’ shite,’ he said.
‘Ram it up yer farter, Constable. Inspector knows I’m comin’, so get out ma way.’
Oh, yes, and colorful language. Scotland’s reputation for that is well deserved.
My cane is in fact a weapon that a person of my age is allowed to carry around openly, but I pretended to lean on it as I pulled out my ‘official ID’ and flashed it at him. It was not a badge or anything truly official but rather a piece of goatskin parchment on which I had written three sigils with carefully prepared inks. Any one of them alone would probably work, but in combination they were practically guaranteed to hack the brain through the ocular nerve and get me my way. Most people are susceptible to manipulation through visual media—ask anyone in advertising. Sigils take advantage of this collective vulnerability far more potently.
