Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,6
household, who scrambled to collect his suitcases. He’d tried to pack light, but he didn’t know how long his stay would be. He could be in England for a mere week, or he could be here for months. It all depended on how accommodating the Physical Atheneum would be.
He had a feeling accommodation wasn’t the atheneum’s strong suit.
Grabbing a bag himself and urging strength into his limbs, Bacchus marched for the gangplank leading to the dock. A few of the sailors stepped aside to let him pass. He was not yet a titled man, certainly not here in England, but he was a well-dressed landowner and an aspector ready to test for master status, which in this uptight society would shove him somewhere above a clergyman and below a baron. Unfortunately, the test was not the only hurdle he faced in English society. As soon as he stepped ashore, he felt eyes on his face, his hair, his hands. Even the finest clothes couldn’t hide his foreign heritage. Despite having an English father, he didn’t look English, and his skin was all the darker from a lifetime in the sun.
But Bacchus was accustomed to stares.
Fortunately, as a breeze reeking of fish blew through his thick hair, bound at the nape of his neck, he saw a familiar face among the onlookers, standing on the edge of the road across from low-lodging houses. It was a face as pale as the whites of Bacchus’s eyes, framed by hair even lighter. A hooked nose, a regal bearing despite his years. A waistcoat embroidered with gold thread.
Isaiah Scott, Duke of Kent.
Bacchus grinned and charged forward. This time, when the Englishmen scattered from his path, it was because his stride demanded it, as did his height and breadth. He may have been a copper coin against a sea of silver, but he was a large coin—a fact he often used to his advantage. He clasped hands with the duke. Bacchus’s father had become close with the family after attending university with the duke’s youngest brother, Matthew. He’d maintained the connection from afar after moving to Barbados to claim his inheritance. The first time Bacchus’s father had brought him to England, or at least the first time Bacchus remembered, had been to pay his respects to the Scotts after Matthew passed away in a hunting incident. Although Bacchus’s father had since passed on, Bacchus had stayed close with them. They felt like family.
“I didn’t think it possible, but you’ve grown.” The Duke of Kent had a glint in his eye.
Although the man had turned seventy last month, his grip was strong as ever.
“Only because we’re at sea level.” Bacchus’s tongue easily slipped into a British accent. “Once we ride up those green hills by your estate, we’ll see eye to eye.”
The duke chuckled. “You need a lesson in physics. Are you sure you picked the right alignment?”
Bacchus had studied physical aspecting—magic that affected the physical world—since he was an adolescent. His father, being a landowner on a prosperous sugarcane plantation, had been able to fund his studies. It hadn’t been hard for him to choose a specialization. The last thing he wanted was to give the English another reason to distrust him, so the rational arts were out. He didn’t need anyone suspecting he’d bewitched their thoughts. Spiritual magic dealt fundamentally with blessings and curses, which seemed a poor investment for day-to-day life. And temporal magic had always come off as vain to him. A temporal aspector couldn’t change time, only time’s effects. And while aging plant sprouts and turning back the clock for livestock could prove beneficial back home, Bacchus knew he’d more often be hired to lighten wrinkles and strip the rust from antiques. He used to think poorly of those who spent their life’s savings on temporal spells, assuming they were driven by vanity.
Until the day he’d needed one for himself.
His men, John and Rainer, stepped up beside him, bug-eyed as they looked around. John, the older of the two, had been to Europe once before, on Bacchus’s last trip three years ago. Rainer was new and absorbed everything as though the cobbles and clouds were nails pounded into his bones.
He wouldn’t like it here.
“Come.” The duke placed a hand on Bacchus’s shoulder and led him down the narrow road to a carriage awaiting them. “You must be tired from such a long journey. Your room is ready, and I brought a cushion in case you can’t wait the hour it will