Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters (8 page)

Stones and Feathers

Elizabeth A. Vaughan

“Last night, you say?” Lieutenant-General Loftus asked, standing at the window staring at the Tower Green where the preparations for the ceremony had begun.

Colonel Doyle knew that his superior was probably watching some of the men clearing the area of gawking visitors, picking up the worst of the trash and debris, and chasing the damned ravens off. “In his sleep, sir.” Doyle said quietly. “Heart, I’m told.”

“Damned inconvenient.” Loftus said.

“Sir,” Doyle hesitated, weighing his superior’s turn of phrase. “Because he died in office,” he said, tentatively agreeing.

“That too, that too, of course, the poor bastard. Hard for the family to lose the appointment and the right to sell it. Two hundred and fifty guineas lost, true enough. Inconvenient all around.” Loftus growled.

Silence was Doyle’s safest option, as the Lieutenant of the Tower of London was about to launch himself into—

“Dreadful business, having the Ravenmaster of the Tower die. Damned birds are trial enough, without having to assign a new caretaker.” Loftus huffed. “One they may or may not take a piece out of.” Loftus stepped away from the window. “On top of everything else I’ve to deal with—”

Doyle made a quiet but supportive sound, but the Lieutenant-General was just getting started.

“Our new Constable of the Tower, Field Marshall Arthur, Duke of Wellington, just taken office and what’s he want? ‘Sweeping changes,’ he says.” Loftus snorted. “Never you mind the dignity of the office, never you mind the traditions over hundreds of years. ‘No more commissions bought and sold,’ says the Iron Duke. ‘From this time forward none but deserving, gallant, and meritorious discharged sergeants of the Army shall be appointed Yeomen Warders of the Tower,’ so he says.”

“Commands,” murmured Doyle.

“Sergeants,” Loftus sputtered. “Noncommissioned officers,” he continued. “What is the world coming to?” he asked. “Today, in the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and twenty-six, marks the end of a great and noble tradition. Mark my words, Doyle.”

“I will, sir,” Doyle offered his assurance. “The ceremony is almost upon us, sir. I believe your aide has laid out your uniform.”

“Yes, yes,” Loftus finally left the window. “We’ll show them a swearing-in ceremony the likes of which they haven’t seen, by God.”

He continued muttering to himself as he turned to the door.

“And sir,” Doyle called after. “About the new Ravenmaster . . .”

“The Duke wants sweeping changes,” Loftus growled. “Well then, the onerous task will fall on him. Our new Constable of the Tower can designate his replacement.” Loftus stopped, and a smile of satisfaction crossed his face, to be replaced by a very innocent expression. “I’ll inform him of the vacancy after we swear in this ‘deserving, gallant, and meritorious sergeant.’ What’s his name again?”

“Thomas Davies.”

*   *   *

Tom Davies knelt in the water closet, and heaved his guts out yet again. Not that there was anything to rid himself of, except this horrible upset in his tum.

“What are ya thinking, lad?”
his brother’s voice rang in his head.
“An Earth Master in London? You’re daft, ya git.”

Tom drew a deep breath, risked a sip of water, and spat into the basin. He’d not care to admit it in his presence, but his brother was right.

Oh, he’d expected to be ill. Any city did that to him, to all his family. Earth magic ran strong in their blood, on both sides. Couldn’t be helped then, in the cities, with the land paved over, and the filth running through sewers underneath. His ma had sent stomach powders, and he reached for them, determined to settle his gut before the ceremony.

“Some peppermint, and other herbs,”
Ma had said, her worried eyes saying much more.
“Are you sure there is no other way, Tom?”

“The place calls to me, Ma,”
he’d tucked the packet into his kit.
“I must answer.”

He mixed up the remedy with shaking hands, and drank it all down quick, hoping for the best.

He’d taken the Thames as far up as he could, not that the trip was all that easier, what with all that water underneath. But it hadn’t been bad till he stepped out on the wharfs. He’d been hit with a wave of weariness, a wrongness that made him sick in mind and spirit.

And gut.

He’d shielded to a fare-thee-well, centering himself in the earth, and drawing as much strength as he could. But the foulness seemed to pierce his shields as easily as a needle through cloth.

Hadn’t helped that the ravens were flapping around as he’d walked in, cawing to one another, setting up a stew. Tom shuddered at the memory of the big, black birds, with their sharp beaks as long as a man’s hand, and glittering eyes. He’d seen too many of those harbingers of death flapping among the corpses on the battlefields.

His stomach heaved. Tom tried to think of something else.

At least he had a bit of privacy. He’d been given quarters, small and spare. Fair enough, as he was the new man. He’d few needs beyond a place to sleep and a sturdy chair to sit in. A water closet all his own had been a pleasant surprise.

At least he could see to his needs alone, with no hostile eyes on him. The Warders—no, the other Warders—had been less than welcoming. Tom hoped the sounds of his misery had not passed through the stone walls, but no doubt they’d put it down to weakness or nerves. No worse day for a Warder, or so he’d been told, that the day of your oath-taking. Being tested on the history of the Tower, and reciting the oath, all three hundred words and more, before all the Yeoman Warders and the Iron Duke himself; well, that would be enough to put a man off, eh?

He burped, and his stomach seemed eased a bit, but Tom stayed still and quiet. He wasn’t fooled. He’d wait to see if it had truly settled before he’d move.

Not that the history was a problem. Tom always loved the stories of the Tower, loved the past buried deep within its stones. He didn’t fear the questioning.

But the oath, now. He closed his eyes, reciting the words he’d learned months ago.

“I, Thomas Davies, do swear to serve the high and Mighty Prince George IV by the grace of God, King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Crown Prince of Hanover, his heirs & successors lawful and rightful unto, that is, to be a Yeoman Warder of the Tower of London. In all things touching his honor and safety I shall neither myself do, or procure to be done—”

The rest of the words skittered off, slipping from his memory like fish through a net.

Bloody hell.

“Survive the war, and the bloody flux, only to waste away in the cities?”
his da had demanded.
“What are you thinking?”

There was truth in his family’s words, a truth that he acknowledged in his heart. After serving his King, he’d earned the right to return to Wight, settle down to the land, using his gifts for the benefit of the earth, and the earth returning his gifts a hundredfold. So it had been in his family since his grandfather’s time.

But the call was too strong, and not to be denied.

He’d never have had the wherewithal to buy a commission at the Tower. The news that the Duke was seeking candidates had seemed miraculous, and he’d applied, never thinking that he’d—

Tom shifted slightly, to look out into his room beyond. Where his Yeoman Warder uniform awaited, with its scarlet cloth, stiff with its gold embroidery, broken only by the line of his bar of medals. Tunic, breeches and stockings all laid out for him, and his black Tudor bonnet on his pillow, his short sword beside it.

His heart rose at the sight, even as his stomach really seemed to settle.

He’d take this slow. Slow and steady, like the land and the flow of the seasons. Slow and steady, like the heartbeat of this bit of land and stones. There was a need here, he could feel it. A desperate desire for healing. But what that meant, the details of it, eluded him. The element of earth did not look forward, it concentrated in the present and the past. He could do this. He had to do this.

Which meant getting off this floor and being about it.

*   *   *

A few hours later, he wasn’t so certain.

For all the hostility in the Warders, they’d done right by him for the ceremony. They formed three sides of a square on the Green, regal in their scarlet uniforms, swords at their sides. Tom had been marched in to the center, on display to all as the newest Yeoman Warder.

The Duke of Wellington, Constable of the Tower, had begun his remarks. “As a pillar of the centuries, this Tower, this fortress, this palace and prison reigns supreme over all others in the civilized world.”

Tom had hoped that the grass of the Green would help him, standing on open, healthy ground. He’d taken his position with hope and sought to center himself. He shifted his stance, and felt the earth below support his body, reaching for the strength to be found there.

But for all he’d strived to shield, for all the strength he’d taken, the sickness rose within him, blinding him with pain.

“Three hundred years older than the Doge’s Palace in Venice, or the Kremlin in Moscow. The Vatican is a child in comparison. Older than the Louvre, than the Palace of Versailles, this mighty sentinel has stood, guarding the Thames, guarding our country, since the time of William the Conqueror and Julius Caesar.”

Tom drew a slow breath, trying to get his heaving guts to settle. He’d been a fool to apply, a fool to accept. Da was right. He was a daft git.

“For both of those warriors had a military eye, and they chose their site well, for the strength of its position, protecting sea and land. As King has succeeded King, each has built on the stones, adding stout walls and towers, digging a deep and wide moat–” At this the Duke paused and sniffed. No wonder, given the filth of that water.

Sweat trickled down Tom’s neck and gathered on his forehead. He swallowed hard, fighting the rising nausea. It didn’t help that one of the ravens had fluttered onto the green, walking around like it owned the place, quorking to itself.

“We must honor this noble Tower,” The Duke boomed. “We must set it right, for the glory of—”

A bead of sweat made it into Tom’s eyes, setting them stinging. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The raven paused in front of him, between him and the dignitaries, cocking its head, and studying him with a beady eye. Then it pecked the ground, and for an instant, seemed to peck at a corpse, feeding off the fallen.

Feeding off a corpse—

It hit Tom then, a flash of insight, and it took all his training not to react physically.

He was a proper idiot, he was.

He’d been feeding off a corpse himself, pulling strength from a sickened earth. What had he been thinking, that he’d—

“Change must occur,” the Duke said. “But only with an eye toward tradition, and respect for the past. In that way, this mighty fortress will remain, a—”

Tom dropped his shields. All of them, casting them aside. Risky, truth be told, if there were any about with magical abilities and a wish to do him harm. He’d sensed no others, but it didn’t matter. Needs must, when the devil drives.

He still felt sick, but now he could see, could feel that it came from without, not from within. The pull was still there, strong, like a fading heartbeat in the land, crying out for something, a need so strong it wrapped itself around him, like a pleading child.

“Soon,”
he promised.

“For this Tower stands at the center of our hearts and—”

Not much time left. But Tom was a Master of his element; he didn’t need much. He raised his shields again, using only his own resources, built them high and just thick enough to—

The nausea abated, and his fever faded with it.

The raven cawed, flapping its wings, the one clipped to prevent flight. He’d forgotten that.

His own strength returned, and with it some sanity as well. Yes, there were hostile looks from his fellow Warders, but there was neutrality there as well, even some support in a few faces. The sun was bright, the sky blue, and his hope soared.

He couldn’t do this long, couldn’t maintain his shields like this for any real length of time, but for now—

“Sergeant Thomas Davies, stand forth and be sworn,” the Constable called.

Tom drew a deep breath, and obeyed.

*   *   *

Three hundred and forty-four words later, Thomas Davies was a Yeoman Warder.

He smiled with relief and pleasure as the Duke of Wellington shook his hand, and offered his congratulations. But this next part, this was for the Warders alone.

The Lieutenant-General ordered him to fall in, and marched the lot of them to the Yeoman Warder’s Social Club. There, on a central table, sat the traditional pewter punchbowl, filled to the brim, glasses at the ready.

The Warders milled about, relaxing, offering their hands and welcoming him. Some more welcoming than others, but that was fine. Colonel Doyle’s was one of the welcoming ones, with a hearty handshake and a genuine smile.

Tom was thankful that the ordeal was over, that his shields were holding. He’d time enough, to earn their trust and respect.

The bartender was filling glasses, handing them around. Tom took his with pleasure.

The Lieutenant-General cleared his throat and the room went silent. “In our tradition, I’d ask you all to raise your glass to the health of Thomas Davies, Yeoman Warder,” he lifted his own toward Tom.

All the glasses were raised. Tom blushed with the pleasure of it.

“Mind you that it’s at your expense,” Colonel Doyle whispered.

Tom laughed ruefully, and nodded. He’d already known he’d be handed the bill.

Loftus hesitated for a moment, then scowled at his glass. “Change may be here, and more coming, but in this one thing, there shall be no change. We’ll preserve this, at the very least.” He raised his glass to Tom again. “May you never die a Yeoman Warder,” he boomed.

“Here, here,” came the supporting cries, and glasses were once again drained in his honor.

“My humble thanks,” was all Tom could manage, but it was enough. Now, the Warders could relax, talking, refilling their glasses. Tom fully expected pats on the back, and offers of stories of their experiences.