Caster

by Elsie Chapman

  “We’re going to have to deal with it,” I snap in a whisper, nearly feeling bad for Wilson except for the very real fact that he might now get me eliminated. But a team, spell restrictions—I didn’t expect those tonight, either. “Pav, we’ll just have to cover for him.”

  My brain is frantic. I run down all the breath spells that would be useful in the fighting ring. Rudy would say it’s just one more form of sorting, what fits and what doesn’t. Shield, air punches, fever, fire, swelling, breathing …

  “A team is only as strong as its weakest member,” Embry says now. He moves closer toward the line of gold pillars, where he means to watch us fight ourselves away. “Just like a fighter is only as strong as their greatest weakness. To be truly great, a caster must know how to balance their magic.

  “You’ll fight until two teams remain.” He scans his teal eyes over us. The weight of his gaze is like static electricity in the air, a storm over a temple from ancient times. “Starting now.”

  It is the sliver of space between heartbeats. The seconds between breath in and breath out within your lungs.

  That’s how long it is before the entire courtyard is full of cast magic.

  “Shield spells!” I yell as I yank free a silver coin. First things first, which means surviving long enough to at least figure out what to do next.

  Wilson and Pav cast, and we back into a loose circle, each of us facing outward. Invisible armor turns the lines of the temple blurry, the carved dragons on the roof into unnamable creatures. A twinge of pain from casting passes through me.

  Around us in the courtyard, the other six teams are already at it. Figures are barely more than streaks of color and motion. A bright smear of blond is Finch, a swish of a brown braid is Kylin. There are flashes of light—the low sun, glinting off Nola’s glasses. There are muffled yells, dull smacks. The crowd roars and cheers from the perimeter of the courtyard.

  “What do we do?” Pav asks. His voice wobbles through my shield. “We can’t just stay here!”

  “Wilson, you do,” I say. If he can’t help us, then we can’t let him hurt us, either. “Stay low and just keep casting shield spells, got it?”

  He sputters, indignant. “What, you want me to just stay out of the way the whole time?”

  “Ye—”

  An explosion sends me sprawling backward. I hit the pavement with a thud. My head pounds like a drum, its beats painful enough that I can’t hold together my shield spell. I’m dimly aware of Wilson nearby, calling my name.

  I drag my eyes over to the fighter who cast that skin spell on me. It’s number 7, a fighter named Bess. She’s older, like she works in an office otherwise. She’s moving closer, her eyes huge and wild. Her palm is out—she’s about to cast again.

  My hand’s reaching for a starter when a blur of motion crosses in front of me. It’s Pav, channeling Wilson at his most exultant. He charges toward Bess as he casts, a sketching of a star, a silver coin dropping from his hand. His long yell is a war cry and it sends a chill along my skin. It bounces off the distant temple walls like the clanging of swords.

  Bess drops to her knees, her hands at her throat. Her skin begins to turn blue, the tint spreading outward from her mouth.

  So much blue.

  It can’t just be manipulation of her breathing, then. Pav must have cast magic to change her oxygen, to make it become something else that she’s now breathing in. The effect is fast, harsh, telling of both its spell’s potency and cost. A twelve- or thirteen-pointed star, at least. And even though we’re here in the tournament and the Guild helps lessen our pain from casting, it’s still a pretty big hit to put on yourself right at the beginning of a fight, especially when you’ve already cast for a shield.

  Pav, don’t get carried away!

  Now Bess goes even more frantic. Her fingers scrabble at her neck. Her eyes bulge.

  Someone’s cast a second spell on her, layered on top of Pav’s.

  I whirl around. Wilson is crouched behind me, pale and trembling as he drops the just-spent silver coin to the pavement. It joins one already there, the starter he used for his shield spell.

  “What are you doing?” I shout at him over the roar of the crowd. “Pav’s spell is enough!” You can’t choke someone when they already can’t breathe; any second now Bess would have declared herself a bow-out. Why is Wilson depleting his magic for nothing, especially if he’s already weak in breath spells? He’s only supposed to be casting shield spells on himself to stay in the fight. To keep Pav and me in the fight with him.

  Wilson wheezes, sneers. “You sure about that?”

  I spin back around. He’s right. Instead of being eliminated and encased in marble, Bess is whooping in huge breaths, palms braced on the pavement. She’s managed to outlast both breath spells, and now they’re wearing off at exactly the same time.

  My team has only wasted magic. Wilson is more liability than weapon. And Pav’s gone off, charging ahead with his war cry.

  I swear under my breath and cast another shield spell. A long shiver of pain as the world shimmers, and my mind’s whirling, trying to think, as I toss the spent coin and take in the rest of the courtyard.

  On the other side, Kylin, Finch, and Nola are working as a team. They stand shoulder to shoulder as they break up the pavement. Finch is burying a fighter with slabs of stone. It’s the teenager, Hurley. A second later, Hurley turns into marble, declared a knockout by the Guild. Two more fighters across the courtyard tip over, also transformed into marble—Hurley’s teammates, Lia and Oscar, automatically eliminated in turn.

  One team down.

  If someone like Finch can figure out teamwork, why can’t we? Frustration bites and my thoughts are chaos. How to work with Pav and Wilson instead of against? Complement, not clash?

  Beside Finch, Nola casts, and rocks fall like rain. Fighters are yelling, dodging. Kylin’s using chunks of pavement as huge fists, sending them through the air and knocking fighters to the ground.

  Bess, back on her feet, gets hit by one and goes down. She’s marble. Behind her, two figures fall over, become marble as well.

  A flare of pride—unwanted, dangerous, but here anyway—flashes through me. Good for you, Kylin. Five teams left, fifteen fighters.

  But then, through the dust and rock, I catch how she’s smiling hugely at me, and my heart sinks even as it twists. She knocked out Bess for me. We don’t have a pact, but she’s acting like we do. Like we’re in this together.

  “No,” I whisper.

  I stumble back a step, like she’s cast magic to hurt instead of save.

  I can’t owe Kylin a single thing. Not here, not when I can only care about me. Sure, I would have done the same thing for Shire if she were here, but Shire’s gone, and I’m the only one left now. The only one who can avenge her.

  A new awareness rolls across the courtyard as the other fighters finally realize what just happened. Kylin’s smile was a beam, so that my whispered protest might have been as loud as a scream.

  Her coming to help me has marked out my team as the weakest. An easy target.

  My vision begins to flicker wildly; black creeps in on its edges. It’s the full magic of other fighters, trying to pry apart my shield spell. The smell of fire is everywhere, used-up magic smoldering in the air. The pavement’s painted red in swaths, and hunks of stone are flying in every direction. The crowd’s a distant wave of cheering and hollering.

  Pavement careens into my chest, and my shield of air trembles. Something behind my ribs cracks. My shield trembles harder, goes thin.

  Then pain explodes in my head. I can taste it, a wave of copper that stings my tongue. I fall low to the ground in a crouch and my already-weakened shield spell trickles away.

  I tear free a silver starter from my holder. Fear swims as blood spurts from my nose, begins to drip from my mouth. My heartbeat roars as the blood in my veins is ordered to stream from me.

  The scene takes on a haze of red as I lift my head and look for the fighter out t
o bleed me dry.

  She’s hunched down between two pillars. Freya is scrawled across her cheek. Her casting arm is out, its palm ready to be drawn on again. Her mouth works as she stares at me with huge eyes. I’m sorry, I have no choice, I have to—

  I cast.

  Wind gathers and spins a loosed ginger tree branch through the air. It pierces Freya’s thigh and she topples. She slaps the ground three times and turns to marble. The vague thought comes about whether or not fighters still feel pain after the Guild’s changed them, but it disappears as my own pain stabs through me. I fall back, my breathing loud and jagged as I slowly stop bleeding.

  One more team down. Twelve fighters left.

  A shout. Pav, yelling in my direction, the birds on his arms flying with him. He’s no longer exultant, no longer triumphant with his war cry. Instead panic is all over his face, gold-hued skin bleached pale.

  “It’s Wilson it’s Wilson it’s—!”

  I drag myself to standing, dread cold lumps of ice in my blood.

  Wilson’s on his feet, staggering and stumbling as he struggles to fend off nearby fighters. They swarm close, six of them, Wilson their choice of prey. They smell weakness the way a gang of vultures will stick close to the nearly dead, knowing it’s just a matter of time.

  Wilson’s shield spell is almost gone as he keeps fighting. He’s shaking with the effort, pain in every line of his body as he casts. He is unrecognizable from the Wilson who dared to banter with Embry about winning it all.

  My mouth is dry as my hands dig at my starters, as my eyes hurriedly scan the courtyard. Six fighters on Wilson—so where’s Kylin’s team? Where are Finch and Nola? Kylin might not want to help take down my team, but Finch, who kills, would. Nola, who punched Teller into elimination, would. So where are they?

  Pav’s helping Wilson already, casting on the six as they approach. One fighter flies backward, a gust pushing him away, but he gets up as soon as he lands. Pav’s growing weaker, too.

  Panic climbs, is a crescendo in my blood.

  There are too many of them. Too many at once for Pav and me to try to fight off and have Wilson still be standing by the end of it. If only there were more of us, more of—

  My breath catches.

  I have seconds to decide. Be reckless or not. Break the rules of only using silver starters or not.

  Then Pav’s falling, and I choose.

  I go to grab at the key holder on my hip. My mind is a storm as Piper’s words fill it.

  Perhaps you’re thinking about simply bending the rules rather than breaking them. Because there’s still honor in doing what must be done to survive, even if such ways are ugly.

  I draw. Not just a star to fit my palm, but with points that reach my fingertips, that travel to my wrist. So many points, so much magic. An endless red fire in my brain that screams for escape. My body burns, my casting arm and its palm a whole torch.

  I yank ring starters from the key holder at my hip. A mess of all four colors, too many to count right now—red for blood, white for bone, silver for breath, gold for skin. My breathing’s rough in my throat, my pulse a thrum along my skin.

  I drop the coins into my palm.

  Magic tumbles from me, a huge bloom of red that I barely just hold back. I stoke it and direct it, begin to shape it with the will of my mind.

  I choose a shape I know well.

  Azas come to stand around me. Clones of my own skin, bones, breath, and blood. I’m all over the courtyard.

  Not more of us, then, but more of me.

  There’s the roar of the crowd as they shout their approval. The noise is a wall, tumbling across the courtyard. They know I’ve broken the rules, but they can’t help but be entertained at the spectacle.

  The pain builds. Splinters of it drive deep into my bones.

  With trembling hands I tear a silver coin from my key holder. A dozen other Azas tear one off theirs.

  We cast as one.

  Air extinguishes itself from the lungs of the fighters zeroing in on Wilson and Pav. Their hands go to their necks, then slam on the ground. Bow-out.

  The crowd bellows. It’s my name—Ruuudy—and the noise wants to tear my head apart.

  One by one the other Azas begin to disappear as my spell fades. I count the fighters still in the courtyard with eyes that hurt as I move them. Copper fills my mouth again.

  Wilson and Pav and me. One team.

  Finch and Nola and Kylin reappear from wherever they went—team number two.

  The fight’s over.

  Six of us left.

  The last thing I see is Finch, his green eyes narrowed as he finally takes real notice of me.

  I black out.

  I die.

  I come back to life inside Jayde Temple.

  It’s a round room, with a sunken center. The walls are covered with white paper that has the sheen of pearls. Stained glass windows are painted with dragons and flowers. The floor is all polished tile—jade, emerald, and gold. Gold lanterns hang from the ceiling.

  I’m sitting at a table in the sunken area. There’s a bouquet of jasmine flowers on it, so that the whole place smells of them.

  Across from me sits Embry.

  Being two feet away instead of across a fighting ring makes him no easier to read. His odd teal eyes are like chips of polished glass, reflective instead of revealing. His expression is neutral as he watches me. All traces of whatever charm he once showed are gone while the power remains.

  I stare at my hands, at the room, back at Embry again. None of this can be real if I—

  “You just almost died. The Guild’s magic over the tournament was just enough to save you.”

  My mind goes blank. I say the only thing I can say even though it feels more than inadequate. “Thank you.”

  “I’m to offer you tea. Would you like some?”

  There are no pots or cups in sight, but I nod anyway, understanding. I might not be able to cast marks into existence, but Embry’s a member of the Guild. He could probably do it while half-asleep.

  He takes a jasmine flower from the bouquet and places it on the table. It becomes a pot full of hot tea. Two more flowers laid down and they become cups.

  I’d expected it, but I’m still stunned. Not at the proof of such magic, but because Embry’s hands hadn’t moved to cast.

  “You didn’t do this,” I say, growing confused.

  “I didn’t have to because someone else in the Guild did. We are always here somewhere, in some part of the tournament.” He smiles, but it’s still not warm. “Without form, like full magic itself.”

  I have to force myself from glancing around the room, searching for hints of vague, indefinable clouds over our heads.

  He pours tea for the both of us. Only after he sets the pot back down does he speak again.

  “You broke the rules with the casting of that clone spell. You cast outside your team’s assigned starter.”

  “I did break the rules … but only kind of.”

  “How only ‘kind of’?”

  “I only used other starters when I cast the clone spell. For spells on the other fighters, I only cast using silver ones.”

  He narrows his eyes just the slightest bit.

  “Even my clones only used silver ones,” I press.

  “True. Though all those clones would have never been cast in the first place if you hadn’t broken the rules.”

  I take a sip of tea, trying not to wither beneath his stare. “It’s okay, I already know you’re letting me stay in the tournament.”

  Now he laughs. “Oh?”

  I nod. “You haven’t met with any of the other eliminated fighters after a match.”

  “None of the other eliminated fighters have done what you did.” Some of his power peels back, revealing more of his charm. I let myself relax a tiny bit.

  “I know I broke the rules.” I scrub at dried blood on my arm. There are bruises all over and every single muscle hurts from fighting. I think of doing this again tomo
rrow, and my mind goes to the empty medicine jar in my starter bag. “But I had to. My team was in trouble.”

  “Having a reason doesn’t change how you still broke the rules. However, given the theme of tonight’s match, the Guild eventually voted to allow you and your team to move on to the next round. It was clear you only cast that spell in the name of teamwork, covering for your team’s weakness as you did. And as you said, you still only fought using silver starters, even each of your clones—the casting of which, I must admit, some of us enjoyed watching very much.”

  Relief has me slumping slightly. “Thank you.”

  “But honorable move or not, you’ll still have to pay for breaking the rules.” His teal eyes stay on mine. “A caveat for the Guild’s generosity.”

  I begin to unwind Piper’s silk ribbon from around my arm so I don’t have to look at him.

  “The tournament has always been about being a show of full magic, a display of skill. It’s why the Guild has never banned any specific spell—not when the real world already restricts too much of our magic. But this also means we’re responsible for keeping the tournament and its effects under control. Your spell called for too much magic, and our diversion spell was tested. We cannot afford to slip.”

  I nod, folding up the ribbon with fingers gone cold and stuffing it into my starter bag. The crowd loved the spell, and Piper wanted flair, but I nearly died in casting it. How might the earth now have to pay? My mind skitters away from the thought.

  “To keep you from trying anything like it again—and any other caster who might now be considering something similar—the Guild has decided that for the remainder of the tournament, we will no longer use our magic to help you survive the cost of casting.”

  “You can’t do that.” Panic unfurls, filling me. “Please.” I’ll feel everything, while everyone else will feel close to nothing. A punch to them would be an explosion for me. There’s no way I can win now.

  “It is a punishment that suits the crime,” Embry says. “Of course, you don’t have to accept our decision. In which case, you can enter again next year. It’s up to you.”