by Jasmine Walt
“Ganir told me to.”
“So you knew about the three thousand men instead of three hundred?”
“What?” Siur appeared genuinely shocked. “No, I didn’t. There were three thousand peasants?”
“Yes,” Barson said, unsure if he believed the man.
“I didn’t know,” Siur said. “Captain, I didn’t know, I swear it! I would’ve warned you if I knew.”
Barson looked at him. Perhaps he would have; there was a big difference between selling information and sending all your comrades to their deaths.
Siur held his gaze, his face pale and sweating. “Are you going to kill me now? I told you everything I know.”
Barson didn’t respond. Walking over the Sphere, he brought it back and pressed it against Siur’s wound again, concluding the recording. He had to watch it now, to make sure Siur’s thoughts matched his words. Picking up the droplet that had formed inside the Sphere’s indentation, he gingerly put it under his tongue and let it take over his mind.
When Barson regained his sense of self, he gave Siur a somber look. “You told the truth. Since I’m a man of my word, your good name is safe.”
“Thank you.” Visibly shaking, Siur squeezed his eyes shut.
A swish of Barson’s sword, and the traitor was no more.
Wiping the blood off his sword, Barson walked toward Augusta’s quarters. He’d found it suspicious that Ganir wanted to talk to her. He doubted the old sorcerer could’ve learned about Augusta’s involvement in the battle so quickly, which left only two possibilities.
Ganir was either using her to spy on Barson as well—or he was suspicious of her, just as he had been of the two sorcerers who’d gone ‘exploring the storms.’
Barson considered the first possibility—a thought that had occurred to him in the past. But somehow he couldn’t see Augusta being a spy. She was fairly open in her dislike for Ganir, and she had far too much pride to let herself be used in such manner. If it came down to it, she’d be the one plotting something, instead of being someone’s pawn.
That left the other option—that of Ganir learning that Augusta was Barson’s lover and taking action against her. Even this seemed unlikely. She was a member of the Council and quite powerful in her own right. Making her disappear would be a significant challenge. In fact, if Ganir did try to take on Augusta, there was a chance that she would make the problem of Ganir disappear instead.
So what had Ganir wanted with Augusta? To his frustration, Barson was no closer to figuring that out.
Entering Augusta’s room, he was relieved to find her there, changing her clothes. And to his surprise, he realized that a small part of him had been worried for her safety. Rationally, he knew she was more than capable of taking care of herself, but the primitive side of him couldn’t help thinking of her as a delicate woman who needed his protection.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked, noticing that she was putting on one of her special-occasion dresses. Made of a deep red silk, it made her golden complexion glow.
“I just need to run an errand,” she said—somewhat evasively, he thought.
Barson suppressed a flare of anger. He wasn’t stupid; the last time he’d seen her wear a dress like this was at one of the spring celebrations. Was she dressing up for something—or someone? And did this have anything to do with her earlier conversation?
There was only one way to find out.
Coming up to her, Barson wrapped his arms around her narrow waist and bent his head to nuzzle her soft cheek. “What did Ganir want?” he murmured, kissing the outer shell of her ear.
“I don’t have time to discuss it now,” she said, slipping out of his embrace in an uncharacteristic gesture of rejection. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
And in a whirl of silk skirts and jasmine perfume, she walked out of the room, leaving Barson angry and confused.
21
Augusta
Exiting the Tower, Augusta got on her chaise and headed toward Blaise’s house, mentally steeling herself for the upcoming encounter. She could feel her heart beating faster and her palms sweating at the thought of seeing Blaise again—the man who had rejected her, the man whom she still couldn’t forget. Even now that she had found some measure of happiness with Barson, memories of her time with Blaise were like a poorly healed wound—hurting at the least provocation.
Closing her eyes, she let the wind blow through her long dark hair. She loved the sensation of flying, of being high up in the air, above the mundane concerns and small lives of people on the ground. Of all the magic objects, the chaise was her favorite because no commoner could ever operate it. Flying required knowing some basic verbal magic, and non-sorcerers would not be able to do more than slowly float away to their deaths.
Passing by the Town Square, she made an impulsive decision to land in front of one of the merchant shops. Out here among the noise and bustle of the marketplace, on this beautiful day in late spring, it was hard to remain negative. Perhaps there was a good explanation for Blaise’s obsession with Life Capture droplets, she thought hopefully. Perhaps he was running an experiment of some kind. After all, she knew he had always been interested in matters of the human mind.
Walking over to one of the open-air stalls, she bought some plump-looking dates. They were Blaise’s favorite snack, when he deigned to stimulate his taste buds with some sweets. They would make a good peace offering, assuming that Blaise would agree to see her at all. Happy with her purchase—and fully cognizant of the futility of it all—she got back into the air.
Her former fiancé’s house was not far, a walkable distance from the Town Square, in fact. Blaise was one of the few sorcerers who had always maintained a separate residence in Turingrad, as opposed to spending all of his time in the Tower. He had inherited that house from his parents and found it soothing to go there in the evenings instead of remaining in the Tower to socialize with the others. When she and Blaise had been together, she’d spent a lot of time at his house as well—so much, in fact, that she’d even had a room of her own there.
Thinking about his house again brought back those bittersweet memories. They’d taken occasional walks together from his house to this very Town Square, and she remembered how they’d always talked about their latest projects, discussing them with each other in great detail. It was one of the things she missed the most these days—those intellectual conversations, the back-and-forth exchange of ideas. Though Barson was an interesting person in his own right, he would never be able to give her that. Only another sorcerer of Blaise’s caliber could do that—and there were none, as far as Augusta was concerned.
Finally, she was there, in front of Blaise’s house. Despite its location in the center of Turingrad, it looked like a country house—a stately ivory stone mansion surrounded by beautiful gardens.
Approaching cautiously, Augusta came up the steps and politely knocked on the door. Then she held her breath, waiting for a response.
There was none.
She knocked louder.
Still no effect.
Her anxiety starting to grow, Augusta waited another couple of minutes, hoping that Blaise was simply on the top floor and unable to hear her knock.
Still nothing. It was time for more drastic measures.
Recalling a verbal spell she had handy, Augusta began to recite the words, substituting a few variables to avoid scaring the entire town. This particular spell was designed to produce an extremely loud sound—except, with the changes she introduced, it would only be heard inside Blaise’s house. Thankfully, the code for vibrating the air randomly at the right amplitude was relatively easy. Following the simple logic chains with the Interpreter litany, she put her hands against her ears to block out the noise coming from inside the building.
The sound was so powerful, she could practically feel the walls of the house vibrating. There was no way Blaise could ignore this. In fact, if he was anywhere in the house, he would likely be half-deaf from that spell—and
quite furious. It was probably not the best way to start their conversation, but it was the only way she could think of to get his attention. She would much rather deal with furious Blaise than the addict she was beginning to be afraid she would find.
The fact that he didn’t respond to the noise spoke volumes. Only someone absorbed in a Life Capture would have been immune to the spell she’d just cast. The alternative—that he’d finally left his house after months of being a hermit—was an unlikely possibility, though Augusta couldn’t help but cling to that small hope.
The scary thing about Life Captures was that people addicted to them sometimes died. They would get so absorbed in living the lives of others, they would neglect their health, forgetting to eat, sleep, and even drink. Although sorcerers could sustain their bodies with magic, they had to do spells in order to keep up their energy levels. A sorcerer Life Capture addict would be nearly as vulnerable as a regular person if he or she forgot to do the appropriate spell.
Standing there in front of the door, Augusta realized that she had a decision to make. She could either report this lack of response to Ganir or she could risk going in.
If this had been a commoner’s house, it would’ve been easy. However, most sorcerers had magical defenses in place against unauthorized entry. In the Tower, they frequently did spells to prevent their locks from being tampered with. From what she could recall, however, Blaise rarely bothered to do that. Trying to unlock his door using sorcery was likely her best bet.
A quick spell later, she was entering the hallway, seeing the familiar furnishings and paintings on the walls.
Looking for either Blaise himself or the evidence of his addiction, Augusta slowly walked through the empty house, her heart aching at the flood of memories. How could this have happened to them? She should’ve fought harder for Blaise; she should’ve tried to explain, to make him understand. Perhaps she should’ve even swallowed her pride and groveled—an idea that had seemed unthinkable at the time.
Starting with the downstairs, Augusta went into the storage area, where she remembered him keeping important magical supplies. Opening the cabinets, she found several jars with Life Capture droplets, but there was nothing extraordinary about that. Most sorcerers—even Augusta herself, to some degree—used the Life Captures to record important events in their lives or their work.
One cupboard drew her attention. In there, she saw more jars that didn’t seem to be sorcery-related. Blaise always labeled everything, so she came closer, trying to see what was written on them.
To her surprise, she saw that all the jars had one word on them: Louie. These were likely Blaise’s memories of his brother, she realized. The fact that he still had them—that he hadn’t consumed them as a hardened addict would—gave her some small measure of hope. One of those jars looked particularly intriguing; it had a skull-and-bone symbol on it, as healers would sometimes put on deadly poisons. She had no idea what it could be.
In the corner of the room, she saw some broken jars on the floor. Amidst pieces of glass, there were more droplets, lying there as though they were trash. Curious, Augusta approached the corner.
To her shock, on a few of the jars, she saw labels with her name on them. Blaise’s memories of her . . . He must’ve thrown them away in a fit of rage. Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, trying to keep the tears that were burning her eyes from escaping. She hadn’t expected this visit to be so painful, the memories to be so fresh.
Reaching down, she pocketed one of the droplets, doing her best to avoid cutting her hand on the shards of glass lying all around it. Then, trying to regain her equilibrium, she exited the room and headed upstairs.
All around her, she could see dust-covered windowsills and musty-looking furnishings. Whatever Blaise’s mental state, he clearly wasn’t taking care of his house. Not a good sign, as far as she was concerned.
Going from room to room, she determined that Blaise wasn’t there after all. Relieved, Augusta realized that he must’ve left the house after all. That was a good sign, as addicts rarely came out unnecessarily. Unless they ran out of Life Captures—which Blaise hadn’t, judging by the jars downstairs. Could it be that Ganir was wrong again? After all, his spies had apparently misinformed him about the size of the peasant army Barson’s men would be facing. Why not this also? But if they weren’t wrong, then what did Blaise want with all those Life Captures he’d been getting?
Consumed with curiosity, she entered Blaise’s study again, the familiar surroundings making her chest tighten. They’d spent so much time here together, exploring new spells and coming up with new coding methodologies. This was where they’d invented the Interpreter Stone and the simplified arcane language to go with it—a discovery that had transformed the entire field of sorcery.
Perhaps she should leave now. It was obvious that Blaise wasn’t home, and Augusta no longer felt comfortable invading his privacy in this way.
Turning, she started walking out of the room when an open set of scrolls caught her attention. They were ancient and intricate, reminding her of the type of writings she’d seen in the library of Dania, another Council member. As though her feet had a mind of their own, Augusta found herself approaching the scrolls and picking them up.
To her shock, she saw that they had been written by Lenard the Great himself—except she’d never seen these notes before. She and Blaise had studied everything the great sorcerer had done; without the base of knowledge laid by Lenard and his students, they would’ve never been able to create the Interpreter Stone and the accompanying magical language. She should’ve come across these scrolls before, and the fact that she was seeing them now for the first time was incredible.
Skimming them in disbelief, Augusta comprehended the extent of the wealth of knowledge Blaise had been concealing from the world. These old scrolls contained the theories on which Lenard the Great had based his oral spells—the theories that provided a glimpse into the nature of the Spell Realm itself.
Why had Blaise not told anyone about them? Now even more curious, she reached for another set of notes lying on the desk.
It was a journal, she saw immediately—Blaise’s recording of his work.
Fascinated, Augusta riffled through the papers and began reading.
And as she read, she felt the fine hair on the back of her neck rising. What was contained in these notes was so horrifying she could hardly believe her eyes.
Putting down the journal, she cast a frantic glance around the study, wanting to convince herself that this couldn’t possibly be real—that it was all the ramblings of a madman. Her gaze fell upon the Life Capture Sphere, and she saw a single droplet glittering inside.
Reaching for it with a trembling hand, she put it in her mouth, letting the experience consume her.
Sitting there in his study, Blaise couldn’t stop thinking about Gala—about his wondrous, beautiful creation. Closing his eyes, he pictured her in his mind—the perfect features of her face, the deep intelligence gleaming in her mysterious blue eyes. He wondered what she would become. Right now, she was like a child, new to everything, but he could already see the potential for her intellect and abilities to surpass anything the world had ever seen.
His attraction to her was as startling as it was worrisome. She was his creation. How could he feel this way about her? Even with Augusta, he hadn’t experienced this kind of immediate connection.
Trying to suppress those thoughts, he turned his attention to the fascinating matter of her origin. The way she’d described the Spell Realm was intriguing; he would’ve given anything to witness its wonders himself.
Perhaps there was a way. After all, Gala’s mind was quite human-like, and she had survived there . . .
Gasping, Augusta regained her sense of self. Breathing heavily, she stared around the study, reeling from what she’d just seen. What had Blaise done? What kind of monstrosity had he created?
This was a disaster of epic proportions. If Augusta understood corr
ectly, Blaise had made an inhuman intelligence. An unnatural mind that nobody—not even Blaise himself—could comprehend. What would this creature want? What would it be capable of?
Unbidden, an old myth about a sorcerer who had tried to create life entered Augusta’s mind, making her stomach roil. It was the kind of tale that peasants and children believed, and logically, Augusta knew there was no truth to it. But she still couldn’t help thinking about it, remembering the first time she’d read the horror story as a child—and how frightened she had been then, waking up screaming from nightmares of a ghoulish creature that killed its creator and his entire village. Later on, Augusta had learned the truth—that the sorcerer in question had actually been experimenting with cross-breeding various animal species and that one of his creations (a wolf-bear hybrid) had escaped and wreaked havoc on the neighboring town. Still, by then it was too late. The story had left an indelible impression on Augusta’s young mind, and even as an adult, the idea of unnatural life terrified her.
Blaise’s creation, however, was not a myth. She—it—was an artificially created monster with potentially unlimited powers. For all they knew, it could destroy the world and every human being in it.
And Blaise was attracted to it. The thought made Augusta so sick she thought she might throw up.
No. She couldn’t allow this to happen. She had to do something. Grabbing Lenard’s scrolls, Augusta tucked them in her bag. Then, consumed by rage and fear, she channeled her emotions into a cleansing fire spell—and let it loose in the room.
22
Blaise
Flying back home, Blaise tried to convince himself that he’d done the right thing—that Gala needed to see the world on her own, to experience everything she wanted. The fact that he already missed her was not a good reason to limit her freedom.
His trip back was much faster than his flight to the village. He’d purposefully gone slower before, giving Gala a chance to see Turingrad, but now there was no reason to linger. He knew this town like the back of his hand, and there were far too many unpleasant memories associated with this view—especially that of the gloomy silhouette of the Tower.
