by S. M. Boyce
Perhaps Audrey wasn’t living in Victoria’s shadow after all.
The stairs creaked, far too quietly for it to be Bertha. Victoria must've come home. Audrey paused her practice, leaning the sword in one corner so she wouldn't maim whoever walked through the door. Sure enough, the door swung open a second later and smacked against the opposite wall. Victoria entered, eyes already drooping, long tears in her clothes. Quite a few burn marks had eaten significant chunks of her sleeves, and her hair was a frizzled mess. She collapsed on the bed, which Audrey was now paying for, and closed her eyes.
“Fun day?” Audrey said with a grin.
“Shut up,” Victoria mumbled.
“Make any progress?”
Victoria nodded and sat upright, lifting her hands and staring at them. Her eyes narrowed a bit, and she clenched her hands into fists. A small shield appeared on her right hand, and a tiny dagger in her other palm. Audrey held her breath, waiting for them to disappear again, but they remained.
“It's something,” Victoria said, the shield and dagger disappearing as she relaxed her grip on them.
“It's a lot better than something. You couldn’t even come close to that this morning. You’re learning fast.”
Victoria nodded. “This is the hardest thing I've ever done, but it's worth it. I'm not going to stop until I master it.”
“Good. That's why we’re here, after all.”
Victoria muttered something and laid back down.
“I have good news, too,” Audrey said with a smile. “I’m learning to fight. Today I nearly decapitated a wooden practice dummy.”
Victoria didn’t reply. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern, her head slightly off the mattress.
Wow, it must have been one hell of a day. Victoria never fell asleep that fast.
Proud of Victoria’s progress, Audrey leaned against the wall. And yet despite her pride in Victoria’s impressive improvement, she couldn't shake the intense surge of jealousy that hit her square in the chest. As always, Victoria had surpassed her. Despite the danger that came with partnering with a host, Audrey wanted to stand alongside Victoria, not watch from the sidelines like a soccer mom.
Oh, to be the special one, the one everyone fawned over. Just once.
With a heavy sigh, Audrey crawled into bed as well and blew out the candle on her bedside table. The warm light faded, replaced by the soft glow of the crystals overhead as it leaked through the windows. Audrey stared out into the night. Lights flickered through the windows of some of the homes down the alley behind Bertha's house, and Audrey wondered what their lives were like, these magical creatures who had lived their whole lives underground, hidden from the humans above. There was so much magic here, so much to discover.
So much to learn.
CHAPTER 21
Fyrn sat in his office as the morning light filtered through his window, his hand stroking his beard as he studied the only book in his possession on the Rhazdon Artifacts. It had been banned centuries ago, most of the copies burned due to the in-depth nature of the material and the crown's tendency to bury dark magic under the rug as though it didn't exist. Fyrn rolled his eyes at the incompetence of the royals who ran Fairhaven, astonished they had ruled for so long.
If he wasn't careful they would sweep Victoria under the rug too, by killing her without a second thought.
Part of him didn't know why he bothered to help her, but deep down he couldn’t lie to himself. This was his redemption. It was his chance to make things right where he had failed so long ago.
He shook his head to rid himself of that sentimental drivel. Time to focus.
Fyrn turned to the pages that listed the two hundred and three known artifacts, though he suspected many of the descriptions were flat-out wrong and many existing artifacts were missing entirely. Fear clouded people's judgment, which made the study of these sorts of things very difficult. If people like him were to have any success in protecting their cities and the magical world from these artifacts, they had to understand them.
Thus, he would continue his research right under the crown’s nose.
Victoria had potential, certainly. She had already begun to control the weapons and the shield provided by the Rhazdon Artifact, though she was starting small. He had confidence she would improve very quickly, and with her increased skill would come arrogance. He would nip that in the bud every time he saw it. Worse, she was a quick learner hell-bent on revenge, which meant he ran the risk of her going after Luak before she was ready. Fyrn didn't know much about this Luak character, only the rumors that he had ingratiated himself with the royal inner circle, which was a bad sign. This elf was highly skilled in both magic and politics, which made him an adversary Victoria would not easily vanquish.
Which led him to an unfortunate question: what would help Victoria better handle her Rhazdon Artifact in a way that could help her take out such powerful adversary? So far, he only had one solution: another artifact.
The thought alone disgusted him. It was too risky, too foolhardy. He didn't even know what would happen to someone who had two artifacts. It was said this kind of dark magic could corrupt the very soul of whoever wielded it, but he had yet to study enough on the subject to know if that was fact or fiction. Perhaps corrupted souls were simply drawn to dark magic.
But was Victoria different?
Hmm. Perhaps he would need to observe her in a public setting over time. As her grasp of the Rhazdon Artifact improved, it might affect her demeanor. Part of her training would need to be done in crowds, around strangers. Fyrn would need to test her to see if her pure heart remained true as the Rhazdon Artifact further took hold.
He slammed the book shut and snapped his fingers. A floorboard sprang into the air and hovered, revealing a hidden safe beneath it. He set the book inside next to a few other select tomes that had been banned over the years.
Someone knocked on his door.
Victoria.
He crossed the living room and flung open the door. “You're late, V—”
Instead of the young blond woman he had begun to train, a familiar tall man in a wizard’s cloak stood at the door. He wore long white robes with sapphires sewn into the hems and a golden pendant that hung nearly to his waist. A belt of blue silk tied his robe together, and he carried a tall black staff with a glimmering blue stone at the top.
Fyrn gritted his teeth, eyeing the unwanted guest. “Diesel.”
“Fyrn,” the young wizard smirked, peering over the threshold to scan the living room. His lip curled a bit in disgust.
“What do you—”
“Do you really live here, or is this more of an outhouse?”
“Go away. I don’t have time for—”
“Of course you have time. After the trevor beetle incident in Washington D.C., I suspect you have all the time in the world.”
Fyrn stiffened. He had hoped word wouldn’t travel, but he knew that was too much to expect. No one ever really recovered from performing magic in front of humans, whether they were put to death or not. Only his decades of service had saved him from the guillotine, but the incident had ended his career. He had been stripped of his rank in the wizarding community and largely shunned ever since.
Fyrn frowned, not one to dwell on the past. “Have you come to gloat?”
“No, that's just a bonus. I came to ask about an incident that occurred in the gang district a few nights ago. Lots of loose cobblestones, gouges in the pavement, that kind of thing. It looked as though an all-out magical war took place in the street. Reports of flashes, white lights, wisps—”
“Your point?”
“My point is,” Diesel said, narrowing his eyes, “that I’m part of the king’s council, and he’s tasked me with finding out what happened. The king doesn't take kindly to warfare in our streets, much less spells that suggest a witch or wizard was involved. Considering not many of us live in Fairhaven anymore, your name was mentioned as a possible suspect.”
Uh oh.
> In his best effort to appear calm, Fyrn waved away the thought. He wasn’t good at lying, but Diesel's head was too far up his own ass to notice. “I’m too busy studying to involve myself with nonsense.”
“Studying what, exactly?”
“How to turn pompous wizards into shoots of bamboo, actually,” Fyrn snapped. “Now get out.”
Diesel set his foot against the door, blocking it as Fyrn tried to slam it in his face. “If you’re implicated, Fyrn, there will be consequences. You were great once, but you’ve lost your touch. No one will vouch for you.”
“The same will someday happen to you.”
“I doubt it. The people and their king all love me,” Diesel said with an arrogant grin on his face.
“For now. That will change.”
“If only—”
“Is everything okay?” a woman asked.
Diesel jumped, tilting his staff in the subtle attack position all wizards were trained to use when caught off-guard. Victoria stood behind him, hands on her hips, mercifully wearing a long-sleeved shirt that hid her Rhazdon Artifact. The pixie hummed alongside her, the metal in his wings glistening as it reflected the crystalline daylight.
Adrenaline pumped through Fyrn, making him dizzy, but he did his best to hide it. He hadn’t heard her approach, and apparently neither had Diesel. She was already getting so much better, and the Rhazdon Artifact in her arm seemed to give her additional gifts. It set her apart, and right now that could get her killed.
Diesel flashed her a charming smile, one Fyrn had often seen directed at the young women who admired and fawned over him at events in the palace. “Hello, there. I'm Diesel Armstrong. What's your name?”
An expression crossed her face that Fyrn hadn't seen before—a combination of entertainment and wariness. “Victoria Brie.”
“Like the—”
“Yes, the cheese,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“An honor.” Diesel lifted her right hand and kissed her knuckles.
In unison, Victoria and Fyrn tensed. It seemed she was as worried as he was that her sleeve would slide up, but the fabric stayed in place.
“Charmed,” she said dryly.
Diesel stood a bit taller, puffing out his chest like a man flexing to impress women on a beach. “I must confess, you're not supposed to follow me when I'm on official duty, but I'm honored nonetheless that a beauty such as yourself would seek me out. Is there a question I can answer for you?”
Victoria hesitated. “What?”
Diesel gestured to the house. “Surely you’re not here for the scenery.”
Victoria caught Fyrn’s eye, grimacing slightly as she silently asked for clarification. Fyrn groaned, rubbing his face in annoyance. “Diesel, she’s here to see me.”
Diesel laughed, a charming and melodic sound that would have wooed any regular woman. But Victoria was far from normal, and Fyrn was grateful she wouldn’t fall for his nonsense.
“It’s true,” she said.
Diesel hesitated, smile faltering. “Why would you waste your time on his low-level tricks? I can show you far more than this charlatan.”
“Charlatan?” She bristled, balling her hands into fists.
“Enough, Victoria.”
“But Fyrn—”
“Enough. Good day, Diesel.”
Diesel shook his head, still laughing, and proceeded down the trail away from the cottage. He shot one last dashing grin over his shoulder. “Suit yourself, sweet Victoria, but should you ever want a true mentor, you can find me at the palace.”
Instead of watching Diesel retreat toward the road, Victoria glared at Fyrn with barely contained fury. “How could you let him talk to you like that?”
“Diesel is a nuisance, nothing more. He is gifted enough with magic to have caught the king's attention, but what he thinks doesn’t matter. Public opinion, playing to what people think of you—it's all worthless. All that matters is what you know, and I know more than any of them.”
“Fyrn, public perception is important. When I first got here, people laughed when I said I was looking for you.”
He shrugged. “It doesn't bother me. None of them can do what I can.”
“But if they knew—”
“It's time to get to work.” He pushed past her and led the way toward the tunnel they had taken yesterday. Today would be another challenging one for Victoria, and he needed her to focus. It didn't matter that fools like Diesel had no respect for him. When the time came Fyrn would prove his worth once more to the person who mattered most: himself.
***
“What’s the purpose of this game again?” Audrey leaned into Bertha, her voice low to keep anyone on the field from hearing.
They sat in the first row of empty bleachers lining a small field on the outskirts of Fairhaven. Bertha had closed her shop for the afternoon to introduce Audrey to the game of Berserk.
And dear God, did it earn that name.
On the field, ogres and elves faced off in mixed teams. They charged each other round after round, the yells like battle cries as they rammed into each other. Limbs broke. Helmets flew into the stands. Ogres were flipped onto their backs, the ground shaking from the force. And there was lots and lots of cursing.
Audrey loved every second of it. She did not, however, understand the rules at all.
“You see those colorful little creatures down there?” Bertha pointed to what looked like a net filled with gold, green, and black spheres lying on the moss nearby.
“Those are creatures? They look like balls.”
“They’re called fidgets and are very much alive. Look closer.”
Audrey watched the net closely, only to realize the fuzzy spheres inside were squirming. Every now and then a bit of furry skin would lift and a set of eyes would peek through, darting around for a second before disappearing once more.
“Whoa,” Audrey said, leaning back.
“Fidgets are notoriously difficult to catch. They skitter over the ground, racing in every direction, but they’re kept on the field by these barriers.” Bertha tapped the short wooden fence separating the bleachers from the field. Its planks were so close together there was no hope of a fidget ever squirming through the gaps.
“So the players have to catch them?”
Bertha nodded. “The gold are worth ten points, the black fifty, and the green are worth a hundred. When you catch one, you take it over to one of those three bins on the opponent’s side.”
On each end, three silver bins were spaced across the full width of the field. “Doesn’t that hurt the…what did you call them? Fidgets?”
Bertha chuckled. “Nothing can hurt a fidget. They’re indestructible, and they love to run. They seem to enjoy this as much as we do, since it’s basically a game of chase for them.”
Audrey chuckled. “Funny, it’s a little like Quidditch. More blood, though.”
Bertha quirked a giant eyebrow. “It’s like what, now?”
Audrey faltered. She should have known better than to drop a pop culture reference on an ogre. “It’s, uh, a game from a fantasy story about witches and wizards.”
“So… real life?”
Audrey chuckled as she surveyed the magical city around them filled with creatures she had only dreamed could exist. “Yeah, I guess so.”
While grunts of pain and victory rolled over the playing field, Audrey studied the net filled with fidgets as a gold one stared at the melee. It squeaked and inched toward the grass as though it wanted to join the elves and ogres as they flattened each other.
She shook her head. This place was so weird, but she loved it anyway.
On the field, an ogre flipped an elf onto his back, the elf’s forearm snapping as it hit the ground. He yelled in agony, and Audrey grimaced. Quidditch was fun, but Berserk was way more brutal. “If it’s just a game of catch-the-critter, why are they attacking each other like that?”
“Never you fret, little one—we have a wizard medic who makes everyone right as rain afte
r the match. You’re out of the game as soon as you go to him, though, so be smart about when you choose to get healed. This means that as the game progresses, there are fewer and fewer players to protect each other and the bins. The fewer players you have on your team, the less chance you have of winning. It’s your duty to your team to soldier on unless you’re about to die.”
“Uh huh,” Audrey said weakly.
Bertha pointed to the ogres and elves running around the field before them. “There are ten men—or women, in your case—on each team, and each has a purpose. You have the fidget finders, who chase after the fidgets, obviously. Usually, those are the smallest and fastest members, and we have only one or two on a team. Aside from the fidget finders, you have the keep. Now, the keep stays by the goal, and his duty is to tackle anyone from the opposite team who dares try to score. The third position on the team is the runners. They, well—”
