Slowly, he raised his fingers and ran his fingers gingerly across his newly mended brow.
“Not fatal,” Imrah muttered dismissively and held out a hand. “Now, get up and try again.”
Milo took her hand and got to his feet.
Imrah pressed the dropped vial into his hand and nodded at the soul well.
Milo hesitated, the vial feeling weighty in his hand. He was neither eager to experience the backlash from the forces containing the shades nor certain he could do anything differently if he tried again.
“Why couldn’t we start with the healing stuff?” he asked, stalling for time to catch his breath. “Seems like that would be far more helpful than making a pile of murder dust.”
Imrah looked up at him with narrowed eyes.
“Who is the teacher?” she asked, a note of warning in her voice.
Milo took a step toward the soul well, but it was shortened as he turned around.
“I’m just saying, healing others like that seems a far more important thing to learn. We humans already have plenty of ways to kill each other.”
Imrah stared at him, her jaw working from side to side before she heaved a sigh.
“First of all,” she began, her tone sharp and angry, “I’m not teaching you these things to provide you with weapons, but because they are the building blocks for mastering the art. That you choose to view them as tools for murder is your business.”
Milo wasn’t sure what other use throwing witchfire could have, but he could tell from Imrah’s attitude it was pointless to argue. She would have her say, and it would behoove him not to argue.
“Second,” she continued, “regenerative formulae are much more complex and require a subtler application of will. If you get it wrong, either in mixture or in application, the results are disastrous. You are using unliving energies to force living tissue to accelerate or even override their natural regenerative processes. If you foul up repairing a small cut, you could end up creating a toxic tumor the size of your fist.”
Well, that sounds like a good reason, Milo thought as he imagined his wounded head bowing under a pustulating growth on his forehead.
“Third and finally, healing will be very difficult for you,” she stated, pausing just long enough to dare him to speak before continuing, “The ingredients you were exposed to and had a tangible response to had almost nothing to do with curatives and restoratives. They might as well have been inert stones in your fleshy mitts, while all the things that are tied to dominion and fear practically jumped for joy.”
Imrah’s dark stare bored into Milo’s pale eyes.
“You aren’t a healer, Milo, not naturally. You might learn in time, but right now, we need to capitalize on your strengths to build your experience and confidence.”
“Fear and domination,” he snarled. “That’s all I’m good for.”
Imrah stared back, neither offering comfort nor backing down from her claim, which enraged Milo further. His fingers curled, and he felt a growing urge to leap upon her, to force her to...to...to do what? Tell him what he was doing right then wasn’t proving what she’d already observed?
Milo forced out a slow breath and nodded.
He didn’t have to like it, but she seemed sincere, and her points were all valid. He was going to have to trust her, just as she had to trust him to protect Ifreedahm. With a pang, he realized he’d forgotten all about the purpose of coming back to the surface in the face of Lokkemand’s revealing breakdown.
With that understanding bracing him, Milo turned back to the soul well and fixed his eyes on the undulating shades.
“All right then,” he said after a steadying breath. “Let’s get to work.”
He reached out, determined to not fail this time.
As it turned out, he did fail again, and again, and twice more after that.
Each time, the shades piled on and overwhelmed him. Imrah’s wards kicked in, and he was thrown down with some sundering injury. Yet each time, after Imrah’s ministrations, he climbed back to his feet, took the dropped vial, and tried again.
On the fifth attempt, remembering the tempo and intensity of the previous assaults, Milo decided to try something different. Instead of bracing under the sensations and emotions, which piled on until he collapsed, he decided to ride them, plunging into each as it came. He writhed in pain, wept in despair, and roared in rage. As he did this, he began to feel he could twist the emotions, leaning into the pain until it hardened into despair, which he stoked until it flared into outrage. He lost his concentration as he allowed anger to spin him in a vortex of senseless anger, but even as he felt himself drowning in the encroaching shades, he smiled.
He had them now; next time, he was going to take one of them, and there was nothing they could do about it.
On the sixth try, practically giddy, he was back on his feet, hand outstretched to the soul well before his wounds were fully healed. He used the lingering pain and discomfort of the mending injury, a nasty gash across his chest, to propel him into the contest of wills. The shades came on. This time he didn’t resist them; he didn’t even ride the waves they brought. This time he danced with them, giving context and definition to every blind sensation they drove at him from his scarred history. The lonely nights he’d felt his heart shrivel in the orphanage, the ache in his belly on his third night without food, the fury at seeing his dreams dashed by callous and petty people. The shades were only echoes of lives, but those echoes were notes that would not be drowned out. Instead, he composed them to tell his story, manipulating them so their sensations fell in line. Their cries became the chorus that would sing his tune.
So shaped, the shades seemed to dance to his tune, moving about him in accordance with his will. From there, it was a small thing to lead one into a crescendo, free and clear of the others. Like some hungry beast from a fable, he beckoned a groomed shade, one of unquenchable longing, to emerge from the flock to sing its song, then just like the fable, he snatched it.
Milo’s mind cleared as he emerged from the energies of the soul well. Before his eyes, a coil of night slid along his outstretched hand to slither across his shoulders and down the opposite arm. The single shade, driven by his unspoken command, wrapped around the vial, and for a moment, Milo seemed to be holding a tube of raw darkness. Then, like water soaking into the earth, the darkness shrank, and he was holding a vial full of black sand.
Milo lifted the tube in front of his face and smiled as he saw grains flutter within. For an instant, he saw a face press against the glass composed of lightless grit.
“I think that does it,” Milo said, holding the vial out to Imrah. “What do you say, maestro?”
Imrah, eyes narrowed, took the vial.
“Well, Magus,” she murmured, her voice refusing to express the surprise on her face, “I do believe you have done it.”
Milo laughed, then twisted his face into an exaggerated scowl.
“You act like you didn’t think I could!” Milo cried in mock indignation.
Imrah chuckled, the sound far more appealing in her human guise.
“After the third time you failed, I was honestly beginning to wonder.”
20
A Suspicion
When they finally emerged from the basement, Milo had bound two more shades into vials and worked up an incredible appetite. With little convincing, he’d cajoled Imrah into having them go upstairs and either find something to eat or, he’d chuckled, bully Ambrose until he made something. Though he’d never admit it out loud, Milo was growing quite fond of Ambrose’s simple yet adaptable culinary style.
The sun had risen while they’d been below, and slanted beams of light were shining through the shuttered windows.
But that wasn’t the first light he noticed in the room.
Countess Rihyani sat cross-legged in the den, the unmasked light of her alabaster skin filling the room with soft brilliance. Her heavy robes lay on the ground next to her. She was wearing a pair of silken gray trousers and a blouse of i
vory white, though it was hard to tell if it was just the light radiating from her skin. Her long silver hair was wavy and swept to one side to perfectly compliment her graceful neck.
“Magus,” the contessa said, an ethereal smile flickering across her dark lips. “I’m glad to see you.”
Milo gaped at her, then realized with a single sniff that something else unexpected greeted him.
On the air was the sharp intrusion of tobacco smoke, and sure enough, a dainty cigarillo, its tip cherry-red and trailing smoke, was in her long fingers. With elegant confidence, she raised it to her lips to take a long drag. Her eyes still locked on his, she drove the smoke out through her nostrils so that, for just an instant, her dark-golden-pupiled eyes seemed like those of a dragon watching him through blue-gray vapors.
Milo cleared his throat, wondering why he felt so warm and out of breath.
“Contessa,” he said so quickly it forced him to pause and consider the next thing he was going to say. “I’m, uh, glad to see you too.”
Imrah clucked her tongue and gave a sniff.
“Of all the human affectations you could become attached to,” Imrah chided the fey over Milo’s shoulder. “Really, what do you see in those vile things?”
The tension suddenly crackling through the room was immense.
Rihyani acted as though the question was sincere, turning concerned eyes toward the fuming ghul.
“I’m not sure I can explain it besides saying I enjoy them,” Rihyani replied with gentle thoughtfulness. “If it bothers you, I’d be happy to put it out.”
“Don’t bother,” Imrah said quickly. “I won't be around for a while. I’m sure by the time I get back, the smell will be out of the building, as long as my student opens the shutters.”
“Where are you going?” Milo asked, tearing his eyes away from Rihyani. “I thought we were going to have breakfast?”
Imrah, who was turning to leave, paused, her shoulders hunching as she turned around. The muscles of her masked face bunched and twitched, and the rest of her seemed to be coiling for a spring.
“I’ve lost my appetite for human fodder,” she said tightly. “And last I knew, masters did not have to explain their comings and goings to apprentices.”
“No, they don’t,” Milo said slowly, confusion stamped on his face. “But it helps their students if they do.”
“It seems to me you have all the help you need.”
With a final venomous glare at Rihyani and her cigarillo, Imrah turned sharply on her heel and stormed out the front door. A few seconds later, Ambrose came shuffling in, looking bemused and glancing over his shoulder.
“Where’s she going?” he asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
Milo threw his hands up with a shrug and turned to Rihyani with a pleading glance.
“I think Lady Marid doesn’t like me smoking in the house,” the contessa observed mildly, vanishing the tobacco with a flutter of her fingers. “It seems to offend her sensibilities as being an odiously human thing to do.”
“I s’pose so,” Ambrose said, rocking on his heels a little as he looked around. “Would it offend anyone’s sensibilities if I undertook the human ritual of breakfast?”
Rihyani gave Milo a conspiratorial wink before turning a grave face toward the bodyguard.
“Only if you don’t make enough to share.”
Ambrose threw a hand to his chest in horrified indignity.
“Mademoiselle!” he said with a rolling French accent. “I will only excuse such an insult on the grounds that you have not sampled my fine cooking in our brief acquaintance. Simon Dieudonné Ambrose would never let a guest go hungry!”
“What about his ward?” Milo asked pointedly, crossing his arms as his stomach gave an audible rumble.
“You were busy,” Ambrose replied, shooing the remark toward the basement steps with one paw. “Doing, uh, witchy things.”
“That was not half bad,” Rihyani remarked, pushing her bowl away. “And considering I grew up dining in Arcadian gardens, that is saying something.”
Ambrose was just finishing his bacon hash, which had been seasoned with the reserves of herbs and salts he always seemed to have. He took the compliment with a bowed head before shoveling in his last bite.
“Wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten,” Milo said, unable to hold back a smile as the big man gave him a wounded look. “But I really don’t think the contessa showed up just for breakfast.”
Rihyani shook her head.
“No, I’m afraid not,” she said, her face becoming more serious. “I’ve come to see if you have any news of your progress in redirecting the human advance? I hoped I could bring word back to the Bashlek that things are in motion when I return to Ifreedahm tonight.”
Milo didn’t have anything remotely good to report on that subject but bringing himself to say it proved a challenge.
“Well, we’ve only been here a day,” Milo said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Anything to do with so many men and materiel is going to take time to sort out.”
Rihyani gave him a pointedly patient look.
“Then the orders have been issued, and it is only a matter of time?”
“Well,” Milo said, his gaze dropping as he searched for the words, “nothing has happened officially yet. We’ve only been here one day.”
“So you said already,” Rihyani replied, cocking an eyebrow. “Yet in that one day, you met with your commanding officer, did you not?”
“Yes,” Milo said, looking at the fey askance. “How did you know that?”
“You might have noticed at Zuhak that fey are quite adept at not being seen,” she replied archly. “You can fill in the rest, but do you mean to tell me that you informed your commanding officer, and he’s chosen to do nothing?”
“No, not exactly.” Milo squirmed, his mind scrambling. “It was more that it didn’t come up.”
Rihyani’s eyes widened enough that it might have been a humorous sight had the room not just become very uncomfortable. When the fey blinked, it might have been to push her eyes back into their sockets, but Milo thought it rude to ask if such was the case.
“You didn’t...” she began and trailed off for a moment before gathering her thoughts once more. “Magus, I’m not sure you understand what is at stake here.”
“I think I’ll go clean up the kitchen,” Ambrose mumbled as he collected the bowls and spoons, then vanished.
“My commanding officer is out of sorts at the moment,” Milo said, parsing each word as he said it. “And though there is no love lost between the two of us, it is almost entirely on my behalf that he is in this situation. I don’t think you understand what a precarious state he is in.”
The contessa listened to every word, even nodding slightly at a few, but when she spoke, her tone was as hard as steel.
“Maybe not, but I don’t think you understand what is going on,” she said. “Humanity has been waging war on itself for the last few decades, and that has placed the entire world in a state of strain. The Folk, while living outside the direct conflict, still experience the tremors of all those marching feet and tanks. In the last five years, many have grown restless as they watch humans claim more resources and push unknowingly against the boundaries of their territory. Factions are forming, Magus, as the forgotten people begin to discuss how to end this human-made apocalypse.”
Milo felt a prickle along his spine.
“You mean, end the War?” Milo asked. “How?”
“That’s precisely the question,” the contessa said. “There are theories galore at this point, but in principle, they align along two camps. One is that the Folk, united under a banner of survival at all costs, wage war on mankind. They know our kind, the magical beings of the world, could never fight humanity directly, but as I’m sure you’ve realized, there is much we could do to wreak a terrible toll.”
Milo imagined it for a second—the varieties of magic he’d witnessed put to subversive use by an embittered enemy. Fe
y assassins who struck and then vanished without a trace. Ghul necromists who animated graveyards and mortuaries of the dead to attack and terrify cities and towns. Ignorant human armies would blunder and smash, but just one magical being could cripple an entire city.
“Victory would certainly not be assured,” Rihyani continued softly and sadly. “But their hope would be to cow the proud nations enough with fear and blood that peace would be reached. It is an ugly and barbarous but direct solution.”
Milo’s mouth suddenly felt very dry.
“What’s the other camp?” Milo asked as he picked up a canteen next to him.
Rihyani looked at him intently for a moment, then with a flutter of her fingers, produced a lit cigarillo.
“The other camp,” she began. “The camp that I, Bashlek Marid, and a few others belong to, wants to see us ally with humans to see this war end as quickly as possible. That’s why we reached out to the Magpie, your Colonel Jorge.”
Milo blinked, pieces he hadn’t given more than a passing thought to falling into place.
“Why did you choose him?” Milo asked. “I mean, I don’t know the colonel well, though he seems decent for an officer, but choosing him means choosing Germany. Why not the British or the French, or hell, even the Americans?”
The contessa smiled as she breathed out a long ribbon of smoke.
“It doesn't matter now,” she said, a sheepish smile drawing up the corners of her mouth. “It was more that he chose us. His investigations brought him close, and we decided he had an open enough mind to be receptive to interacting with us. We made contact, real contact, and from there, our course was set.”
“Set with me?” Milo asked, a strange combination of pride and helplessness making him feel light-headed.
“Well, no,” Rihyani confessed, taking another drag and letting it out languidly. “You were a happy accident.”
Milo frowned and waited for her to explain.
“Our initial thought was to ally with one of the powers that be and provide support and services to tip the war in their favor. We hoped that once this was achieved, their enemies would sue for peace, and the state of the world would settle for some much-needed rest. The Magpie had more, uh, ambitious plans.”
Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) Page 24
