Sorcerer's Spin Read online

  The largest tapestry, a depiction of the mythical white spinning wheel, hung in the middle, in line with the throne. Within the fabric, the large wheel and its twelve spokes gleamed under a night sky sparkling with stars. Its spindle was very long and sharp, and an even longer strand of yarn trailed out from it, everything the ancient stanza claimed it was.

  A white fairy oak wheel

  And a silver spindle’s prick

  Twelve moonbeams spokes whirl

  And endless threads twirl.

  The nursery rhyme was a frequent message from her mysterious pen pal.

  The two remaining relics were depicted in the other new tapestries. To the left of the throne hung an image of the Goddess sewing with the singing needle. In the other, to the right, the Goddess used the dancing scissors to snip threads in her embroidery.

  Legend claimed that the Goddess’s fallen consort had made the relics to win back her love after he’d cheated on her with some of their daughters...daughters who were sorceresses.

  A horrific tale and bad juju for sorceresses to this day.

  Mara didn’t believe a word about the gods or their unfortunate incestuous habits.

  The three other tapestries, hanging on the wall to her left, had been here every time Mara visited. These tapestries portrayed the herds of unicorns that pulled the Goddess’s carriage, the mermaids that graced her fountains, and the wolfmen who guarded her castle.

  All a bunch of mythical vibe shite.

  Except for the wolfmen, but they only dwelled in the Wild West, along with the glister.

  Surely the High Councilor knew that five out of six of her tapestries showed myths. The woman was no fool.

  “Why are you late?” the High Councilor croaked suddenly.

  Mara jumped, trying to think of her answer to that question even though she hadn’t been late. But just then Lady Bronte Casteel entered, her violin and bow clutched in her right hand. She was the latecomer to this unfortunate party.

  Lady Casteel’s lacy dress, made by Blue Light Mills, highlighted her to perfection as she curtseyed to the crone. “My apologies, Lady High Councilor.”

  “Were you unable to shake your mate off your tail or something? Did he stick to your dress like a spider’s prey?”

  Mara’s heart stopped.

  Lady Casteel’s dress was woven from threads that Mara had spun with gray repose spider silk. The dress allowed the syphon mage to function safely in society. The beautiful woman, mate to the commander of the Republic’s army, no longer had to worry about syphoning too much energy from the mages around her when she wore it.

  Mara hadn’t been sure Lady Casteel would have the courage to wear the spider silk fabric. Especially in public. As a rule, mages hated spiders. They were all creatures of the glister…the fairies…who were equal parts despised, feared, and obsessed over by mages.

  But their gray repose spider made silk that could reset unbalanced systems.

  Mara’s thread was revolutionary. But was the Republic of Mage Territories ready for such a revolution?

  “No, ma’am, he did not stick to my dress,” Lady Casteel replied simply. “Shall I play?”

  The High Councilor waved her hand. The gracious woman took her spot next to the throne and lifted her instrument. Her beautiful tune drifted out.

  The other women turned back to their conversations as if the musician was hired help instead of the most talented violinist in the Republic.

  Typical.

  The high-powered were interested only in their own world. They were involved only in themselves. This was why injustices happened all over the Republic, such as those against weak-powered sorceresses conscripted into Power United’s army of copper spinners. Mages like Stella and Esther. The powerful of this world simply didn’t care.

  Mara leaned her head against the wall. She needed to return to her mill. If she didn’t get back there soon, her sorceresses would start plotting some ill-advised action to recover their spinning wheels.

  She tried to focus on the music as a distraction.

  Lady Casteel played with her eyes closed as if she’d been caught in the spell of her melody, and it had transported her soul elsewhere. Mara recognized the feeling. She felt the same when she was spinning, or better yet, dancing, though she never let herself do that anymore.

  She snuck a glance at the High Councilor sitting on her throne. Her robes had hiked up and a pair of Blue Light Mills’ jeans stuck out beneath. Unlike Lady Casteel’s dress, Blue Light Mills’ denim was spider silk-free. It was also free of all mage vibes until its owner put them on.

  The High Councilor was her best customer when it came to her jeans. She preferred all white.

  Blue Light Mills’ denim was woven with specially spun threads that had a hollow core designed to hold the wearer’s vibes. Therefore, the wearer had nothing but her own energy pressing against her. It was like walking through a universe that was custom-made for an individual—peaceful and powerful. And very expensive.

  The manufacturing process was arduous. Only Mara had the skill to spin the thread, but even she couldn’t weave the threads into denim fabric. The weaving had to be done with someone with zero mage power. If a mage wove the threads into fabric, then the hollow tube of the threads would fill with the weaver’s energy, rendering the fabric’s special powers useless.

  The only mill that could weave her special thread into the denim and not contaminate it was in the Wild West. That mill was run solely by Non-mages.

  Mara had originally made the jeans to thumb her nose at the establishment, a favorite hobby of hers. Jeans were illegal in the Republic because the style originated in the Wild West. Nothing from that anarchic land was welcome inside the tightly controlled Republic.

  She’d been shocked when the jeans had earned a following among some of the younger members of the founding families…and then the High Councilor had ordered a pair.

  It was hard to enforce a law when the High Councilor herself flaunted it.

  Blue Light Mills wasn’t the only company that made jeans in the Republic. There were a few other companies that did too. But none were as special as Mara’s. No one else could spin the unique hollow-core threads. Likewise, no other jeans company had to go to the Wild West to have their denim woven. But Mara made up for the cost with the exorbitant price tag attached to BLM jeans.

  As Lady Casteel’s melody ended, the High Councilor clapped. Her slow applause picked up volume as the other women around joined in. The musician tilted her head in acknowledgment.

  “Lovely, Bronte,” the High Councilor said. “Incomparable music from our Republic’s only syphon. We all breathe easier with you around to syphon away our excess power. And how do you breathe around us? Is the dress living up to expectations, or do I need to summon your man to whisk you away from our torture? I promised the general I would ask.”

  General Vincent Rallis was the scariest man Mara had ever met, powerful enough to blow away the force of one of the Old World’s mushroom bombs.

  Ten years ago, he’d been her first official customer for her exclusive jeans. So exclusive she hadn’t even cut a pair from the then-newly developed and unadvertised fabric, but the Rallises, the rulers of Mara’s home territory, had spies everywhere. Including her tiny mill.

  “Considering the amount of mage power around here, it ought to be in tatters by now. But it looks as pristine as ever,” Lady Casteel replied.

  The crone gave an exaggerated frown and turned her blind eyes to Mara. “Impressive, wayward sorceress.”

  The women in the room turned to her. Their narrowed eyes carried suspicion, dismay, and more than a few held disgust. Mara ignored them as she stood. She was stiff, as if her body didn’t want to move, and she was reminded of Gregor’s tired feet. At least she’d had a chair.

  She strode forward with as much confidence as she could muster. “Blue Light Mills produces quality clothing, Lady. We train our sorceresses to spin outstanding threads and yarn even though they all register
as three or lower on the Frederick-Johnson power scale.” She never missed a chance to spread her message.

  Gasps ricocheted around the room. It was a serious faux pas to reveal information about power levels, especially about such low, shameful numbers. But they needed to know.

  She continued, taking advantage of the shocked silence. “This is proof that the weakest sorceresses among us are capable of contributing to society in ways that are gentle to their health and well-being.” Unlike what Power United did to them. “Regardless of their strength, they deserve fair treatment. It is Blue Light Mills’ mission to further the well-being of sorceresses and their families by providing on-the-job training and equitable pay.”

  From the start, Mara had become an expert at developing methods of spinning that used minimal power, not because she was weak, but because her power was so odd she’d been forbidden to use it in public.

  “Bully for you,” the High Councilor said. “You’ve got a factory full of weaks and freaks.”

  The insult emboldened Mara. She stared at the woman’s blind eyes. “No, ma’am. I’m the only freak.”

  Another round of gasps played harmony to the High Councilor’s loud, sharp laugh. She held out her hand and addressed her ladies. “Do you see why I keep her around? Tell me, sorceress, does one have to be a freak to spin the spider silk?”

  “It has nothing to do with being wayward, just skilled.” Highly skilled. She was the only sorceress who could create fabric from the gray repose spider silk. Most likely, she was the only one who’d tried.

  A woman stepped out of the crowd. It took Mara a moment to place her. Lady Prower…that was her name, wife to Senator Prower. The newspapers often featured her for her so-called impeccable style and her occasional charitable works.

  “The spider silk fabric should be illegal,” Lady Prower stated. “Anyone who stoops to using such energy ought to have her hands removed!”

  And so it begins, she thought. She swallowed down the seeds of panic. The woman’s declaration wasn’t an original idea. It was the standard punishment for any low-powered sorceress who refused to do her duty if she was conscripted to spin copper for the electric company.

  “How could you wear something from those dirty gray, Bronte?” one of the younger women in the crowd asked. She gave a dramatic shiver. “Fairies are nasty.”

  “My dear Calendra, we must always be kind to the weak and less fortunate among us, those such as Lady Casteel.” Lady Prower bestowed a gentle smile on Calendra, but cunning lurked beneath it to anyone paying attention. “I do wish you would accept my invitation to travel to the Wild West. Our missionary work brings such comfort to those in need. Afterwards you would appreciate how much you truly have.”

  Mara made sure to keep her face blank, but she couldn’t stop from clenching her teeth.

  Lady Casteel’s sister, a pale blonde woman, stepped to the violinist’s side. “Oh please, Prower.” Senator Selene Glender-Casteel was known to be vicious and cold, but Mara admired the woman. “We all know why you go over there. You’re hooked on the gray’s hypnotic power. And your little manifest destiny fetish isn’t as secret as you think.”

  Manifesters believed the Republic should stretch from the Atlantic to the Pacific. It wasn’t a view the Council or the Senate condoned.

  “Lady Prower, I could never go to the Wild West. It’s dangerous over there!” Calendra cried.

  That was true. Few mages dared to cross the Mississippi for good reason.

  Lady Prower shook her head. “The glister are truly gentle.”

  Mara laughed. Every eye turned to her. “I’ve encountered a few glister in my time. I assure you they are fierce and proud. Gentle is not a term I would use for them.”

  “Glister?” Calendra asked in her prissy voice. Mara estimated the young woman was about Stella’s age. They’d certainly led different lives.

  One of the ladies scowled. “Another word for fairy scum.”

  “Best watch yourself over there, Prower,” the crone said. “If the fairy scum don’t turn on you, the Black Skulls might. I don’t know what I’d do without you and your conniving husband in my Senate.”

  “Regarding the dress,” Senator Glender-Casteel’s tone was laden with impatience. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s useful and safe if the general allows his wife to wear it.”

  “Allows?” Lady Casteel squinted at her sister.

  Senator Glender-Casteel continued, “I hereby propose Bill 45.73 stating that the gray repose spider is a valued resource and is granted full protection accorded by the law of this land.”

  Was it that simple?

  “Denied,” the High Councilor declared.

  Of course it wasn’t.

  “A mistake,” the senator countered.

  As she sat on her throne, the old woman’s robes fluttered in a gust of power. Her staff appeared in her hand from thin air. “Mara Kathryn Rand, you are hereby ordered to cease spinning the webs.” The High Councilor’s voice vibrated with power. The tapestries swayed with the force.

  She gasped, a strident protest on the edge of her tongue. She bit it back but not quite in time. “No—” It was a whisper, but it still gripped the room in utter stillness as if she’d shouted. The High Councilor lifted an eyebrow and waited, but Mara had her mouth under control. Her mind raced. She needed more webs to help heal Stella.

  The High Councilor looked at Bronte. “Did all that power bother you?”

  “No, so why—”

  “Look at that. It really works.” The High Councilor laughed and then her face morphed into solemn lines. “All remaining silk will be confiscated immediately.”

  Mara held out her hands. “I don’t have enough left to make it worth your while to confiscate, Lady High Councilor.” She’d used the last of the spider silk to make Lady Casteel’s dress, and then Stella had arrived at the mill so damaged, so in need of the silk’s healing powers. She’d been working to acquire more ever since.

  “Also, the silk is hereby banned from importation.” The old crone slammed the end of her staff against the floor with the proclamation.

  It was like a cement block tied to fragile wings of hope. She swallowed hard and flapped those wings with every joule of courage she could muster. “This fabric has the potential to change lives, from sense sick mages to those whose power is too heavy a burden, to the poorest of Nons who are unable to afford shelter or to heat their houses in winter.”

  “Yes! And that is why it has shrunk the Senate’s tiny little senses to microscopic proportions! Power for Nons? You’re a dim-wit to even suggest it. The webs are being confiscated as we speak.”

  The unfairness of it all was a slap in the face. A cold flame struck to life inside her. Its flicker fueled her forward. “Just like you took our spinning wheels? What next, Lady? Our roving? Our looms? We’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing wrong…merely tried to help the sick and ailing and poor.”

  The High Councilor stood and strode forward, her staff tapping against the floor like a third foot.

  A gust of power pushed at Mara. She fought to catch a breath, but the air skipped past her mouth as if it had somewhere else to be…some place safer.

  The High Councilor’s robes blew up to her knees. Inky black strands drifted out from her, like long hair that detached and floated through the air in macabre streamers.

  “Oh no!” Calendra whispered. “A prophecy. My clothes!”

  The door and windows rattled as the High Councilor’s words boomed out.

  “When evil’s clutch shares the relic’s touch,

  All joy the Wheel will steal.

  Then West devours the mages’ powers.

  The Lady’s cry, her land to die.”

  Someone screamed. Blackness descended, pressing against everything. The walls cracked under the force.

  Mara’s lungs sank from the weight. She stumbled, hands out, reaching for the floor. Her palms and knees smacked the ground. And then, just like that, the
air cleared.

  It was a long moment before she could lift her head.

  Sticky black coated the tapestries, the furniture, and the walls. Slowly the stains faded—expensive stain-resistor spells—until the room was clean, but everyone’s clothes were streaked with black.

  “Eww!” That came from Calendra, cowering on the floor like everyone else. “Is it in my hair?”

  The High Councilor burped loud and long. “Oh, excuse me. I hate it when prophecies revisit me like that. They’re like bad fish. They just keep coming up. I had that one last night. It’s a bouncer.” She peered at Lady Casteel. “You still with us, syphon?” She squinted at the dress. “Is it naturally stain resistant?” She lifted the hem of her robes. “Too bad my jeans aren’t.”

  6

  Gregor stared through the transparency on the tapestry. The black, sticky clouds of the prophecy hadn’t touched him, but its power had flowed through the thick fabric, shoving the three of them against the wall. Machismo had forced them into a race to recover, and they all stood straight, trying not to gasp for air.

  Much closer to the source, the prophecy’s energy had knocked the high-powered ladies off their feet. Anyone who didn’t have stain resistor spells on her clothes was regretting it now. Many of the highest-ranking women in the Republic were covered in the sticky strands, including the High Councilor. Her white jeans were ruined.

  Mara was sprawled on the ground. If she’d been his to guard, he would have thrown himself over her, taking the hit for her. She was alone out there. As alone as he was behind this damn rug. Goddess, how did she stand it? How did she keep her head up, exposing her weakness to everyone?

  She needed a protector. His power readied, surging into his throat at the thought. He had to swallow it back. That was the first time it had done that since the needle.