Dark apprentice, p.18
Dark Apprentice, page 18
Color rose in her cheeks. “You felt nothing because I’ve never used telepathy on you. It would be exceptionally rude.”
“Uh-huh.”
Medea’s hands began to shake, and her words came out clipped. “You—I would never . . . What do you take me for?” Her voice broke on the final question, almost as if she were fighting back tears.
He had to admire her feigned indignation, even if it was annoying that she refused to drop the act. The performance was spot-on.
“I’m ever so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”
But Medea wasn’t looking at him. She stared off to the side, brow furrowed and breath short. Abruptly, she stood. “Telepathy is on the . . .” She paused an inordinate length of time, eyes downcast, then gestured angrily to the right side of the library. “There! Other specialties will have to wait. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She left in a flurry of red.
Talk about dramatic. He could have given a better performance in his sleep. Nikolai smiled and walked toward the Telepathy section. Time to see how much fun he could have with his natural gift.
He made it four alcoves before his sense of purpose fled and he sank to the floor.
15
MAGIC SIGHT
Medea stumbled up the staircase, feet moving too fast to land where they should. Rushing always made her clumsy, but speed was necessary. She had to get to her room. Her hands gripped the iron railing, as if by holding on to something physical she could keep herself from flying apart. After what seemed like an eternity, she arrived at her door.
The knob defied her hands. She clenched her jaw, willing back tears as she struggled with what should have been a simple mechanism. How hard could it be to twist something? She resisted the urge to blast it open. A gaping hole wasn’t conducive to privacy, and she desperately needed privacy just now.
At last she was through. Sound shield in place? Yes. She took a shuddering breath and sank against the door, hands running over her face.
A sob erupted. One after another after another. The tears that had been trying so desperately to break free were at last given free rein. Medea flung her head back against the door, but the pain did nothing to silence her frantic mind, nor did the fingernails biting into her palms. The shallow breaths deprived her of oxygen. She knew this too, but one can know a thing and be unable to stop it. Emotion was the enemy of logic.
The accusation ran around in her brain like a mad dog. It didn’t matter that it was untrue, or that it had been made by a boy who knew nothing about her. The very idea that she would read his mind . . .
Thoughts were private. They deserved to stay private. Using telepathy on an enemy was one thing—even a stranger was acceptable, if you had need and few other options—but someone you knew? Especially in a professional relationship! Insulting beyond belief. It was the ultimate breach of trust. What kind of person does such a thing?
Of course she knew exactly what kind of person did such things, and he was downstairs right now, no doubt learning how to do it better. The thought bled some of the toxins from her mind. There was something new to focus on, troublesome in a different way. The hound inside latched on and worried it.
A natural-born telepath.
Medea sat up—when had she slumped over?—and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She should have agreed to start him on necromancy, but it was too late now. Telepathy! Unsettling that it even existed. Still, telepathy was a form of magic, and magic was what she taught. Knowledge was meant to be shared. What her students did with it was no concern of hers. If they stepped too far out of line, the universe would correct them. It always did.
But still . . . telepathy.
The training would be difficult for both of them. She knew far more about blocking intrusion, about projecting thoughts into others for the sake of communication, than invading minds. And it meant they’d have to leave the island, go out into the world, and encounter people.
She toyed with the idea of taking him someplace where he didn’t speak the language. At least that way when he entered minds, the thoughts would stay private. She shook her head. No. Anything worth doing was worth doing right, and as his master she had a duty to uphold.
Maybe she could at least put off the training for a few years. He was, what, early twenties? At twenty-five his forebrain should be finished growing and he’d hopefully have a modicum of self-control. By then he might choose a different specialty. In the meantime, she’d have to brush up on the magical school.
Medea stood and straightened her dress, then went to find her telepathy notes.
Nikolai’s ass hurt. His legs cramped too. The next time his brain decided to have a pity party, he needed to make sure he was near a nice chair, not standing on a hard floor. He stood with a groan and checked his watch. Midnight. The episode had lasted nearly twelve hours. He ignored the grumbling of his stomach and stormed toward the front of the library.
What the hell happened? He’d taken one potion earlier to replenish his mana after boiling water, but it was one of his own making, he was sure of it. He ducked into an alcove with a table and fished out his potions. Nine marked, ten unmarked. It didn’t make any sense, unless the ingredients themselves had been tampered with. He mentally went through the list of ingredients for the mana potions. Everything he needed was in the garden outside the hovel, or growing wild nearby.
He retrieved the lamp from his room and headed outside. Collecting plants by lamplight was harder than he’d thought. He was about to pocket a bunch of garlic stalks when he realized they were actually deathcamas. Who planted innocuous species right next to their extremely toxic look-alikes? He shoved the deathcamas into his breast pocket—you never knew when poison would come in handy—and redoubled his search for garlic.
A half hour later he had all the ingredients he needed, save harp root. Nikolai waded into the golden sea of grass, shining the lamp on the stalks to discern them. He tilted his head, staring curiously at the plants. Harp root was the only nonstandard ingredient in Medea’s potions. It had one of those names that sounded familiar, but now that he thought on it, he couldn’t recall ever having heard of it before.
He left the grass behind. Back in the lab, he brewed potions once more, grateful that Medea wasn’t a night owl. He used the traditional ginseng in place of harp root. Unfortunately, his potions were now obviously different—yellow as opposed to milky white. Perhaps he could palm the vials in such a way that Medea wouldn’t notice. Nikolai practiced grasping a vial until he was certain he could drink it while keeping the glass concealed, then went back to his room and toppled into bed.
A fireball slammed into Nikolai’s shield, the heat so intense he could’ve sworn his eyebrows were singed. He shot back with lightning. The freedom of being able to cast whatever he wanted was immensely satisfying. All his life he’d had to hold back for fear of harming sparring partners. Now he could cast anything. Anything!
The lightning arched from his fingertips and crackled the air on its way to Medea, who redirected it to the ground at her feet. That was the downside to sparring with her. Nothing ever hit unless she wanted it to, as she’d done that first time with Pain, simply to see how potent it was. Despite the exhilaration of casting any spell in his repertoire, the results were anticlimactic. He desperately wanted to see something break.
He launched Contagion and Fear, aiming for her head. A clean shot of Fear could tell him a lot. As usual, she blocked it. Contagion was caught in a swirl of green and disseminated. The grass nearby wilted, and Medea paused to burn the patch before it could spread across her precious field of harp root.
It had been four days since he’d stopped using it in his potions, and the results spoke for themselves. He hadn’t had a single episode. Moreover, his training was going well. Without the malaise holding him back, he threw himself headlong into his studies, practicing long after their afternoon training sessions ended. He could now cast most of his spell repertoire without a wand.
Medea didn’t suspect a thing. He’d been careful to keep up appearances, faking the malady toward the end of every training session. That was another thing he enjoyed—control. If Medea was blathering on about something unimportant, he’d simply pretend the malaise had struck and the lesson was brought to an abrupt halt. No more boring lectures.
Something tickled his ankle. The grass was alive again, snaking up his legs. Casting spells from an origin other than his body remained above his ability, and so he’d made do with partial shielding. This was Medea’s way of reminding him he was still exposed.
He sliced the air with his hand, severing the grass at the base of the shaft. Blades fell limply back to the ground.
“Flamma!” He said the incantation out of habit. The grass at his feet blazed orange. Something slammed into his shield and he flew through the air, landing heavily fifteen feet away. Medea’s payback, either for using the incantation or for burning her plants. He’d been trying to destroy a swath of it every lesson.
He sat up and brushed the dust from his shirt. Medea held her hand out and made a fist. His flames were extinguished.
“Must you burn my grass?”
“You keep using it against me, so yeah.” His stomach growled, which meant it was past noon, almost time to give his theatrical performance. Medea beat him to it.
“Let’s stop here for today. You’re doing well. Remarkably well, given your . . . condition.”
Shit. He’d have to do worse in practical lessons or his performances would be worthless.
“Soon we’ll be meeting in the forest. I’d like to try something new. For today, keep practicing as long as you’re able.”
That didn’t bode well. Maybe she already knew. What else would she do to slow him down?
“I will.” He waited until she disappeared into the hovel before pulling out his wand and making his way to the garden.
Now was the perfect time to search the island. Only once had he spotted Medea outside her room after she’d retired. He’d been in the garden collecting plants. She’d looked startled to see him and made a hasty retreat back inside. Having a clear head and plenty of unsupervised time allowed him to practice spells unhindered, as well as peruse the library for hours every night.
Medea’s master grimoire was less Useful than he’d hoped, but considering she was hiding things from him, it was to be expected. When he searched it for spells, necromancy and demonology came up with almost nothing. He tried other categories and found a strong bias toward healing and nature magic. But there was one Useful spell he managed to find, one he would soon employ.
Nikolai arrived at the hovel. Bees buzzed merrily in the garden beds while a dragonfly searched for easy prey. A shrill call drew his attention to the roof, where a green bird gleefully tugged at the weeds growing there. Not just any bird—a parrot. The island had to be someplace reasonably warm, even if it wasn’t tropical. He tried to memorize how the bird looked so he could research its range, but aside from a red beak it had no distinguishing characteristics. The parrot flew off and he turned back to the task at hand.
Unlike Petrov’s reveal spells, which searched for specific enchantments, Magic Sight cast a wide net, allowing him to detect any nearby magic. Once he’d located areas of interest, he could come back with more advanced spells. Nikolai touched the wand to his brow and whispered the incantation.
“Shit, fuck!”
It was like being woken up in the dead of night by someone flicking on the lights. He instinctively threw up his arm to block the view, but there was no shielding himself from the assault of magic. The spell affected his mind, not his eyes.
Everything was enchanted—the garden beds, the pump, the statues, even the goddamned bees. The hovel blazed like a beacon. He stepped back and kept going until his perception of the structure dimmed. At fifty paces it was tolerable, and he could make out a morass of spells upon the building.
Early in human history, the color blue was so rare that it didn’t exist to humans as a concept. They didn’t have a word for it, nor did they even see it. Their brains processed blue in terms of what they knew—ancient Greeks called the sky wine-dark. Only the Egyptians, who had access to the deep blue stone lapis lazuli, created a word for blue.
Nikolai lacked the words to interpret what he was experiencing, and so his brain defaulted to color, texture, mood. There was no way for him to tell what the spells did, only that they felt very different against his senses. This one was yellow and smooth, that one smoky grey and wispy, still another was all hard edges and angry. Dozens of spells, all intertwined, wrapped the surface of the hovel.
The garden was different. Everything had a faint magical glow, but there was no order to it. Only a few things stood out. There was a rectangular pattern beneath the garden beds suggestive of irrigation pipes. The water pump had a sort of white honeycomb mesh running through it.
Nikolai walked along the path toward the beach where he’d first arrived. The same faint magical glow permeated everything from the dirt at his feet to the plants bordering the path. He ran his hand over the tall grass, causing the magic to ripple pleasantly against his senses. There was nothing of note until he reached the beach.
The archway through which he’d arrived was all sharp crystal lines in the shape of a doorway. When he looked at it head-on the view was innocuous, but as he moved around the arch to examine it further, the world spun dizzyingly fast. He toppled to the ground, grasping vainly at the sand like a drunk to steady himself, but now he was falling fast into an infinite chasm of space and stars.
Logic warred with sensation. This was no different than the illusions Fear created. He just had to find a way to break free. The firm press of sand against his chest provided an anchor to reality. He rolled away from the arch. When an upward slope impeded his progress, he scooped at the sand like a sea turtle making its slow progress across the beach. The spinning slowed, and abruptly it was gone.
He stood and shook the sand from his hair, then walked the length of the beach. It would take him longer to get to the cave this way, but the search needed to be systematic or he might miss something. He could check the graveyard on his way back.
Sand changed to gravel. The surf beat against rocks jutting out of the water like black teeth. Everywhere, the same magical glow. What enchantment did she have over the entirety of the island? Was it the wards, or something else?
Perception of the cave long preceded Nikolai’s view of it. He picked his way between the rocks, relying on sensation as much as sight. The inexplicable pulsing of magic grew stronger with every step. By the time he could see the cave, it was almost overwhelming. He approached slowly, acclimating himself to the intensity, a frog sitting in water as it slowly came to a boil.
It was impossible not to squint as he entered the cave, little good that it did. He continued doggedly against the power threatening to knock him senseless. When he reached the back he paused, hoping to acclimate again. No good. There were no specific spells he could see, no colors or textures that stood out. At this range, all he could feel was the ceaseless pulsing of magic, though curiously it seemed to be coming from below him, within the rock itself.
Nikolai stripped and got into the hottest pool he could stand. He inched in slowly, giving his body time to adjust to the sweltering water, lungs protesting against the thick, steamy air. When the water was up to his chin, he closed his eyes and sank. Ignoring the screaming protest of his face against the heat, he pressed his palms to the smooth rock at the bottom of the pool. Pulse. Pulse. Definitely stronger here, but even more so toward the next pool over.
He hauled himself out, gravity tugging against his wet body, and walked to the scalding final pool. Could he empty it? Telekinesis was easy enough with solid objects. Nikolai retrieved his wand from his discarded clothes and made swishing motions across the water. A few drops splattered on the surface, like he’d skimmed it with a stick.
Might as well give Medea’s method a try. He set down the wand, cupped his hands, and willed the water to move. The results were marginally better. A bucket-sized scoop of water flung itself into the next pool over, losing half its contents on the way, as if the bucket was full of holes. He kept at it, but the pool was so large it made no difference. The water had to be coming through the ground from somewhere, and until he could empty the pool faster than it could fill, the exercise was fruitless.
He stooped and grabbed his clothes, dressing again quickly and heading to the front of the cave. Time to move on and see what the graveyard held.
Maybe Medea had a space for him there.
Nikolai froze at the errant thought. No, it couldn’t be. Even as he thought it, his body was already sinking to its knees beside a pool of lukewarm water. He’d replaced the harp root. He’d fixed this! Obviously not. Why did he ever think he could outsmart someone like Medea? She was better than him at everything. He was stupid and worthless and—
NO!
—Useless. Pretty to look at, but if anyone peered too close, they’d see there was nothing there. No substance. Nothing of value.
As the black cloud descended, Nikolai clutched his head, fingernails scraping scalp. He thrashed from side to side and toppled into the pool. The logical part of his mind remarked this would kill his pocket watch. The less logical side took note that water worked just as well for killing people. Nikolai fought against the desire to let go, but his will slipped away like a greased bar, impossible to hold. Down to the bottom of the pool. Thunk. Tepid water permeated his clothes and lungs with equal measure.
Something tugged at his midsection, pulling him upward, and then he was beside the pool again, diaphragm working automatically to purge the liquid from his body. He choked and gasped, still in the grip of the malaise. Nothing mattered. Why couldn’t he just die? Better for everyone if he’d never been born.
