Caster

by Elsie Chapman

  I nodded, stepping back to give her room to cast.

  Shire cupped her hand and blew into it.

  The kindling caught, and I reached for the fire rod to pass to Shire for her to poke in some of the tinder.

  She shook her head and smiled. “Let’s not use that today.”

  Full magic.

  I grinned back, excited. I wanted to see Shire cast full magic more than anything. It wasn’t often that our parents let her since the world said it wasn’t allowed, and because it hurt her, too.

  My excitement died down a bit. I didn’t want her to hurt, either. And I didn’t want her to get into trouble.

  “Mom and Dad will get mad,” I said. “Plus casting hurts you, remember?”

  “Not very much. I’ll use a spell that will just leave my bones sore for a bit. It’s not permanent. And Mom and Dad won’t even be able to tell.”

  I hesitated, torn. I trusted Shire because somehow she always knew how to keep our parents from getting mad, while I never did a very good job with that. And to feed a fire with full magic—it would be like making rain with a wish, like growing snow from your fingertips …

  I tried once more to be obedient. “They don’t like it when you use your magic for no good reason.”

  “There’s never a good reason, then.”

  I grinned again and leaned the rod back against the wall. “Okay.”

  Shire picked up a stray shaving from the side of the fireplace. She drew a five-pointed star on her palm and placed the shaving in the middle of it. Then she stared hard at the pieces of tinder that lay on the hot grate. The tiny strands of red that were our fire had already raced themselves through the rest of the kindling.

  The tinder slowly lifted up into the air. There, the thin pieces of wood hovered for a second before each slowly flipped once, twice. Then they flopped back down onto the strands of red. The edges of the tinder caught, began to glow.

  “Shire,” I whispered in awe—we wouldn’t find out until later that day how earth had paid for our moment of fun, the wild blackberry bushes that lined the ditch behind the teahouse bent low to the ground as though a giant foot had come down from above and stomped on them. “All of that was you?”

  My sister laughed, then winced. The pain had hit her bones. She slowly opened her hand, and the tiny bit of charred wood that was all that was left of her starter floated downward. “Of course it was me—who else?”

  Sometimes my heart ached with how much I wanted full magic, too. I cast leftover magic all the time, but now it was no longer special. It felt dull, second best. I wanted to be like Shire, who was older, prettier, and better at so many things. It almost seemed unfair that she had full magic on top of all that, but I knew it wasn’t up to her. She was just really lucky. I hoped I would be as lucky one day, too. And if I was, I would never become one of those casters who Scouts had to hunt down, the ones who destroyed bits of the earth at a time. I would never be terrible with my magic.

  “That first time.” I was staring at the fire, watching it grow. “Did you know the instant your leftover magic turned into full magic?”

  I had no memory of Shire’s discovery since I’d only been two when it happened. But I knew the story. How it’d been at breakfast, and how Shire had heated up a cup of water for tea—still a caster of leftover magic. But that’s all such a caster can do with a breath spell—heating a single cup at most. So when she went on to heat a whole teapot, everyone knew.

  “Well, you don’t really lose your leftover magic,” Shire said. She rubbed at her arms, checking the pain. “It’s more like full magic comes and … swarms it up.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  “I told you how it gets hot while casting, right? Your whole body does. That’s really the only difference, since you don’t feel anything when you cast leftover magic.”

  “But that first time, could you tell before you cast that your magic had changed?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t really remember. I was only six. Mom and Dad would remember better if I told them anything then.”

  “There had to be something.”

  “I really can’t remember, Aza. One day it was just there.”

  I frowned, wanting to believe her. But it seemed too simple. If it was so simple, why was full magic so powerful, then? I began to add some of the dried branches to the fire, wondering if I could help her remember, trying to come up with ideas. “Was it maybe like getting a burst of energy?”

  “Sure, a burst of energy, just like that.”

  Shire didn’t sound convinced. It sounded more like something she was saying because she knew I wanted to hear it.

  “Maybe I should go look it up,” I said. “Someone must have talked about it before, since every single caster on earth once used full magic. Right?”

  “Really, Aza, it just happened all on its own.” One day it was just there. And then as I got older, it grew stronger. Now she sounded nearly bored. It reminded me of how she was already twelve and I was only eight and how sometimes she seemed tired of me always being there. “You can’t make it come or anything. It just means not everyone is meant to cast full magic—not anymore.” She passed me another branch. “Here, one more. Last one, though—the fire’s pretty much ready right now, and if it gets any hotter, we’ll have to bank it back before we can dry anything. I’ll be right back—we left the box of buds behind the front counter.”

  She left the workroom, and I stared at the red flames, feeling their gentle heat. Restlessness stirred.

  I dropped the branch onto the flames and decided I had to at least try casting full magic. Shire hadn’t had any warning before she found out, after all. What if I’d had full magic for ages and had just never known because I’d never tried it?

  Then there was just how much magic I wanted to pull from the earth. Just how strong of a spell did I want to try casting? Shire’s five-pointed star had pulled enough to make pieces of wood dance in the air.

  Which meant ten might lift up the larger flower branches and make them dance.

  Fifteen might make the whole entire fire dance.

  My heart was beating fast, a pattern of notes of anticipation and hope, of dread and fear. I had to be fast. I knew if Shire got back and saw me trying that I would feel stupid. She wouldn’t mean for me to, but I would anyway. Maybe if only I was better at something than Shire, or had something she didn’t. But no.

  I reached over and picked up a piece of fresh kindling that we’d missed.

  I drew a star of fifteen points on my palm.

  I laid the kindling in the middle of the star.

  I looked up and stared at the red fire and imagined all those flames dancing in midair. I tried to imagine feeling suddenly energized. I told myself that I was energized. How I had all the energy of all the casters who ever existed, right there in my blood.

  But nothing happened.

  My palm stayed cool, the starter on it unburned. The red fire on the grate didn’t dance.

  I felt no differently than if I’d been trying to cast leftover magic.

  Disappointment surged, surprising me with its force. I blinked back tears. So Shire wasn’t lying. You really couldn’t wish for it to happen. The earth was so different now, and not all casters were allowed to—

  The red fire turned yellow.

  My shoes, tingling with heat, the way kindling must as it ignites. My legs, crackling and snapping and smelling of char—they were tinder, feeding a fire. My hands were tangled bunches of fragrant branches that smelled of sweet blooms as they burned.

  Aza!

  Shire’s voice came from somewhere far away, a wave of sound in my heated ears.

  Aza!

  My vision turned thick and blurry. I was jerked backward. It took forever for me to fall to the ground.

  Shire’s hazy outline as she faced the fireplace. The shimmer of her profile as she turned away.

  I was eight, and on the grate in the workroom, blue fire exploded.

 
* * *

  And then I am sixteen again, and on the television in the kitchen, rival gangs are hurling threats at one another.

  I blink to shake myself out of the memory. The scent of fire is gone and smells of dinner come back. My plate still has food on it, and with numb hands, I begin to eat again. My parents are now looking at paperwork together, the teahouse’s file opened up and some of its pages spread out on the wooden island.

  “Maybe you can speak to them just once more?”

  My mother, sounding worried again. But this time, it’s not for me. Her expression is clouded as she reads something on one of the pages.

  The tone in her voice forces the past from my mind.

  “I’ve spoken to them over the phone a few times now,” my father says. There are creases on the sides of his mouth I haven’t noticed before. “I even offered to go over to the office so we could speak face-to-face. But Leafton said no, it wouldn’t change anything.”

  Leafton is one of our longest-running suppliers. We’ve been getting a bunch of our tea ingredients from them for years. Without them, a handful of our most popular blends wouldn’t be the same. Saint Willow owns them, too.

  Back to reality, I ask, “What’s going on?”

  “Leafton is terminating its contract with us.” My father’s expression is as clouded as my mother’s. “They’re ‘refocusing their customer base,’ is the line we’re being fed. Which doesn’t say much, as it never does in business.”

  “We didn’t get much warning,” my mother says quietly. “Twenty-five years of working together, and they end it with a phone call. I’m actually a bit surprised with how they’ve handled this.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to find a new supplier.” My father shuffles papers together. “We need those ingredients.”

  A new suspicion comes, and suddenly I’m uneasy. The bruises on my arms and legs and face pound along with my pulse. “Doesn’t Leafton have contracts with a few other teahouses here in the sector? Have you talked to them to see if they know what’s going on?”

  “We have.” My mother pours more tea. “They’re not affected. It’s just us. You’d almost think it was intentional, but we’ve never had problems with Leafton before.”

  But we’re having problems with Saint Willow now, aren’t we?

  My stomach churns, and I push my plate away. On the television screen, a gang member is screaming as he dies a painful death.

  I wonder how much clout Jihen has with his boss. Did my casting him to trip hurt his ego so badly that he went to his cousin and told him to up the pressure?

  Or maybe it’s really all just Saint Willow. Maybe he got Leafton to cut ties with us so we wouldn’t be able to pay. Maybe he likes to use his power in petty ways.

  Maybe he’s so angry with the pathetic amount of marks I paid him today that he’s snapped.

  “Let me guess,” I say quietly. “Leafton is giving you one week before the process is finalized.”

  My father finishes shuffling papers and tucks them into the file. “How’d you know?”

  “Like I said, just a guess.” I start to get up to begin clearing dishes. Rudy’s note and the strange black coin are still in my starter bag, their presence like live bugs contained in a jar, waiting to be released. I want to get to my room to look up directions for the address. Midnight can’t come fast enough.

  One week.

  The ticking bomb grows louder each day.

  “Aza, hold on a second.” My father rips off a small piece of his napkin. He casts around it.

  The pounding deep within my bruises recedes a tiny bit. I peek beneath one of my sleeves; blotches that were as dark as violets have gone a muted lavender.

  “It might not be full magic,” my father says, smiling, “but we still do what we can, don’t we?”

  I leave the teahouse at eleven, sneaking out my window and trying not to wince as my bruises knock against the sill. My feet sink into the grass of our backyard, and I shut the window as quietly as I can. It can’t be locked from the outside, and it’s not worth the pain to cast it locked (and then unlocked when I get back), so I leave it as is.

  Once, my mother locked it on me, exasperated to wake up in the middle of the night to find me gone and the apartment vulnerable. You have a key to the door of the teahouse, Aza; simply leave that way instead of like a criminal.

  But I still sneak out, because of Jihen, who’s been ordered to keep an eye on me, Jihen who my parents think is my coworker.

  Slipping on my smog mask, I step over to the row of snowball bushes that grow so tightly together they act as our back fence, and peer through a tangle of branches.

  No sign of Jihen.

  I squeeze through the bushes and out into the alley, then turn and head toward the street.

  The Tea Sector isn’t really the section of the city most people aim to be late night—that’s mostly Culture because of all its theaters and shows, and Electronics because of the arcades and opens-at-dusk shops—but pockets of it stay busy long after typical business hours. I take a more thorough look around, checking for the contrast of white sneakers against a dark suit on the sidewalk patios of the late-night tea cafés and teatini bars that don’t close until dawn. Jihen’s like me, never sticking to a schedule or route to keep me guessing when I might run into him.

  I also remember to check for signs of a cop wearing a baseball cap. Chances are that he’s still in the Tobacco Sector and nowhere near here. If he’s staking out the apothecary, it makes sense that he’s checked into a motel near to it. Or if Rudy’s body has been discovered, then he’d be there for that, too.

  But still.

  It’s a waiting game now. If he’s going to come looking for us, I just need him to find me before he finds my parents.

  I walk, sweeping petals of snowball bush blooms from my hair and shoulders. I might be sneaking out now to hunt down this place on Rudy’s note, but it used to be Rudy himself I’d sneak out for. I would leave home at dawn to make sure I got to the apothecary before it opened, cast full magic to let myself inside, and wait there for Rudy to arrive. So he could never forget I was always around with my questions. So one day he would have to give me the answers I needed. Because he failed in teaching Shire how to stay alive, so he owed it to both her and me to become my teacher.

  I was Rudy’s Jihen. His Saint Willow. His weak heart’s worst enemy.

  My own heart goes tight with this fact as I finish crossing the street. A chilly drizzle is coming down so finely that it hangs in the air like a mist, unsure of where to go. I turn the corner, that cold mist having nothing on the way I’m already like ice inside.

  I know Rudy’s dead because of me.

  For all that I swore as a kid to never become terrible with my magic, here I am.

  Rudy, whatever I’m going to find at this address—if it’s anything to do with what you said about finishing something, I’ll do it for you.

  The Meat Sector makes up the northeast corner of the city, and is about as distant from Tea as you can get and still be within Lotusland limits. So I take the most direct route, cutting my way through the sectors that stand between us.

  I leave behind Tea and I step into Government, where all the buildings look the same and the streets run neatly square to each other. I gradually angle my way north even as I keep east. Every few blocks or so I double-check for the dim glow of white sneakers, the curve of a baseball cap, wanting to see them before they see me.

  The ring of aged marble statues in the middle of a courtyard lets me know I’m crossing the literal center of the sector. The statues are of the greats, the first seven casters the earth ever created. Together they once made up the Guild of Then. Each of them contributed something to the original magic system—skin spells, bone spells, blood spells, breath spells, the casting arm, the starter, the pointed star—and the statues were once considered the figurative center of the city. Casters came here to celebrate full magic and honor the Guild.

  But then casters couldn�
��t stop using all that magic. Over centuries they abused it, leaving the earth on the verge of collapse. So earth adapted to save itself before it fell apart by turning full magic back on its own casters. It made them bear the burden of their greedy powers. Over time, the number of casters of full magic dwindled, while that of leftover grew.

  It’s only half working.

  Earth waited too long to get rid of full magic, so each time it’s cast, more of the world still breaks. And its casters are still here, even if we’re mostly pretending and hiding, and dying out.

  I step around the garbage that’s strewn across the ground and finish crossing the courtyard. It’s all wrinkled flyers and torn posters—another protest must have just ended. The protests are always over the same issue—how the Guild of Then monument should be taken down. Or at the very least, amended. Why honor a magic system that’s become a threat and is no longer the gift it once was?

  I leave the Government Sector and walk along the street that divides Spice from Tower, keeping straight east for a bit. As with a lot of the city’s sectors, Spice has its own distinctive scent, and the smells of bright peppers and tongue-stinging salts fill my nose. On my other side, lights from the high-rises that make up most of Tower’s buildings wink against the dark. Then the road curves south, so I leave it and go north again, cutting into Spice proper and zigzagging my way through its streets. I’m twenty minutes away from 987 Scalding Way.

  “Magic? Got magic for me? Who’s got magic to spare?”

  The faint call comes from the intersection just up ahead, through the thin sounds of late-night traffic.

  It’s a display caster. An Ivor. Road lights gleam off the steel bars of the human-sized cage that hangs from the tall lamppost on the corner.

  “Magic, anyone? Cast me some magic to get me something to eat?”

  It’s a busy area, and gawkers loiter on the sidewalk nearby, standing outside twenty-four-hour pancake houses and all-night inhalant bars. One catcalls. Another asks if the display caster would take some marks instead. Someone else yells how all full magic casters should be locked away.