Modern Magick

Royalty and Ruin: 18

Indira had flown higher, much higher. I stared up at the distant underside of her elegant chair with some concern. Given her propensity for shattering bones, I didn't want to end up taking her home in several pieces. 'Indira?' I called.

'Give her a moment,' said Jay.

Well, if Jay didn't feel like being older-brother-protective, far be it from me to play Mother Hen. I waited, my thoughts busy.

If Jay was right and all four mountains were illusory: why? And what was causing it? We each saw only one mountain, which meant we were each being fed a separate vision. By... something. Well, by the mountain. If it was indeed the source of magick for Farringale Dell, what might it not be capable of?

But why did it wish to hide itself?

'If you were an age-old magickal mountain with a penchant for griffin headgear, where and why might you hide?' I said.

Rob, having positioned himself directly below Indira, did not answer. Catching our youngest team member if she happened to plummet to her inevitable death seemed like a great priority to me, so I didn't interrupt him.

'For some reason, I'm having trouble fitting myself into the headspace of a rock-based landmark.' Jay kept a close eye on Indira, too, which might not have been helping his focus.

Focus, focus. Hm.

How about if I stopped thinking of it as a mountain? Perhaps more importantly, it was (if we were right) a magickal... font, I suppose. Terms vary for such things, and we don't truly understand them very well. To call the heart of a magickal Dell a "font" likens it to some kind of fountain, merrily pumping out magick all the livelong day, and that's in no way an accurate idea. You can't switch it on or off, like a tap. But Dells — capital D, because they really are markedly different from your common-or-garden dingle — grow up around such a source. It's what makes them magickal, and sets them apart. It's rare, but once in a while a Dell falters and dies, because its source fails. We still have no idea why. I'd been inclined to think it a consequence of the decline of magick, but we'd since learned that it happened on the fifth Britain, too, so that idea was out.

In this instance, we had the opposite problem going on. That this occurred on the fifth Britain was no surprise whatsoever; the place was bursting with magick. But for it to happen here? Different situation entirely. The Heart of Farringale Dell was in no danger of drying up; on the contrary it was prone to giving rather too freely of itself. And its former citizens had been disposed to celebrate the fact.

First point, then: did I believe that the entire Court of Farringale would go tramping many miles through forest and dale to reach this magickal mountain, on the occasion of their festival? No. They could have flown, of course, as we were doing, but that would take a lot of chairs, and anyway, nothing about Lady Tregawny's memoirs had implied she might have been airborne for any part of it. Had they all flown, like Indira? Probably not, but maybe. Even if they had, how far could a swarm of people safely fly, even pumped up on magick?

So that suggested the mountain was situated not too far from the city, or (more sensibly) vice versa.

Right, then.

'Indira!' I yelled. 'You're my spotter.'

'What?' The word floated faintly back to me on the wind.

'You see anything move, scream.'

'Ves,' yelled Jay. 'What are you doing?'

This I ignored. Not because I was indifferent to my partner's concern but because I was a bit busy.