by Victoria Lee
Being here, in the government complex, trusting Lehrer, was probably one of the stupider things Noam had done of late. Working with Lehrer would buy him nothing. If Noam was going to save the world, he’d have to do it alone.
The study door opened, jolting Noam back to the present. But it wasn’t Lehrer’s imposing figure that stepped out into the hall.
It was Chancellor Sacha.
CHAPTER SIX
He was smaller than he looked on TV.
That was the first inevitable realization that fluttered across the surface of Noam’s mind, chased by an immediate surge of something terrible and acidic burning through his chest like bile.
Harold Sacha was shorter even than Dara, who was five ten at most. He had bland gray hair and a bland face and wore a bland suit, but the gaze that shot out from beneath heavy brows was keenly intelligent. A fresh tremor ricocheted up Noam’s spine, and he was on his feet before he knew he was moving. His right hand twitched, a reflex; Noam had nearly reached for the gun he had trained with in basic that morning, a gun that wasn’t there.
No fewer than six bodyguards spilled out of the room on Sacha’s heels, all wearing iridescent antiwitching armor that took on a strange gleam under the hall lights. Noam’s attention slid from Sacha’s face to theirs—or where their faces would have been had they not been obscured by heavy masks.
When Noam looked back at Sacha, the chancellor was watching him.
“You must be Álvaro. Minister Lehrer’s new student, yes?”
Noam hardly dared open his mouth. He didn’t trust what might come out if he did. And of course Dara just stood there, reading his book, completely unfazed by the presence of a war criminal not two feet away.
Noam nodded.
“Excellent,” Sacha said, looking grotesquely pleased with himself. “I’d hoped to run into you at some point. Calix has such an eye for talent. He found our friend Mr. Shirazi, of course.”
Noam glanced at Dara, who turned a new page in his book.
Sacha stepped closer, and Noam took a half step back, only to meet the wall.
“Why do you think Calix has such interest in you?” Sacha asked him. His eyes searched Noam’s face, then briefly dipped down Noam’s body.
“I don’t know.” Noam managed to get out those three words, at least.
“I read your file,” Sacha said.
He meant Noam’s criminal record.
Noam felt as if his chest was caving in on itself, a clenching pain that shot from his heart all the way down to the tips of his fingers. He imagined closing those fingers round Sacha’s throat.
“Leave the boy alone.”
Lehrer stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame. His expression was very cool.
“The polite thing would have been to introduce me,” Sacha commented mildly.
“And now you’ve been introduced. Dara, Noam, come into the study. We’ve wasted enough time.”
Noam sidled around Sacha, who looked as if he would’ve loved to tell Lehrer off for insubordination but was too afraid to, which . . . good.
He trailed Dara into Lehrer’s study, glancing back just long enough to watch the door shut on Sacha and the antiwitching soldiers. He expected Lehrer to say something. To at least comment on the chancellor’s presence in his office, or apologize, but Lehrer just directed him to the corner with a physics book. Again.
So Noam was left alone to keep prodding his technopathy against the government complex servers and watch Dara move little lights across the ceiling. He could use the time he was meant to spend reading to try and break the ward, he supposed. Lehrer certainly wasn’t paying attention.
Noam tilted his book up, leaning in like he was trying to work out a difficult problem, and expanded his mind. Lehrer didn’t have so much as a holoreader in this entire damn room. There was just his phone on his desk—ward protected, of course—and Dara’s, tucked into his back pocket.
He hesitated there, mental fingers poised over Dara’s data. God, it was tempting to drag his power through those circuits and find out some kind of nasty secret. Or better yet, chase Dara’s network connection up to the cloud and erase the whole thing.
Only, unlike the phones of all the low-level government workers out in the atrium, Dara’s was protected by the same antitechnopathy ward as Lehrer’s.
Noam glanced up.
Dara was looking at him.
A jolt of static shot up Noam’s spine, and he snatched his power away from Dara’s phone on reflex. Ridiculous how guilty he felt, especially since Dara had no way of knowing what Noam was thinking. But he felt oddly observed as he flipped to the next page in his textbook without reading it, like Dara had tangled himself up in the wires of Noam’s mind and Noam couldn’t cut him out.
What if, though—he scribbled a meaningless line of notes—what if he convinced Lehrer to take down the ward? Lehrer was powerful enough.
It was an insane idea, but Noam was willing to entertain just about any solution at this point. Lehrer was one of the few who had spoken out against Sacha’s treatment of refugees, one of the few who could afford to. He had the cachet of being the only living survivor of the catastrophe, of his revolutionary past, of having been Carolinia’s king before he gave up the crown. Lehrer and Sacha famously loathed each other. But even Lehrer hadn’t accomplished much to stop Sacha from doing precisely as Sacha pleased.
Was that because he couldn’t? Or because he didn’t want to?
Noam had to believe Lehrer cared. He glanced up at him again over the edge of his book. Lehrer had caught one of the little yellow lights in his hand; a faint glow emanated from the cage of his long fingers as Lehrer smiled at it and praised Dara, who looked annoyed.
Lehrer even cared about Dara, for all Dara was indifferent to everything Lehrer gave him. Lehrer cared about Noam, enough to intercede for him. And when witchings were being oppressed, Lehrer had risked his life to save them.
But on the other hand, Lehrer’s department enforced Sacha’s laws. And after the outbreaks in Atlantia got bad, it was Lehrer’s army that had marched south to help.
The Atlantian government called that an act of war, and Noam was inclined to agree.
“That’s enough for today,” Lehrer said to Dara, releasing the little light, which vanished. Noam looked back down at his book. He hadn’t even finished reading the first of the three chapters he’d been assigned.
“Dara, I want you to keep practicing with this tonight. Noam, chapters fourteen through sixteen in this book, and then finish the last chapter in A Physics Primer along with its problem set. Also, I need to speak with you. Stay behind.”
That was new.
Noam took his time with his things, lingering over the organization of his notes and pretending to fumble with his satchel straps. Dara didn’t even bother putting his book in his bag before leaving, door slamming shut in his wake and rattling one of the paintings on the wall.
It was just Noam and Lehrer. Lehrer drifted over to the bookshelf and opened a small cabinet, pulling out a glass decanter of some amber liquor that glittered in the window light.
“Sir,” Noam said.
Lehrer’s attention was focused on the decanter as he poured two fingers of whisky into a glass. “Just one moment, Noam.”
Noam waited.
Replacing the top of the decanter, Lehrer turned to face him properly, leaning against the shelf. “I suspect,” he said, “you’re starting to wonder why I accepted you into this program in the first place.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong. Noam shrugged one shoulder. I figured you’d put too much bourbon in your coffee that morning probably wasn’t appropriate. “I’m sure you had your reasons, sir.”
“Certainly I did. I wouldn’t have vouched for you with the committee, or sacrificed my personal time to instruct you, if I didn’t think you could catch up.”
Lehrer was only bringing this up because he had overheard what Sacha said. Noam knew that. He knew that.
“I’m too far beh
ind,” he said. It was so hard not to fidget; there was a loose thread on the sofa’s faded upholstery Noam was dying to pluck free.
“I don’t think you are.” Lehrer took a sip of his drink. “And you don’t strike me as the kind of person to let a challenge go without a fight.”
“So, what? I look like I’m stubborn, so you go to bat for me? You don’t even know me.”
“I know you well enough to see myself in you, Noam,” Lehrer said, looking oddly pleased. He moved away from the bookshelf, closer to Noam, until only the seat cushion separated them. When he rested a hand on the sofa’s spine, it was right over that loose thread that had so bothered Noam. A cool shiver ran down Noam’s spine, something he didn’t know how to interpret. “I was twelve when I stopped going to school. Everything I learned, I taught myself by reading books—on my own, the same way you’re doing now. It wasn’t easy, but I was sufficiently motivated to learn, so ‘easy’ didn’t matter. Now I’m the most powerful witching alive.” He said it without arrogance, just a lifted brow. A statement of fact.
“You’re . . .” Noam didn’t even know what he was going to say. All the words felt wrong.
“Clever?” Lehrer said. “So are you. And you’re curious, as I was. You’ve lost a great deal, as I had. And you believe, as I did, that if you are powerful enough, no one will ever be able to hurt you again.”
What Lehrer had gone through was far worse than anything people alive today could even imagine. Probably . . . probably Lehrer only said that to make Noam feel better. And yet . . .
Lehrer stepped around the back of the sofa and sat as well, angled toward Noam—close enough their knees bumped together.
“I understand,” Lehrer said. When Noam dared to glance up, Lehrer was watching, those strange eyes like clear lake water. Impossible, then, to look away. “I lost my family too.”
Noam didn’t want to think about his parents. He didn’t want to think about his father’s body, what they might’ve done to it after he died. Burned, probably.
Atlantian tradition was to bury the dead.
He tried to focus instead on the places he and Lehrer touched, small points of heat. On the way Lehrer smelled, like single malt and fabric starch. It was as if, just by asking, Lehrer had ripped off the flimsy bandages Noam had wrapped around his grief.
Lehrer’s hand fell away from his shoulder. Noam felt cold in its absence, somehow. He watched as Lehrer folded his fingers together in his lap, staring at the black X tattooed on Lehrer’s left hand.
“I sensed your strength the moment we met,” Lehrer said eventually. “Raw ability isn’t something that can be taught. Colonel Swensson tells me you’re making fast progress in your lessons with him, and you’ve learned curriculum far more quickly than expected.”
Noam snorted. “I sleep about three hours a night.”
“Be careful with that; magic is not an inexhaustible resource. Have you heard of viral intoxication?”
“Going fevermad, you mean.”
“That’s one word for it. Magic can be addictive, and if used too much, the viral load rises in your blood—and your body produces more antibodies against magic. The inflammation in your brain can make you go quite . . . well, fevermad. Yes.” Lehrer paused, gaze skipping toward the window for a moment like he was distracted, although Noam had never thought Lehrer was the sort. Then Lehrer’s attention snapped back to Noam with such keen intensity it was jarring. “That’s the first sign. But it can get much worse. If the syndrome isn’t treated, your body’s immune system starts to attack its own tissue. Fevers, fatigue, joint pain, kidney failure—death, if left unchecked.”
“I’ll be careful, sir.”
Fevermadness was incredibly rare, though. Noam couldn’t fathom the amount of magic he’d have to expend to get to that point.
“See that you are. I’ve invested too much in you already to see your talents wasted on insanity.” The words came out sharp enough that Noam nearly flinched—but then Lehrer sighed and shook his head. His marked hand curled in a fist against his thigh. “My brother was ill.”
Noam startled before he could stop himself. Surely Lehrer didn’t mean—
“We had no idea what fevermadness was at the time, of course.” Lehrer’s expression did not change. “That was Raphael’s discovery—one of the doctors in Wolf’s militia. It was shocking at the time, of course, to think magic could eat away at a witching, bit by bit, until they lost the very core of who they were. Such a death is not pleasant, to experience or to witness.”
No, Noam didn’t imagine it was.
But Adalwolf Lehrer died in the final push against DC, the day the United States fell and new nations rose in its stead. Not of madness.
Even Lehrer wasn’t powerful enough to rewrite history.
Right?
The look Lehrer gave him then was softer. Considering. He tapped his fingers against the armrest.
“Your presenting power was technopathy, and you’ve shown strength using electricity as well, which makes sense. The two often go hand in hand. But you haven’t mastered telekinesis. Why?”
He said it as if learning telekinesis was as easy as learning multiplication tables.
“I don’t know. Colonel Swensson seemed to think I wasn’t ready for anything past electricity.”
“Electricity,” Lehrer echoed. “But you know physics, Noam, don’t you? You read the book I gave you and did well on the problem sets. So you know electricity is just one form of electromagnetism. The other form being . . .” He trailed off meaningfully, watching Noam until Noam finished the thought.
“Magnetism.”
“Exactly,” Lehrer said. “It should be easy for you to manipulate ferromagnetic metals if you’ve accomplished electricity. And then, once you’ve mastered that, it’s a short step to telekinesis and moving nonmagnetic objects. It merely becomes a matter of force and inertia rather than magnetic fields.” He gestured, and a coin floated out of his pocket to hover in the air between them. As it rotated, sunlight glinted off the face of Gemma Yaxley, first chancellor of Carolinia after Lehrer surrendered power. “Try to move this coin toward yourself. Even an inch will do.”
Noam fought the urge to give Lehrer a dubious look. Electricity was easy; he felt the static in the air sparking between objects, a force as constant as gravity. Moving the coin was a different matter entirely.
Okay. Think.
He knew how magnetism worked. Opposites attract—simple. If he knew the charge of the coin, he could charge some attracting object, or the air in front of his hand, maybe, to be the opposite charge. And that was just shifting electrons around. Was he capable of that?
Probably not. Besides, he couldn’t just change the electron configuration of gas particles and hope a paramagnetic metal would be attracted to it. He needed to create an actual magnetic field. Electricity had positive and negative charges, but magnetism had poles. So he needed a positive pole where the coin was and a negative one where his hand was. That was possible, right? At least, theoretically, but as far as Noam knew, no one had ever proved the existence of a magnetic monopole.
No, thinking like that wasn’t helpful. If something was theoretically possible, then magic presumably could accomplish it, just so long as Noam understood the theory.
Okay. Okay.
Imagining he could only work with electricity (which was true, at least right now) and not create a magnetic pole just because he felt like it, what would he do?
When you had a current in a straight line, the magnetic field looped around it like a spring. When you had a current in a spiral, the magnetic field was generated inside the coil. And at the ends of the coil, magnetic objects would be pulled into the field and spat out the other end: right into Noam’s hand.
Noam blinked, and the room slid back into focus. Lehrer, on the other side of that coin, patiently watched him as he sipped his whisky. Noam realized only now that he’d shifted while distracted, crossing his legs atop the seat cushion. His foot had gone to slee
p beneath his shin.
Well, Noam thought, here goes nothing. And he activated the electric charge.
The spark that shot through the air was so bright that Noam nearly spilled out of his chair, half-certain something was about to catch fire. But in that same moment he felt cold metal against the palm of his hand, fingers reflexively closing around the coin.
Lehrer set down his drink, looking startled, or at least as startled as it was possible for Lehrer to look. Then he clapped, mouth curving belatedly into a smile. “Very good, Noam. A bit overenthusiastic, perhaps, but there’s nothing wrong with that when you’re learning.”
Lehrer gazed pointedly over his left shoulder. Noam looked as well; a black mark singed the lovely blue wall.
“Sorry.”
But it was hard to feel truly contrite when . . . he’d done it. He’d moved an object. With his mind. Using magic.
Lehrer waved his hand. “I think it adds to the decor, don’t you?” He leaned forward, looking at Noam like he had just transformed into the most fascinating person in the world. “Do you think the way you accomplished this trick was the best way?”
Noam reached for his coffee. His hand trembled—the one that wasn’t clenched around the fifty-cent piece like it might fly away again if he let go. “I’d hoped it would be easier. But I guess that’s not how magic works.” The prospect of having to think about the physics of everything before he could do magic was exhausting.
“You’ve gotten much faster at your technopathy, haven’t you? It’s become intuitive.”
“I have an intuitive understanding of magnetism too,” Noam argued. “Colonel Swensson said that’s how it works. I know how things theoretically move through the air better than I know how words end up on a text document when I type.”
“Presenting powers can be anything,” Lehrer said dismissively. “After all, how could one learn the science behind telepathy? And yet, we have presenting-power telepaths. Theorists say there must be some sort of natural affinity between the witching and their presenting power, but in truth, it’s only learned powers which rely on knowledge of scientific laws.”
