Caster

by Elsie Chapman

  No. No. I’m sorry, Kylin.

  “I knew who you were as soon as I saw you.”

  I turn to face Finch, his broken arm still at an angle. “How?”

  “I never forget a fighter I beat. Each of you, just helping me get where I want to go. And you look like her, especially when you’re casting.”

  The bones beneath.

  I shudder. “Why the trick?”

  “The Guild’s watching—they like a show, too.” Now he smiles, and it chills me the way all the ancient cold baths in the world never could. “And Kylin was weak. She didn’t want to fight you—she thought you were friends. She showed me that herself last round, and that was her mistake. Now it’s just me and you, tomorrow night. Let the best caster win.”

  I run while the crowd’s still loud.

  The Guild’s magic unweaves even as I crash my way toward the entrance. The cold baths and arched ceiling and fat stone pillars disappear as I shove my way through casters. Contact hurts, each part of me bruised and aching, but I keep going. Eighteen hundred years pass as the library’s main room comes back with its empty bookshelves and cracked-open frescoed walls. People turn and stare and I can’t meet anyone’s eye. Blood trickles from my nose, and a low roar fills my ears.

  Maybe we can be friends after the tournament. I can come visit you, wherever you are in the city.

  I push open the doors and rush outside into the night. Sunflower-print sneakers chase me down the street, the swish of a braid. I’m crying, my chest burning, the fire there nothing but a weak echo of the one I lit up inside Kylin.

  Why didn’t I agree to that pact? Why couldn’t I have just done that for her? Kylin might be alive then, and Finch eliminated, and none of this would be happening.

  I’m sorry, Kylin, I never meant to leave you behind!

  There’s no full silver moon to be seen out here. No stars because they never stop hiding. I run beneath a smog-covered sky as the last remnants of an older time fall away, left in my wake like lint picked from my clothing. Goodbye, all you dueling greats, all of you who made magic a game, you who created the Tournament of Casters in the first place. Dropped newsprint lies silently across pavement and murky light billows from the streetlamps.

  If a Scout found me now, one look and they would know me for the caster that I am. I feel stained all over with full magic, with the terrible things it can do.

  I keep running, then slow to an awkward limp, out of breath, my tears and drying blood thin smears on my cheeks. Casting has cost me tonight, and I feel all its claws still inside me, still scratching and digging. I lift my hand toward my starter bag, but then drop it. Hurt, Aza. You deserve to.

  “Rudy.”

  I swivel at the voice.

  It’s Oliver, coming up behind me. He’s breathing fast, too, running to catch up. In my need to get away from the library, I didn’t think to check if anyone would follow me. I guess killing Kylin has distracted me from the basics. The faces of Jihen and Cormac and my parents swarm me and my eyes get teary again.

  I turn around and start walking fast. A confused kind of anger fills me. I want to hate him but I can’t forget those burned-out memories of his, the absence of his magic that’s so gaping its edges have touched me, too.

  “Go away, Oliver,” I call back. “Go congratulate your brother.”

  “Wait—”

  “I can’t.”

  He runs faster and then he’s at my shoulder. “One minute, okay? Here, I collected your winnings from the bets counter.”

  I stop and take the marks. There are a lot, even more than what I got last time. It feels like blood money with Kylin dying tonight, and a queasiness in my stomach rolls and rolls.

  “You should put those away before you lose them,” Oliver says, watching my expression. I can tell he can tell that I’ve been crying.

  I stuff the marks into my pocket and start walking again. I drag on my smog mask, wanting to hide as much as I can. He follows me. “I just tried to kill your brother. Why do you want to talk to me?”

  He doesn’t say anything right away. Then a soft: “I’m still working on that.”

  “You can go do that on your own, you know.”

  “What he did in there, tricking you like that—I’m sorry.”

  My heart pinches and pulls. “He killed her. He didn’t have to.” I’m no longer sure if I’m talking about Kylin or Shire.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again.

  The simple apology hurts more than if he’d defended Finch, and I can’t tell if he means Kylin or Shire, either.

  I push back because fighting with him is easier than hurting. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry about that reveal spell I did on you.”

  “I know.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me how he cheated? There’s nothing I can do about it now anyway. But I need to know.”

  He ignores me. “Why didn’t your reveal spell show you?”

  “Because. It ended too early.” Because I was too shocked about your magic to keep it going any longer. It would have told me. Why didn’t I hold on?

  “So how do you know he cheated?” Oliver’s tone is careful, like he doesn’t want to set me off any more than he already has.

  “I didn’t. Not at first. But then pieces started coming together. And then tonight, finding out about your magic—” I glare pointedly at him. Or lack of magic. Even the lack of leftover magic, when everyone has that.

  “And I’m his brother, so my lack of magic has something to do with it.”

  A catch in his voice finally lets me stop walking and face him.

  He stops, too.

  That earlier hollowness is still in his eyes. He looks haunted and uncomfortable and like he’s wishing he could be anywhere else. Chasing me down this way—I had thought maybe he was doing it because he wanted to, not because he felt he had to. It makes me feel stupid, not seeing this until now.

  “What else did your magic see in my mind?” His eyes have gone dark, more brown than hazel.

  “Your parents,” I say. “The car accident. How you blame yourself. You cast magic and something happened. Finch has never forgiven you.”

  A muscle works in his throat. “I was twelve. I’d been arguing with my parents, and then they had to leave for a party. But I … wasn’t done arguing. So I cast myself into their heads as they were driving. I distracted them. They died listening to me yell at them.”

  A new pinch forms in my heart. “I’m sorry. I—the last time I talked to Shire, we argued, too.”

  He nods. His eyes say he’s sorry in return. “And it changed Finch. I went from being a big brother to the person who took away his family because I couldn’t control my magic. So we used to be friends and now we’re not. It made him hate full magic just like it made him hate me. In his own twisted way, winning this tournament, getting into the Guild, I think it’s him proving he’s stronger than magic, if that makes sense. Becoming a great is his ultimate way of beating magic at its own game.”

  Against my will, a small twinge of understanding does come. The things you hate the most are the things that are loudest in your head, so that you can’t hear anything else. Because they are also the things you fear the most. I’m still scared of having no control, and so I hate the idea of being that way.

  But as much as I can get this aspect of why Finch is so messed up, I’ll also never forget what he’s done. Shire never coming home again, his smile tonight as he revealed himself as Kylin—I’ll never forgive him.

  Oliver exhales. “Okay, so there’s a reason why I’m out here. Why I came looking for you. I want to make a deal with you.”

  My chest goes hollow. So can we make a pact? “What kind of deal?”

  “If I tell you how Finch cheated, will you promise not to fight him tomorrow night?”

  I blink. “You mean just … walk away from the tournament?”

  He nods.

  All the reasons why that’s impossible—from the marks to my promise to Rudy—push close,
wrapping around me so I can barely breathe through them. I was always going to fight if I could, whether I found out the truth about last year or not.

  “I can’t walk away now,” I say to Oliver. “I need to win this as much as your brother wants in on the Guild.”

  His expression turns grim. “And if he kills you? Like he killed your sister and Kylin?”

  I try not to shiver. “I have to think I won’t let him. It’s a contest and I’ve made it this far. And his arm is broken, which works in my favor.” I can’t decide if I’m more insulted that Oliver thinks I’m going to lose or happy that he’s trying to save me.

  “You and I both know he’ll have it healed by morning,” Oliver says, “if he hasn’t already.”

  Then I’m staring at him, realizing something, and almost hate myself for having to say it. “But now you have to tell me. Because if you don’t, and it could have helped me beat him, and he kills me anyway …”

  He’s beyond grim now. “Then how could I live with myself?”

  “Well, could you?”

  Oliver swears. His expression clouds over. “You have to promise you won’t kill him, then. Beat him, but that’ll have to be enough.”

  Enough as payback for Shire, he means. Can any payback ever be enough? She’s gone and I’ll never get her back. I could have all the full magic in the world and I could cast until I died, but it’d still never be enough. While Finch lives on, killing other casters, trying to become a great.

  “I could just cast another reveal spell on you, you know,” I say.

  Oliver shakes his head. “No way. You caught me by surprise last time. And even if you could cast without me catching you, you’re way too wiped out from tonight’s fight to handle casting another seventeen-pointer now. So either promise or you’ll never know.”

  He’s got me and he knows it. I haven’t even told him about how the Guild’s punishing me for the rest of the tournament and he’s got me. Frustration is a knot in my stomach, pulling tighter and tighter.

  If I agree … I’ll still beat Finch. I’ll still win. I’ll still be taking away what he wants the most, and that’ll have to be enough. I think Shire would want it to be. Would want her reckless sister being sensible in this.

  “Okay, I promise,” I finally say.

  Oliver holds up his casting arm.

  “I owed him,” he says quietly. “That’s what he said after I killed our parents with my magic. For years, he shut me out, never letting me be his brother again. But last year, for the tournament, he asked if the Salt Lick would sponsor him—if I would sponsor him. So I said yes. I thought it would bring us closer together, help fix us. But after he began to doubt he could beat your sister, he came to me, again. And he said he’d forgive me, if I gave him one thing.”

  “Your magic.” In the thickening night smog, his face is full of shadows. I can barely see the shapes of shops and outlines of roofs behind its haze. Tendrils of it curl through the streetlamps’ patches of light, and the city seems covered with a layer of gauze. I taste it on my tongue—exhaust, metal, dirt.

  “He went to meet a gatherer,” Oliver says. “And the gatherer had a spell Finch wanted. Time loop. But for a price.”

  My stomach curls just like the smog does. “The price of magic for a time loop? That’s hardly equal. It makes no sense.”

  “It does when it’s not his magic he’s offering up.” He gives me an empty smile.

  “And so you did it,” I say. “Because you owed him.” And Finch is your brother. And maybe … I would have done the same for my sister, too. There are probably a million different ways family can complicate things.

  Oliver nods. His expression is bleak, as pale as it was in his shop when he realized who I was. “All the winnings I get as his backer, I put right back into the Salt Lick. And since my parents, I’ve barely used magic anyway. If this got me my brother back, it would be more than worth the price. I didn’t find out until it was too late how Finch really meant to use it. I never thought he’d kill your sister. Just that he’d use it to win.”

  I make myself ask. “What did he do?”

  “He used the time loop on himself to see how the final round between him and Shire would go. He saw exactly how she would beat him.”

  The world sways and I think I’m going to throw up. “So Finch would have known all of Shire’s spells ahead of time. He could have had all his counterspells ready. He could have beat her easily and let her walk away. But he still decided to kill her.”

  Oliver nods, looking about as sick as I feel. “I’m sorry, Rudy. If I’d known, I would have never given him my magic.”

  Rage floods me. It’s too late for all of that now. Sorry doesn’t matter. All that matters is tomorrow’s fight. “Where can I find a gatherer, Oliver?”

  “Only Finch knows. I didn’t go with him.”

  Something crosses his face and I know he’s holding back.

  “The deal is you tell me how he cheated,” I say. “This is still part of it. Tell me the rest.”

  “You promised,” he says.

  “I never said what I would or wouldn’t do with whatever you told me. I said I wouldn’t kill Finch.”

  “Rudy, I—”

  “My name is Aza, Oliver. Now tell me.”

  I watch him explore the name in his mind, see him wonder why I told him.

  “I don’t know where you can find a gatherer, and that’s the truth,” he says finally. “But I can tell you how you can find out. I can tell you who this one worked for.”

  I wait. The city’s smog drifts between us, and for a second, he disappears on me before appearing again.

  “Saint Willow,” he says. “Tea Sector’s gang leader.”

  I stumble back a step, like Oliver’s just cast a huge spell on me.

  Saint Willow, who obsesses over full magic because he can’t cast it. Who has to settle for a semblance of it because he’ll never truly know the real thing, has to accept that he’ll only ever control ugly man-made spells and nothing more.

  “Where’s the fight tomorrow?” I ask Oliver. I left the library too soon, trying to escape from what I’d done.

  “979 Discord Road.”

  I commit the address to memory, turn, and begin to run. I’m still hurting all over from fighting, but the ache is buried beneath the ache in my chest about Kylin. There’s a buzz in my head, a low thrum in my veins.

  “Where are you going? Ru—Aza, wait.”

  “I have to go!” I call back over my shoulder. I need to think about what comes next, and it can’t be with Oliver. He clouds up my feelings and it’s all too easy to forget why I’m here. What I want. What needs to be done. “Tomorrow, the fight—I’ll see you then!”

  “You promised, remember?” His voice comes through smog, turns smoky-sounding. I already can’t see him. “You can’t kill him!”

  I call back again. “I know!”

  I mean that as assurance, even as a tiny dark pit deep inside my chest says otherwise. To know that Finch could have let Shire go and didn’t. That he used Kylin and me to put on a show for the Guild. Fury stokes that pit into a blaze of hate. And it’s hate that I don’t want to control. To just be reckless and let it explode. Because then Finch would get what he deserves, while I’d still win everything.

  But for a promise. For a pact. I made it with Oliver, but it’s Kylin I keep hearing in my head, and how I said no, how she helped me anyway, and now she’s gone.

  Well, there are spells for things worse than death.

  Soon, the smog is so thick that I can no longer see far in front of me, and I have to slow to a careful walk. My hand disappears into the gray, so dense that I can’t see the bruises marking my skin in this huge bloom of pollution. I glance around, and the light from streetlamps has dimmed down to almost nothing. Sector streets are nearly pitch-black. Fear is like tendrils of the fog, weaving their way into my brain.

  It hits me that this is because of the tournament. This blanket of dirt and exhaust is because
of our fight tonight in the ancient baths. We did this.

  By the time I limp to the edge of Tea—my joints on fire—the smog has only gotten thicker, just inches of visibility all around. Until it clears, there’s no way Jihen and Cormac will be able to tail me.

  My mind is still circling over everything that’s happened in the last few hours—the last few days—as I turn into the alley that lines the back of the teahouse. I feel for branches of the snowball bushes that make up our fence and pull them to the side, preparing to squeeze through. Petals shake free, disappear into the smog as they fall.

  The blade emerges from the dark and presses against my throat.

  Shock is like a blow to the head, and I’m frozen with it. My mouth goes dry, and whatever I was thinking about instantly vanishes.

  “You’re one of the Wus, aren’t you.”

  The voice is thick and rough and comes from right beside me. I don’t recognize it. My heart is lodged inside my throat, a drum stuck pounding.

  He nudges the blade against my neck. In the smog, he’s nothing but a voice and disembodied weapon. “Yes or no,” he grunts.

  “Who’s asking?” I let my hand drift toward my starter bag. In the smog, he won’t even see. I can cast and—

  “Hands up, don’t even think about casting.” I wince as he slowly tilts the blade back and forth against my skin. “I’ve got metal right here in my hand as a starter if I want, so who do you think is going to cast faster?”

  I don’t know if he means leftover magic, but it doesn’t matter because he’s likely right. He probably would be faster. And the knife isn’t making me want to test him.

  I raise both arms.

  “I’ve been assigned the whole night to get answers, girly,” the guy says. “Maybe we can go inside the teahouse and wait there.”

  The memory of Jihen inside while I dreaded the possibility of my parents walking in—I shudder and say, “Yes, I’m a Wu.”

  “Of Wu Teas?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Earl Kingston sent me. You know Earl Kingston?”

  My mind spins. Cormac. He’s talked.