Without realising her intention, Destiny found herself running as Emily hesitated near the river, hoping to reach the girl before she stepped into danger.
"No," she called, gaining Ambrose's attention, but not Emily's. "Wait!"
Emily staggered forward, then collapsed bonelessly. Ambrose sprang to her side to catch her before her face smashed into the ground. Destiny closed the distance between them a heartbeat later, lungs heaving as she fought for breath, unused to such vigorous exertion.
"Pull her back," she panted, trying to drag Emily away from the nexus. In the next instant, she found herself flung back from the pair, Bartok's bare sword at her throat, Prichard standing protectively between her and Emily, threat in his stance. Pietor stumbled to a halt behind Destiny and her captor, hands on his thighs as he struggled for breath. A moment later, Norbert staggered close and collapsed next to Pietor, greedily drinking in air. But no one moved Emily. Glaring past Bartok's blade, Destiny sought Prichard's hard stare.
"Pull her back," she said again, ignoring the weapon etching her skin. Tempted to disarm Bartok, show the chary guard his place―she had made hardened mercenaries blanch with a look, and to constantly suffer this guard's smug satisfaction at his ignorant certainty that he held a cowed woman captive galled beyond belief―she instead held back her ire, though she longed to scorch the man's hand as he so deserved. Norbert's binding kept her from harming these people, not affecting their weapons, and a simple word could heat the pommel white hot. But now that she had the use of her magic back, she would give them no reason to try to shackle her again, resorting to earning their trust instead of their enmity. So she held Prichard's gaze and gave him a reason to listen to her.
"The remnants of Constance's spell has overwhelmed her Lesser Magic. Without the ability to shield herself, her senses have overloaded. If you don't pull her away from the nexus, it might kill her."
Ambrose scooped Emily up in a swift embrace and carried her toward Destiny, pushing past Prichard's unresisting form. The ash blond man gently laid Emily down beside the wizard, then stood and nudged Bartok's sword away.
"Revive her," he demanded, but even as Destiny sat up, hand at her neck, Emily groaned and opened her eyes.
Then quickly squeezed them shut again, an arm thrown across her vision as the bright sun bore into a head no doubt throbbing in agony. Magic danced sporadically in the air, either awakened by Emily's discovery, or as a lingering force swirling untouched for nearly two centuries. Destiny suspected the former.
"Get her some water," she said. "Something to eat."
Emily's other hand rose to cover her mouth and she groaned again. Destiny smiled grimly, remembering her own share of suffering the backlash of magic's unshielded use. Whereas she, at least, comprehended the origin of the drain on personal stamina, Emily didn't yet understand the cost of using magic. Kalima's sake, the young woman didn't even know when she used magic, let alone overused it. Norbert, aware of Emily's plight, silently pulled a piece of hardtack from a pouch at his waist and held it up, still lying on his back and trying to catch his breath. After a moment's hesitation, Bartok reached for it, then handed it to Destiny.
Destiny hadn't anticipated the appearance of Emily's Lesser Magic today―I should have, she berated herself―so hadn't explained how to mitigate the effects of magic. An oversight she would rectify now.
"Help me sit her up," she murmured to Ambrose, the young man's obvious concern for his charge speaking volumes. They ignored Emily's protests, though Ambrose's hard jaw pinched in worry as the pale girl whimpered. Destiny put one arm behind Emily's shoulder and held out the food in her other hand.
"Eat this," she ordered. "It will help settle your stomach and ease your head."
Emily cracked her eyes open, peering at Destiny with a glimmer of understanding as she gingerly took the hardtack and pressed it to her lips. Prichard knelt beside Ambrose, his intense stare demanding an explanation, though the firm line of his mouth suggested he'd allow Destiny time to make it. He held a flask of water out to Emily, which she gratefully accepted.
"Magic, at its core, works through the manipulation of the forces of the natural world," began Destiny, trying to keep the concept as simple as possible. "Whether by altering what already exists, or by using one's own will to shape what you want to exist. Either way requires a cost, most often a piece of your strength."
Norbert snorted, rolling to his side before pushing up to sit with knees hugged to his chest. Destiny scowled at him.
"Yes, that oversimplifies things, but we hardly have time for an in depth analysis of magic manipulation and its effects. Suffice it to say that you must balance the use of magic with an increased intake of energy. Food or drink to replace what you have expended in the arcane." She met Emily's gaze. "Reading Constance's journal would give you a headache, yes?"
Emily's jaw stopped briefly before she resumed chewing with a nod.
"Using your Lesser Magic without precautions drains your energy, resulting in an imbalance. Headaches, hunger, nausea, lack of stamina, exhaustion―all possible indications of magic seeking additional fuel."
"Why now?" Emily croaked. "I mean, I can understand how walking into that,"―she waved a hand toward where she had fallen―"would affect me, but I use my memory, which you call a Lesser Magic, all the time with no adverse effects. So what changed?"
"You've developed natural protections with your memory. As you grew, so did your magic and your body's ability to compensate for its use. But how often have you had the opportunity to see magic? It's all around you, yet you haven't had to recognise it as something other, something your power had to work at to understand. Unlocking the journal, seeing Marcus' spell, finding the nexus; all outside your daily experience with magic, whether your mind recognised it as such or not. It's a lesser developed skill, this secondary Lesser Magic, and so you have little to no immunity built up, requiring more counter-measures until you can either learn how to recoup the drain, your body finds its natural balance, or we teach you how to shield. For now, fuel for your body will help feed the depletion of your mental magic."
Emily considered that for a moment, taking the time to finish the hardtack and take another swallow of water, which she then passed back to Prichard.
"So those of us who unconsciously use our Lesser Magic on a more or less daily basis have protections already in place," she pieced out, but Destiny forestalled her with a firm head shake, following her train of thought.
"You have a system in place to keep you from harming yourselves, but it won't do anything against a malignant force. Your body's natural compensation techniques cannot protect you from someone like Nathan trying to harness your energies."
Emily nodded, then pushed to her feet, Ambrose's supportive arm giving aid. Destiny and Prichard rose with her. Pietor straightened from his crouch, and Norbert, after puffing out a hearty breath, stumbled upright in turn, the whole group forming a semi-circle facing the nexus.
"Then we need to figure out what Constance and Alfred really did here, and find a way to turn it to our advantage," the little librarian stated, gaze slightly unfocused as she stared at the remnants of a complex power that Destiny could barely grasp. "So, where do we start?"
Chapter 18
They might have had horses, food and canteens for water, saddle blankets and sleeping rolls, but Otto had failed to procure a tent, and its lack made the petulant Prince more irritable by the day. That first night, it hadn't bothered Whillim overmuch, too busy running and gloating over his escape. Even the second night, temperate enough with Otto keeping a fire stoked while Whillim wrapped himself in both sleeping roll and blanket―the latter's distinct aroma of horse less than pleasing despite the added warmth―had only elicited mild complaints. But this morning, first assailed by a light drizzle, then compounded by cool temperatures and a biting wind, had thrown Whillim into a full rage.
"A Prince shouldn't have to suffer such indignity," he had fumed.
To which Otto had
calmly replied, "Then perhaps the Prince should have taken more time to plan."
Never mind that Otto had wanted to quit their absurd exile as much as Whillim, but the man did enjoy needling his charge. Then the man had surprised Whillim by setting aside the hare he had just finished dressing for breakfast and staring intently at the golden-haired Prince.
"You're not a prince anymore, Will," he said. "Not while we run and hide. If you go flaunting your identity, Stefan will track us that much quicker. Incognito, remember? That means you have to behave as any common traveller, and damned few of them would have good horses and decent supplies, let alone golden trinkets to barter. What's a missing tent in light of that?"
Whillim had grumbled, but conceded the point. He didn't have to like it, though. They had travelled this back road south a few times before on hunting trips―most recently when he had met Desi last year―so he and Otto at least knew the best secluded locations for setting up camp. Though he had had more men to see to the work and transport equipment like tents those times, Whillim at least knew he and Otto wouldn't lack for water and a plethora of game to hunt and consume. A full belly would mitigate to some degree the lack of canvas walls to hold the elements at bay.
Now, with the afternoon waning toward another shelterless night, Whillim had to remind himself he didn't have it too bad. Least I'm not sitting on my arse stewing and hoping Stefan forgets about me. They had the freedom of the road, the ability to go where they wanted (well, maybe not the capital, or some place where someone might recognise him, but anywhere else), no schedules to keep or duties to uphold. And with luck, they'd reach the border to Innosvar before long where they could trade some of their pilfered goods for real shelter and some longed for comforts.
With that cheerful thought tempering his ill-humour, Whillim pushed his way through a clump of undergrowth that led to an ideal, wide meadow with a little rivulet that they had used as a stopping point before ... and stumbled into a camp he would have sworn hadn't existed a moment ago. He drew to an abrupt halt, staring at the rough group of men setting up tents and fire circles gathered before him. Maybe sixty men, at least half unshaven and brutish-looking, each sporting boiled leathers with a smattering of crude armour and weapons, stared back at him as Otto jerked to a standstill at his side. Their horses chuffed behind them as Otto's grip on their reins tightened.
Whillim's first thought of brigands melted beneath the orderliness of the camp. A large white tent dominated the makeshift compound, ringed by a handful of hard-bitten guards in black and burgundy uniforms. Cruder yellowed shelters slowly sprang up around the large one, the spruce trees at the edge of the meadow serving as both windbreak and border to the camp where a dozen sturdy mounts and four pack horses stood picketed. Two men had just stepped from that pristine tent. One, tall and dark haired, his imposing presence somehow demanding attention despite his obvious youth, pinned Whillim with a penetrating glare. The second man, short and rotund, his slovenly aspect and child-like face a disarming mask, weakened the Prince's knees as the weight of his regard fell upon him. For some reason―maybe a camp appearing out of nowhere with two domineering people obviously in charge?―they reminded him of Destiny, and he recalled her words when they had first met: "A wizard hunts me." One of these men, maybe? If so, he had stumbled into something potentially more dangerous than a band of brigands.
In the brief time afforded Whillim to take in all these details, the nearest soldiers surged forward to surround himself and Otto, cutting off any chance of escape even before he had gathered his wits enough to consider that option. In short order, Whillim found his hands trussed behind his back and himself shoved rudely by gruff soldiers toward the two wizards. Surely wizards, he thought, trying to devise how to capitalize on the situation. After all, one wizard had already worked with him. How difficult to enlist the aid of two more, if he could offer sufficient incentive? And a Prince could offer quite a bit―if he could reclaim the power so recently stripped from him.
He stilled his motion and glared at the two in charge, but before he got his mouth open to propose any deal, the dark-haired one uttered a word Whillim had heard Desi use before, and his feet started to move of their own accord, shuffling the Prince forward despite the furious objection elicited by his mind, silenced by magic. The spell dropped him roughly to his knees, jarring the breath from him. An instant later, Otto fell beside him with a grunt.
Even as Whillim drew in a fresh draught of air, the fat man leaned forward and grabbed his chin in stubby yet strong fingers, startling Whillim into indignant shock. He quickly swallowed his protest when he met the man's strangely pale eyes, alight with contempt, disgust, and an eerie compulsion.
"How did you find us?" he hissed. Whillim found he couldn't pull away from the man's grip. "How many in your party?"
"Just us," Whillim answered, proud his voice didn't shake despite the quivering of his innards. "Looking for a camp we've used before. We certainly didn't mean to intrude."
The taller man crouched on his heels, dispassion clear on his arrogant face as he studied his prey.
"Shall we kill them?" he asked, inflection as calm as though he asked after the weather. His eyes, though, caught Whillim's attention more than his chilling words. The dark blue of the deepest ocean, he had seen that gaze before, only in shades of frozen twilight.
"You're like her, aren't you?" he blurted. The words had come unbidden, his thoughts pouring through his lips before he could draw them back. The man's attention sharpened and his long fingers snapped forward to replace those of his companion in a painful squeeze, whipping Whillim's head around so that he stared into cruel anticipation, more frightening than any bladder-weakening glare that Destiny had ever imparted. He desperately wished he could take back his words.
"You've seen Girl?" the tall man demanded in a deceptively mild tone, but Whillim had heard Destiny use a similar tactic right before she did something dramatic. Best not to antagonize this person, but damned if he'd allow himself to openly cower before him.
The Prince licked his lips, putting his mind to how to turn this deadly foe into a valued ally. He had used Destiny's skills; why not try to find a similar compromise with this man? The secrecy of the camp suggested they had a clandestine goal in mind―Riverbend, perhaps? Surely he could use that to his advantage.
"Sire," Otto murmured in warning beside him, ostensibly for Whillim's ears alone, but with a hint too much volume so that the wizards couldn't help but hear the whisper. Whillim kept the guile from his eyes, knowing Otto's mind as much as the valet knew his in turn. Ever his willing accomplice, Otto had just named him as a person of power and means, someone not easily dismissed. They might have agreed on the importance of anonymity before, but having a royal title would afford him a certain level of protection now, and Whillim planned to use it. He gave a curt jerk to his head, as much as possible given the iron grasp of the dark-haired man's grip. But the imperious negation to silence his man, feigned or not, ought to give their captors pause, intended to create a link between their secrecy and his own. Then he met the cold dark eyes, drawing in an air of regality despite kneeling in the dirt.
"I presume you mean Wizard Destiny," he intoned. "She crafted a spell for me, but it failed, overcome by a strange twist of fate. To my knowledge, she still languishes in Dalasmar's prison, as does the man who had hoped to secure her release."
To his surprise, the grip at his chin tightened even more until Whillim feared the man would crush his jaw. His eyes bulged and an agonized gasp slipped through his teeth as nails dug into his cheeks, drawing blood.
"If Marcus lives, why can I not sense him?" the man snarled, his eyes fierce as they darkened even further.
Whillim had no answer to that, having only heard of Marcus' exploits third hand through Lord Dondar, who had so unsuccessfully pleaded Whillim's case, but he couldn't pull away from that horrible grip.
"The King imprisoned Wizard Marcus, not Prince Whillim," Otto said hastily, trying to diffuse the wiz
ard's ire. Instead, it brought Otto to the attention of the fat man with his dull mop of brown hair.
As the dark-haired man shook in rage with Whillim's jaw in his grasp, the rotund blob casually stepped behind Otto, thrust his sausage-like fingers into the valet's curls, and yanked his head back, exposing Otto's throat.
"Servants who speak out of turn must learn their place," the tubby wizard intoned, his alarmingly blank expression at odds with the morbid ecstasy radiating from his eerie eyes.
Whillim suddenly found his head pulled around by the dark-haired man's grip, then held securely by long, strong fingers so that he couldn't miss Otto's scared wide eyes, the white showing all around, his beaked nose pointing to the sky like an exclamation point. His throat bobbed as he tried to swallow, and with an unconcerned motion, the fat man drew a blade in a swift line across Otto's throat.
Whillim stared in shock as the skin parted and blood poured down Otto's neck. Otto's mouth gaped, a gurgle of disbelief slipping free. With his hands tied behind his back, the valet couldn't even brace his fall as the round wizard shoved him forward to fall to the trampled grass, those disturbing pale eyes watching as Otto's shudders slowed, every frenzied beat of his heart hastening his death.
Finally, Otto lay still, eyes wide and glassy, pain and horror forever etched into his still visage. Whillim couldn't tear his gaze from his long-time accomplice. What had just happened? How could they have killed Otto? Why?
A small voice in the back of his head belatedly noted, no wonder Desi feared and fled from this man.
The Forgotten Magic Page 18
