by Beth Lyons
Our faces got closer as he overpowered my arm. With my thumb still in his nose that must have hurt, but his eyes didn’t flinch.
I did the only thing I could think of and slammed my head into his. He grunted as he tumbled off me, and I scrambled to my feet. Stars swirled across my vision, but I could breathe. “Who are you?” I managed to say.
The man got his feet and ran for the door. Lunging at his legs didn’t stop him. He was through the door, and I crashed to a heap beside it.
As I gained my feet I saw Boleian standing at his office door hands by his side. He looked fine, and I didn’t have time to check him, not with our attacker getting away.
Half tumbling down the stairs I saw a glimpse of red as the bald man slipped out the front door. I leapt off the last four steps and yanked open the front door. No sign of him.
“Did you see… Man. Red?” I managed to get that much out to the two dwarves walking toward me. They shrugged and resumed their conversation. One spared an extra glance at me, and his eyes widened as he spied my neck. Bruised and red, I had no doubt, but my injury would have to wait.
The man in red had come for one or both of us; I was certain. Had he surprised Boleian?
I recalled Even’s words about Fara’s killer waiting in her little kitchen. Evil waiting to kill. Was it the same man? Did that mean we were getting close?
Chapter 21 Emotional Magic
As I entered the office again I heard Boleian say, “Figures.” His arms hung loose at his shoulders, a flat expression on his face. “Figures that he would get away.”
“You could have helped, you know. When he was choking me, or after.” I tugged at my clothes. “Either way would have been fine. Maybe even both.” I flicked open the blinds to let the noon light pour in. “I lost him on the street. Did you recognize him?”
All I got in response to my words was a sigh, so I stepped closer to him. “Are you hurt, Boss? Did he….” I checked the floor, no dripping blood. Boleian’s face looked fine, no bruising.
“I’m fine. Physically.” He shambled to the couch and plopped down. “For now. But it’s just a matter of time, really.”
What had happened during the attack to cause this depression? Or maybe he came home this way. “What did you find out about Helena’s boyfriend Beltine Byrd? What did you discover in the Rinchik Range?”
“That everything is meaningless.”
A nervous laugh left my throat. “Um, do you think he cursed you? Someone cursed you, right? This is a phase.” No response. “Boleian!” I snapped my fingers. “Can you cast detect magic? I mean, in your state?”
Head back, eyes closed he said, “Do it yourself. You don’t need me. No one does. Change the name to Swift Investigations for all I care. Doubt anyone would notice.”
I was fascinated by Boleian’s state. I’d never heard him talk this way. I didn’t think he was serious about quitting the agency, but these must be his true feelings, right? Whatever spell this was, it was showing me the real Boleian.
He raised his head and stared at past my shoulder. “Every day I stare into the void. Every day—” He sat up suddenly. “What was I saying?”
“The void. Staring into it every day.”
“Nonsense! I was – we were—” He stood and whirled around. “I walked into my office, and then it all seemed so useless. I remember that quite clearly.”
“Remember getting attacked?” I asked. “Bald guy, red robe.”
He shook his head. “I saw him attack you, but I couldn’t move.” Gesturing at my neck he said, “Can you cast healing spells yet? That’s going to hurt more and look worse tomorrow if you don’t do something.”
“I’ll worry about that later. Who was that guy? What happened to you? You were, I dunno, hopeless.”
“Yes, that’s apt. Hopeless.” He stared out the window, and after a moment he said, “Cast detect magic for me, Vox. What do you sense?”
Thinking of his earlier words about the agency I said, “I really couldn’t. You have to do it. I used magic earlier, so I really don’t think I have any umph left, you know? I mean, who am I? I’m just some elf messenger playing at magic, but you, you’re Boleian of Vedasa! And—”
“Why are you saying this?”
I shrugged in response.
“Vox Swift, look at me. What did I say when I was ensorcelled? What did I say?”
With a sigh I said, “You were just feeling down is all. I get that way sometimes.” The look on Boleian’s face made me get to the point. “Fine. You said no one needed you. Said you should quit the agency. Said no one’d even notice.”
In the silence that followed I wondered if I should have lied to him. But he would have known, would have sensed that I’d downplayed the situation.
“Do you know much about the emotional spells, Vox? Besides charm person, which you seem to have a knack for.”
“Emotional spells?” Why wasn’t he more upset that I knew his secrets?
He opened his mouth and then stopped and said, “Sit down, Vox. Any second your body is going to remind your brain that someone tried to kill you.”
He had a point. Now that the immediate danger had passed I felt a little dizzy. I sat down faster than I meant. “Are you in danger?” I asked him. “Did that guy follow you from the east? Or maybe it’s me. Am I in danger?”
Boleian held up a finger and walked to the bookshelf. His grabbed a block of books and pulled them out. “I’m sure this is still fine,” he said as he reached to the back of the shelf and pulled out a small bottle of amber liquid.
“Isn’t it a little early for scotch?”
“Never too early for spirits, lass.” He smiled as he gave the bottle a shake. “Bottoms up for you,” he said, offering me the bottle.
“I couldn’t, really.” Pushing myself straighter on the couch, I continued, “A little wine, maybe cider. I’m not one for hard liquor.”
“For heaven’s sake, Vox! It’s a healing potion. Drink it.”
Gingerly I took the bottle. “How long’s it been tucked away? Even says potions are only good—”
“I think I know the efficacy of the potions in my possession, Vox Swift.” His gaze bordered on a glare. “Drink. I will not have you collapsed on my couch mid-investigation. If you insist on wrestling with strange bards, this is the price.”
“He attacked me! I saved your— Bard? How do you know he’s a bard?”
“Drink up, cast detect magic, and we shall see if my theory is correct.”
The potion had a sharp, briny smell, but I took a sip. “Uhhhh, this is bad!” I held the bottle out. “Smell this.”
“One does not sip a healing potion. One downs it in a single motion.”
I hate it when Boleian gets all worldly on me. “Is that what one does? One chokes down brown pickle juice, and if one doesn’t die from it, one is cured?”
“I am truly thankful that I don’t pay you by the hour.” Boleian crossed his arms. “When you are quite done, with both your commentary and your potion – you’re welcome by the way – we can get on with the business of solving this case.”
I brought the bottle to my lips. “If I die, promise that you’ll tell people that I said the potion was off.”
The only response was an impatient finger flick.
I’ll never tell him, but Boleian was right. It is better to just swallow brine in one gulp. Your taste buds stand up straight and then die from exposure. “Does my throat burn from the healing or the potion?”
“Nothing keeps you from talking. Cast detect magic before I give in to my own desire to strangle you.” Boleian’s mild tone belied his words.
I stood and placed the empty bottle on my desk. “This is one of the teachable moments, eh? I’ll cast, do it poorly, and you’ll explain how emotions fit in.”
“I happen to think you are capable of solid, consistent magic, perhaps even more than that, and I want you to believe that, too. Doing is believing.”
His words warmed me. Magic theory –
the stuff they taught us in school – was boring. Real magic is another creature altogether. If Boleian thought I had the right stuff—
“Hey, why didn’t you tell me about the magic library?” I pulled the crumpled card from my pocket. “Thaumaturgy. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“When the time is right, the student finds out about it.”
“Will you take me there?” Maybe I could circumvent Underwood’s whole test.
“Of course, but not right now. Now we cast magic.” Boleian perched on the edge of my desk. “I’m not sure you’ve been very nuanced in your detection spells, Vox, and it matters. Truly. Concentration is key. Concentration and focus. The longer you linger, the better your results. So stay with the feeling. It’s hard at first. Your mind will fight against the concentration, and it will try to enlist your body in the rebellion. Do not give in!”
Boleian’s words threatened to overwhelm me. I could hold focus for maybe a minute – two minutes, tops – and he wanted me to treat that paltry amount as if it were all the time in the world! I rushed because I had to. Anyone could see that.
I gave a heavy sigh. At least he was here to sweep in behind me and find the magical traces I would invariably miss.
As I opened my mouth to begin my song, Boleian held up a finger. “If I might, before you begin, offer a bit of advice? What,” he said, “is your goal, Vox?”
“Huh? You just told me to detect magic and so, that is my goal.” Was he trying to trick me?
“Your casting time, Vox, is limited – everyone’s is. And so you have to know your goal ahead of time. One aims at a target. And so I ask again, what do you hope to learn with your precious time?”
He had a point. I only had time to really focus on one thing. What should it be? I thought back to one of my first detective lessons with Boleian. He’d said, “Look for what is out of place.”
Everything looked fine now, but a few moments ago the most out of place thing would have been Boleian on the floor. My eyes traveled up and down his body. “You,” I said. “You are my target.”
“Very well,” said Boleian. “Proceed.”
I sang my song and walked around Boleian. Then I stopped behind him and sang it again. I kept singing and let the images, thoughts, and feelings wash over me. Boleian’s body slowly grew a red tinge, and I could see black streaks like claw marks all down his back. I smelled the sharp tang of blood and felt an oppressive weight settle on my shoulders.
As I watched, the black streaks began to swirl and dance. They formed a circle and then shot across Boleian’s side to his front. The color reformed, spinning a lazy circle around Boleian’s heart before breaking apart to form the word Doom across his forehead. The letters blazed bright and then began to fade.
“Doom,” I whispered. “Is there a spell called doom?”
“What did you see?”
I circled Boleian once more. “You were red and then these black marks, they streaked across you and wrote ‘doom’ on your forehead. I hope that’s a spell and not a prophecy.”
“Funny you should say that. The word ‘doom’ has its origins in Draconic where it can mean judgment or fate, depending on context. And to answer your unspoken question, it is not a wizard spell; I can tell you that.”
“But is it one of those emotional spells?” I asked. “That’s what you think? Except that guy, he didn’t seem all that emotional to me. More like an assassin – cool, blank, outcome-driven. An emotional person wouldn’t have fled when the odds shifted.”
“True. All around true, Vox. Except you are interpreting the phrase wrong. Emotional magic has as its aim to pinpoint an emotion and use it against its owner. It doesn’t originate with the caster; it is the victim’s own feelings which become the weapon.”
Boleian’s face was solemn as he continued. “And one class of magic users knows this better than all the others.” He stepped closer to me. “One group, Vox. One group notorious for twisting innocents into knots of fear, for turning memories into living nightmares, manipulating the very fabric of that which makes us who we are. And do you know which group that is, Vox Swift?”
I had a feeling I knew where this was headed, but I said, “Um, sorcerers?”
“Bards!” He grabbed his staff, which was leaning just inside his office door. “It is time you visited Thaumaturgy and learned a little bit about your chosen fellowship.”
Chapter 22 Thamaturgy
Boleian strode ahead of me as we got to the street. “Keep up, Vox. We don’t have time to waste.”
“You make it sound like bards are bad! You’re the one— Excuse me,” I said as I squeezed past an old lady on the sidewalk. “Boleian, you’re the one who encouraged me! I didn’t know the first thing about magic when we first met.”
“True enough.” He slowed his steps so that we could walk abreast. “And you misunderstand me – all magic users have the capacity for good or evil. You could do worse than be a bard.”
“Thanks, I guess.” I moved into safer waters. “Why did that guy want to kill you? Us?”
“The logical answer is that he’s the killer, and we’re getting too close to the truth.”
“But I’ve never seen him before.”
“Killers do tend to hide their identity.” Boleian spared a glance at me. “But I understand what you mean. You expect Helena’s killer to be someone she knew, someone you now know.”
“And Fara’s killer. It’s the same scenario – she knew her killer.”
We turned on to Flint, and I started to tell Boleian about my conversation with Fara’s friend Tez, all about the mysterious Charles, when I spied Even up ahead.
She’d just stepped out of a doorway when she saw us. “Just the two I wanted to see next. I’ve been doing some research. I found a few things in Fara’s room at the orphanage. My heart tells me one of them’s the key to figuring out Fara’s murder.”
“We were just talking about Fara Fram. Vox was about to tell me what she’s uncovered.”
I wasn’t paying attention. My ears had perked up when Even said “research”. “Have you been to Thaumaturgy?” I asked her.
“Look at you! Underwood told you about it finally? Lovely place to study. The scones are particularly good.”
Scones? Didn’t sound like any library I’d ever visited.
“Thaumaturgy is an excellent resource,” said Boleian. “Which is why we’re coming here. My entrance is just around the corner.” With that Boleian started to walk away.
“My entrance is right here.” Even sounded amused.
“Wait, you have your own entrances?”I looked from one to the other. “How is that possible?”
“It is a magic library. Come on in. You too, Boleian. Come in. What are you researching?”
I told her about the man who tried to strangle me and about the strange spell he cast on Boleian.
“You’re quite recovered now?” Even looked Boleian up and down.
“Quite.”
“And you say,” Even said to me, “that you saw the word ‘doom’ on his face?”
I nodded.
“Well isn’t that interesting,” Even said in a low tone. After a moment she clapped her hands as if to get our attention. “Come with me. I have the answers you seek and why stand on the sidewalk?”
She pushed open the door behind her. “This is the cleric’s library.”
I stepped into a large, cluttered room. The floors were mostly covered with ornate rugs. Wooden floorboard gleamed through in the places between the rugs. Bookcases lined two walls, from floor to high ceiling. Piles of pillows and baskets of discarded books sat around the room. A few people occupied overstuffed armchairs, quietly reading or making notes.
Boleian stepped past a large potted fern on a stand. In a loud whisper he said, “It’s a bit crowded, eh? How do you think in here?”
“You can keep your chrome and glass,” said Even. “This suits me.” She led us to a cozy corner by the fire.
“What’s the bard’s room
look like?” I asked.
“That I don’t know. The main library is through there,” Even pointed at a double door that dominated the far wall. “But we have access to most everything we need here.” She gave a lazy wave at the nearest bookshelf.
Boleian added, “Most people stick to their area, Vox.” He took two small pillows from a chair, set them on the floor. “But some do like to use the main area and mingle with other spellcasters.” With that he settled into the chair.
Even and I took the two nearest chairs to form a small circle. Even clasped her hands. “Doom is a cleric spell.” She took a breath. “An unusual one—”
“You’re telling me that Vox read the actual spell name off my forehead?”
With a shrug Even said, “Sounds like it. Now the spell—”
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
Even only shrugged again.
“You are too old to play coy,” Boleian told her.
“I have heard of some divines being able to read magic in this way.” Even held up her hand. “But it happened just the one time. Might not mean anything, right Vox?”
“Divines, yes. Bards? No.” Boleian shifted in his chair. “Vox gets her magic the same way I do. No prayers, no supplication, nothing divine about it. Just good, old fashioned study.”
As usual I found myself looking between my two friends and mentors as they debated. I said, “Didn’t you say that gentle repose is a cleric spell? How many clerics are running around trying to kill people?”
Boleian shrugged. “This is Thornbury, Vox.”
“A killer cleric?” Even shook her head. “That’s highly unlik—”
Killer cleric. I snapped my fingers. “Dewey mentioned something. Someone. Farrell. He said an assassin named Farrell was in town.” I spread my hands. “Could be we found our murderer.”
“Surely not.” Even looked between me and Boleian.
Boleian shook his head. “You just said yourself, Vox – a man tried to strangle you with his hands. But Helena was strangled with a cord, and Fara, she was blasted by fire. This is not the work of one man.”
