Tara Duncan and the Spellbinders (2 page)

“So what happened?” asked Fabrice, intrigued.

“Well, as soon as I felt him grabbing my hair, I turned around and pushed him.”

“You didn't! You mean like with me just now?”

“Not quite. I was only nine, and my gift wasn't that strong. But he still wound up on his butt a couple of yards away.”

“Oooh, now I understand!” said Fabrice with a grin. “That's why he always looks at you as if you're going to turn into a slavering monster and eat him alive!”

“Yeah. Problem was, I got punished for ‘inappropriate roughness with a classmate.'”

“Ouch,” he said sympathetically. “So?”

“I went to see Grandma to have her sign my punishment slip, and to explain what had happened to me.”

“And of course she didn't listen,” Betty broke in, who knew the whole story.

“She punished me for fighting,” continued Tara sadly, “and she didn't listen to my explanation. Ever since, I've sworn she would be the last person to know about my gift.”

“Then let's go see my dad,” said Fabrice. “He'll know what to do. If we aren't able to help you before then, that is. Meanwhile let's go back to the castle. I don't want one of your panic attacks to wreck this barn too. If we keep demolishing his buildings, my dad's eventually going to get suspicious.”

The magpie preened its feathers, thinking hard. So Tara had known about her gift since she was nine years old.
The little sneak!
Young as she was, she'd hidden her power remarkably well. All right, it was time for the bird to make its report, and it knew someone who wouldn't be too happy to get it. Chuckling at the surprise it had in store, it took off and flew unnoticed out of the barn.

Tara and Betty had a lavish afternoon snack at the castle of Fabrice's father, the Count of Besois-Giron, then slowly headed for the pink stone manor house that Tara and her grandmother Isabella had moved into after the death of Tara's parents.

“How are things with your grandmother?” asked Betty.

“Same as usual,” said Tara with a sigh. “All she cares about are my grades. If they're good, she doesn't say anything; if they're bad, she complains. That's the only communication we have.”

“That sucks,” she said, frowning. “Have you been able to get her to talk about your parents?”

“No way!” answered Tara bitterly. “Every time I try, she clams up. ‘They're dead,' she always answers. ‘They caught a virus when they were doing archaeological research in the Amazon jungle, and it killed them.' That's all I can get out of her. And when I told her I wanted to become a biologist so I could track and destroy viruses, you know what she said?”

“No, what?”

“She just said I'd have to work harder in math if I wanted a career in science.”

There was nothing Betty could say to that. Feeling sad for her friend, she left Tara at the gate to the manor grounds.

Surprisingly, the talk actually did Tara good. In a more hopeful mood, she decided to have another conversation with her implacable grandmother, and headed for her private part of the house.

Behind her, the magpie flew to an open window, banked neatly, and slipped inside. It made its way to a workout room where a young woman was practice-sparring with a mannequin, her bare hands a blur of movement. She raised her hazel eyes to the magpie, which started gesturing and waving its wings, as if it were explaining something. What the young woman heard must have startled her, because she put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp of surprise just as Tara raced past the gym. The running girl slipped on the black and white marble in the hallway, recovered her balance in the little yellow parlor, and burst into her grandmother's big study.

As it happened, Isabella Duncan was alone in the wood-paneled room, which was normally crowded with visitors from the four corners of the world.

When Tara burst into her sanctuary, Isabella was consulting a book. She snapped it shut, but the girl had time to see the title before her grandmother put it away:
Pandemonium Demonicus
. A tall woman with gleaming silver hair, Isabella had green cat's eyes on a face that was hardly wrinkled, in spite of her age.

“Well!” she exclaimed. “What manners, Tara'tylanhnem! I've already asked you not to run in the manor!”

Tara made a face. She hated it when her grandmother used that weird first name of hers, which she carefully kept from her friends.

“Sorry, Grandma. Can I talk to you? It's about my friend Fabrice.”

“I don't have much time, child, but I'm listening. What happened? Did you have an argument?”

“No, no, I wouldn't bother you for that. Actually, we were talking about our parents. You know his mother is dead and he lives at the castle with his father, right?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Well, his dad tells him about his mom all the time, but you never talk about my parents. It hurts me not to know. I feel you're
hiding
something from me.”

Her grandmother seemed to catch her breath. Tara then realized that Isabella was gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles were white.

Yet her grandmother's voice was completely calm when she coldly answered, “I have nothing to hide, Tara'tylanhnem.”

“So why won't you talk about it? Every time I raise the subject, you send me to my room or you find something else to distract me. It pis— . . . It's a real drag! I'm not four years old anymore!”

Isabella made an almost painful effort to let go of the table. She flexed her fingers and was thoughtfully drumming them on the beautifully inlaid tabletop. Tara noticed with surprise what looked almost like burn marks on the wood. But within seconds, they disappeared.

She turned her attention back to her grandmother.

“You're only twelve, Tara'tylanhnem,” Isabella continued, “and I'm not about to discuss what I should and should not tell you.”

But Tara had inherited from her grandmother a stubbornness at least as strong as hers.

“Why not? She was your daughter, but she was my mom. All I have are a few photos and no memories. Why won't you share yours with me?”

Isabella took a deep breath, the old sorrow overwhelming her. Tara'tylanhnem looked so much like her beloved daughter, Isabella thought. She had the same willful chin, the same straight nose and intelligent forehead. From her father she'd inherited the mass of golden hair marked with that characteristic white forelock, and those unusual deep blue eyes. Isabella couldn't help herself. Each time she saw the girl she suffered, and that suffering drove away the tenderness she felt for her granddaughter, leaving only duty, responsibilities, and the pain of exile.

“I don't have to give you any explanations,” she said coldly. “Go to your room.”

Tara felt completely frustrated. She had so many questions on the tip of her tongue. Why did she and her grandmother have the same last name, since her parents had been married? Why didn't Isabella ever want to talk? Why didn't her parents have a tombstone? And what was the mysterious work her grandmother did?

Tara had glimpsed the briefcases full of dollars and euros. From the library window she had seen not only the local farmers and businesspeople, but also big limousines and watchful bodyguards with the ill-disguised bumps of their revolvers. And her grandmother was often away, traveling to unknown places.

Two village girls came every day to do the housekeeping, and three other people lived in the manor besides Tara and her grandmother: Deria, Tachil, and Mangus. Deria was a young brunette who never let Tara out of her sight and gave the odd impression that she was there to protect her. A beautiful woman with a curious aura of wildness, Deria was like a cat, always on the alert. It was impossible to catch her unawares (and not for want of trying!) or get her off balance. Tara had watched as Deria trained, easily lifting weights that Tachil would have struggled with. Tachil was tall and skinny, and the woodcarvings he was always making threatened to take over the big house. He was in charge of the garden, which he tended with maniacal care. Mangus, the cook, was short, fat, and balding. He enjoyed life, was always laughing, and produced some amazing dishes. Betty and Fabrice thought it odd that the gardener and the cook lived at the manor house, but Tara was so used to it, that she would miss them terribly if they ever left.

She heard a rustling behind her. Pet magpie on her shoulder, Deria strode into the study to announce Isabella's next visitor. Tara was annoyed to sense that her grandmother was relieved to end their discussion.

“I'm terribly sorry, Tara'tylanhnem, I must meet with this gentleman. Go on child, I'll see you later.”

There was no point in insisting, Tara knew. She shrugged and left, dragging her feet. She went up to her room and jumped onto her bed.

Tara lived in a spacious, comfortable manor house that had been restored in the nineteenth century. She was especially fond of two places in it. One was her room, in the left-hand tower. It was big and very sunny, and had a view of the lawn that sloped gently down to the nearby forest. At dawn and twilight, Tara could see deer, stags, and even wild boars roaming at the edge of the woods. The other place was the library. She had loved reading ever since she was little, especially mysteries and adventure stories.

Tara was about to get up when the ringing phone startled her. Deria had put the call through.

“Tara?” came a whisper on the phone.

“Fabrice?” Tara answered, instinctively whispering as well. “What's up?”

“You'll never believe it! You've infected me!”

“What?”

“Your gift, that thing of yours. I did it too!”

“Listen, Fabrice, if this is a joke—”

“It's no joke,” he said, his voice shaking with excitement. “There was an accident. I went to the north tower to see the renovation that the workers had just finished. They hadn't bolted the scaffold properly and it came crashing down just as I was walking underneath.”

“Really? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. You must be contagious, because when I saw the scaffold falling on me, I did like you do: I held out my hands and sort of pushed. And it worked! The whole thing flew up. But I've got a heck of a headache now.”

Tara sat up in bed, thunderstruck.

“And you think it's really me, who—”

“I don't know. I don't know any more than you do. Listen, we've got to get together. Because my father saw it all.”

Tara groaned. “What did he say?”

“That's where things really got weird. He took me in his arms and started to cry. Then he said this was the best day of his life and the biggest gift I could ever have given him.”

Tara was speechless.

“Are you still there? What should I do? Should I tell him about you too?”

“No!” said Tara instinctively. “I'd prefer if we talk about it tomorrow. Meet me in front of my place at nine o'clock. And until then, not a word, okay?”

“Okay.”

Fabrice sounded disappointed, but he didn't argue.

As soon as she hung up, Tara grabbed her forelock and started chewing on it. What if Fabrice was right and she really was contagious? Tara ruminated on this for ten full minutes, then sighed. There was no point in worrying; she would see tomorrow. There was also no point staying locked in her room. She may as well go down to the library and see if she could find something distracting to read.

Moving like a shadow, Tara made her way to the big library with its thousands of books. Opening the door, she gave a sigh of pleasure. Tara had access to almost all the works, although one section of the library had some that were under lock and key. That always tickled her. Was her grandmother afraid that the books would run away, or what?

She was glancing at the familiar titles in silence when a murmur made her stop her search. She could hear something.

To her surprise, she realized that the sound was coming from a point high above the fireplace.

The voice was her grandmother's. She was on the phone, and sounded so angry, she could probably be heard at the other end of the village. Tara couldn't quite make out what she was saying, however. She had to get closer to the source of the sound, but it was ten feet off the ground!

She quickly climbed the rolling wooden ladder used to reach the highest books. Stretching as far as she could, she leaned toward the upper part of the mantelpiece and cautiously stepped onto it. She was crouched pretty precariously, but could now hear the conversation.

“You're the guardian of the Transfer Portal, Besois-Giron!” her grandmother yelled. “You were forbidden to tell your son the truth. That's unacceptable!”

Yikes! The count was getting a royal chewing out. He must've answered something, because Isabella's voice dropped to the point where Tara had to strain to hear.

“What do you mean, he is
like us?
” hissed Isabella. “You must be joking!”

“ . . . ”

“He did
what?
He
pushed
the falling scaffold back? Emanations? What emanations?”

“ . . . ”

Her grandmother's voice became dangerously threatening.

“Let me see if I understand this, Guardian! You're telling me that you, a descendent of a long and faithful line of totally
nonspell
guardians, have produced a spellbinder, your son Fabrice, because the emanations of the Portal somehow affected your wife? That hasn't happened in nine hundred years, so why should it happen now?”

Tara caught her breath. A
what
?

Still furious, her grandmother continued: “I didn't tell Tara anything because I have to protect her! If nobody knows Tara might be a spellbinder, she'll be safe. Anyway, she hasn't shown the least sign of magic up to now.”

“ . . . ”

“That's out of the question! Telling her the truth and presenting her to the High Council is completely off the table. Before her father died I swore to him that she would stay out of all that. And I'll keep my word even if I don't agree. In the meantime I want no further contact between the two children, understand? Fabrice must go to OtherWorld. Oh, and one more thing, Guardian. This is not a suggestion; it's an
order
.”