Twenty Palaces: A Prequel

by Harry Connolly

  Unless the book alone wasn't enough. Maybe I needed a magical pen to write it out, or a special decoder ring for the designs. Maybe I was supposed to be wearing enchanted underwear.

  Whatever. I didn't have anything but the book to work with. Besides, Callin had locked up the book and the book alone. If he needed a magic pen to cast a spell--or a magic embroidery needle--he'd have locked them up together, wouldn't he? I wished I had kept the slipcover so I could search it for secret pockets or hidden instructions.

  I looked at the words on the page again. Maybe they held some secret significance. I studied them closely, then held them up to the light. If there had been watermarks or faint scribbles on the pages of Callin's book, the copier hadn't picked them up. They were just words. I flipped to the spell before this one and the spell after it. The numbers were not in the same position relative to the design in the spell before, but they were in the spell after.

  Okay. The numbers don't matter either. Probably. There was nothing to do but look at the designs again.

  Dammit. It didn't make sense. I organized the scrap papers on the table, then laid my pen against the copy I'd made of design number one. These curved lines could be an eye, if I added a line here and here.

  Something clicked. I looked at the original design again, then closed my eyes. The shape of the drawing stood out in the darkness of my mind's eye. Yep, that one looked like a rough drawing of an eye. And those lines could almost be an image of a knife. And was that elaborate squiggle right there a clawed hand, reaching for the knife's handle?

  Suddenly, the image in my mind flashed white and burst into flame.

  A bloom of ghostly fire erupted inside my head and quickly spread to my entire body.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I jolted in my chair, frozen with pain. Flames raced down my body. My heart was on fire. My guts were on fire. Tongues of flame erupted from my mouth and nostrils. My blood must have been boiling....

  But at the same time, a deep animal part of my brain knew, even through the pain, that this fire was not real, physical fire. It wasn't really boiling my blood. My mind was burning. My soul was burning. The flame was killing me, but it wasn't touching me physically.

  I snatched up the pen and set it on a piece of blank scrap. I moved it slightly, making a tiny little comma of ink, and I felt the fire flow down my arm, through the pen into the paper. I kept the pen moving, carefully reproducing the second design. "For the hand."

  The pain overwhelmed me. Spectral flames roared around my face. Every muscle in my body was clenched at once, and I would have screamed if I could have taken a breath. But on some level I knew that if I stopped this second drawing, or if I made a mistake, the fire flowing out of my would be blocked, and come backwards out of the page. It would destroy me before I had a chance to try again.

  I kept going, slowly copying the glyph, willing my writing hand not to tremble or spasm. The symbols in my mind: eye, hand, blade, glowed brighter as the fire left me, and it almost became like sharing someone else's thought, as though I had touched another mind out in the universe somewhere and we were thinking this thought and writing it out together.

  I drew the last squiggle and the rest of the fire rushed out of me.

  I gasped, taking shuddering breaths and letting the pen fall from my hand and roll off the table. Tears and sweat streamed down my face. I held my arms away from my body so I could be touching nothing at all.

  But my clothes weren't burned. There were no scorch marks on the table, no curled blackened edges on the papers around me. More importantly, the pain was receding. I knew that wouldn't happen with a real burn.

  I'd been right. The fire hadn't been physical. Thank God thank god thank god.

  I noticed a young woman glaring at me like I was a nutcase. Since she was giving me a nasty look rather than spraying me with a fire extinguisher, I knew she hadn't seen the flames at all. I was the only one who could.

  Okay. Magical fire.

  It was remarkable, really, how quickly I'd gone from not even wanting to think the word "magic" to this.

  I took a deep, calming breath, although it didn't do me much good. I was damn lucky not to be dead, or at least being loaded into an ambulance. Not to mention that fire doesn't burn without fuel. Had I torched away some part of my body I didn't know about? Had I burned up part of my soul?

  I looked at the scrap paper but didn't dare touch it yet. There was my mark, and it held power. I could feel it humming from two feet away.

  A strong hand gripped my shoulder. "You have to come with me, young fella."

  A campus security guard stood over me. He was about forty-five and his face had the scarred, rounded look of a lifetime of hard fighting. I'd seen plenty of faces like it among the older inmates. Out of habit, I glanced down at his hip. Yep, he was wearing a gun.

  I was still dazzled by pain and magic, and apparently wasn't moving fast enough, because the guard took my arm in one hand and lifted me. With his other hand, he reached for the scrap papers. Including the ghost knife.

  "No!" I lunged for the spell, snatching it away just as he was about to grab it. The paper curled as I yanked it back, and the corner struck the guard's hand.

  It passed through him as if he wasn't there. The corner hit just between the man's index and middle knuckles, then slide back toward the wrist. The white corner of the paper peaked over the top of his skin like a tiny shark fin speeding through calm water. The paper struck the man's watch, then it emerged from his arm.

  His watch fell off his wrist and bounced away on the carpet. He stumbled and caught himself against the table, then stared at the spot on his hand where the ghost knife had cut through him.

  His flesh was completely unmarked.

  "Lordy," he said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have grabbed at your things like that."

  For a moment, I was utterly stunned by this sudden change. Power emanated from the piece of paper in my hand like a live wire. I slid it gently it into my pocket.

  "Are you okay?"

  "I think so," the guard said. "You're working here, right? You don't have to go. I'm sorry I said you should. It ain't necessary."

  "Well, okay." I didn't know how to respond to that. "I'll stay here and keep doing my thing."

  "Let me know if you need anything," the guard said. He turned and shuffled away.

  What was going on? What had I just done to him? I touched the front of my jacket and shirt, remembering the feel of greasy ashes from last night.

  Screw this. I followed him. "Hey, maybe you should see a doctor or something."

  "That's okay, thank you. Don't trouble yourself. Sorry to bother you." The guard kept moving away and I trailed behind him.

  A second guard approached. This one looked like someone's fat grandfather. "What's going on here?"

  "This man nearly collapsed," I said quickly. "I told him he should see a doctor or something, but...."

  Fat Grandpa nodded and took the other man's arm, stepping forward in a way that forced me to back off. The two guards started toward the elevator, talking in low tones.

  I watched them enter the elevator. When the doors closed no one had fallen over dead.

  I went back to the table, took the scrap paper from my pocket and smoothed it out. I could feel the magic in it. Annalise's ribbon had not been like this. Maybe spells feel strongest to the person who created it? I had no way to know.

  Did Callin's waistcoat, which was covered with sigils, feel like this, times twenty? Did Annalise's entire body feel like this times a hundred? It boggled my mind to think they were surrounded by this kind of power all the time.

  And now I had my little piece of it. Mine.

  But I had to be more careful. I'd just accidentally used my spell against the security guard and I didn't really know what I'd done. What if he'd just had a stroke?

  Or maybe I'd only cut the man's "ghost"--his soul or spirit or something. Maybe it wasn't dangerous at all, like a magical stun gun. I liked that idea so much
that I decided to believe it.

  The guard's watch lay on the carpet; I picked up both pieces. It had been cut through the band and the watch face. It was a clean, sharp cut right through the metal workings.

  According to Callin's book the ghost knife cuts "ghosts, magic and dead things." The watch was a dead thing, of course. I held the edge of the paper against the corner of the wooden table then pressed down.

  The paper crinkled and bent. It didn't work against wood.

  The table was certainly dead, though. I held the paper in place again, and this time I let myself feel the power coming out of the spell. It belonged to me, the way my thumb or my ear belonged to me.

  I willed it to cut, then pressed down.

  The sheet of paper sliced through the table corner as though it wasn't there. The hunk of wood struck the floor with a chunky, substantial sound.

  I looked at the ghost knife again. A single word kept running through my head: Power power power power.

  No one else came to roust me from my chair. I looked back at the table where the woman had glared at me. Her seat was empty.

  Fair enough. I turned to the other bookmarked page.

  Steeled glass. To protect against a single blow. I moved a fresh piece of scrap paper into position and held the pen over it. I wanted to be ready this time.

  Except I wasn't ready, not for that ordeal. Was I really going to set myself on fire for a spell that seemed it would only protect me from one attack? One bullet, one knife thrust, one punch from Annalise's padlock-snapping hands?

  I rubbed my face, then looked over the page. The fire had hurt, but it hadn't harmed me in any way I could tell, while Annalise could tear my arms off if she wanted to. I had the ghost knife, sure, but I needed protection, too, so I'd have a chance to use it.

  And there was Jon. If Annalise killed me, who would protect Jon?

  It was a frightening thought, and not just because the word kill had emerged from my subconscious after churning around in there for hours. I was falling back into my old life. I was standing with my friends again, planning to fight their enemies. This was the person I was supposed to have left behind.

  But this wasn't like the bad old days with Arne and his crew. Jon was a good guy, while Arne was most definitely not. I wasn't going to become my old self. I was going to be the good guy now.

  Besides, I had a debt to pay. I had taken away Jon's legs. I'd taken walking and baseball and all kinds of things I didn't even want to think about.

  So it would just be this time: one last time to do the right thing and square an old debt. Once this was finished, I would really straighten out my life, get a paycheck job and bore myself stupid with a big-screen TV.

  And this next spell wouldn't be so bad. It was only pain. I hoped.

  I picked up the pen and covered design number one with my other hand. I practiced the second design a couple times to be sure I'd get it right.

  Then I looked at design number one, at the straight lines, hard corners and curving squiggles. Slowly, it began to make sense.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The fire filled me. I was a living furnace. But the steeled glass spell was simpler than the ghost knife, and the fire less intense. I finished the spell, then held it up. It didn't look like much, but neither did Annalise or Callin.

  The pain receded. I grabbed another piece of paper. If I waited too long, I might lose my nerve. I called up the design again and started drawing, pouring my pain and energy into it. When I finished, I felt dizzy and nauseated. Weak. What was the use of arming myself with spells if I was going to be too wasted to use them?

  Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop.

  I grabbed a third sheet of paper. My world had become very small--it was just my pain and the design I was drawing. It was as if I'd erased everything else, and when the last of the fire poured into the third design, the flames vanished and the design faded from my consciousness. There was nothing to take its place.

  I returned to consciousness slowly. My hands and feet were cold. My shirt was damp with sweat. A man bent over me, holding my elbow. He wanted me to move. I realized I was lying on the floor.

  "Are you all right, sir?" the man said.

  I pulled my legs underneath me and stood with all the vigor I could manage. It wasn't much. "I'm okay," I lied. "Rough day."

  "Would you come with me?"

  I was finally being thrown out. I stuffed the blue pages into the bottom of my backpack, then put the practice drawings in there, too. It wasn't safe to leave them lying around but I was too fuzzyheaded to figure out what to do with them. Finally, I picked up the ghost knife and the three steeled glass spells. They seemed too precious to pocket.

  "Let's go for a stroll," I said, trying to be jaunty and failing miserably. My whole body tingled. Casting these spells hurt.

  The man leading me through the bookshelves was a short, dumpy guy with a sloppy black beard. His longish hair lay across his forehead in wavy clumps. His shirt was stretched tight over a wide, soft gut. I immediately thought Victim, then quashed it. I didn't look for victims anymore.

  He led me to the ground floor, through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY then down a short hallway into a small room. In the center of the room was a cheap metal table and plastic cafeteria chairs. Against one wall was a peeling counter with a sink and microwave. This was a break room. I'd only ever seen them on TV before.

  "I'm Hank," the man said. "Won't you sit down?"

  I did. The table was cold against my arms. "Thanks. I'm Payton."

  "Are you feeling okay, Payton?"

  "I looked pretty bad, I guess. I'm fine. Tough day."

  "Have you eaten?"

  I wasn't sure what to make of all the concern the guy was showing me, but I couldn't see what his angle was. "I'm fine." I hoped that would end it.

  "I'll be back with some food." Hank started toward the door.

  Just then I noticed a phone and a clock on the wall behind me. "Is that the right time?"

  Hank checked the clock against his watch. "Yes, it is."

  He left. I slumped forward and let my head strike the table. According to the clock, it was 6:45. I should have been at work nearly three hours ago.

  Shit. I couldn't even make it for my second day.

  I was tempted to blow it off, clear up this mess with Jon and then, when things were really straightened out, find a new one. But I couldn't. Being a citizen wasn't something I could keep putting off; once I started, I'd never stop.

  In my wallet, I found the note Uncle Karl had given me listing the paperwork I needed for my first day of work. At the top of the paper was the shop's phone number.

  I picked up the phone and called. Andrea picked up on the fourth ring and said: "Copy shop," in a clipped, flustered voice. I could hear a commotion in the background.

  I didn't hang up. Instead I said: "Andrea, this is Ray Lilly. I'm sorry. I don't have an excuse for you. I'm just sorry."

  "Ray." She seemed almost to enjoy the flash of anger in her voice. "Take beatings like a pack mule, huh? Come down here so I can find out for myself. And where is 555-0838?"

  As she said the numbers, I read them off the telephone in front of me. I'd forgotten the copy shop phones had caller ID.

  "I'm in a library at the University." There was no point in lying, since it would be easy to check. Any hope I had of concocting a story about a trip the emergency room evaporated. "I lost track--"

  "I have work to do. Have a crappy life, Ray." She hung up. So did I. Damn.

  There was a basket of office supplies on the counter. I took the scraps of paper out of my pocket and set them beside the sink. The spells were powerful, but the paper they'd been drawn on was fragile. I didn't know what would happen to the magic if the paper tore, or if the ink ran. Maybe it would be fine. Maybe it would explode like a bomb. But if it was anything like what happened to the cover of Callin's journal, I didn't want to find out.

  I took a tape gun out of the basket and laid out a long strip st
icky side up. Then I laid out a second, letting it overlap the first slightly. By some miracle, there were no wrinkles. I laid the ghost knife face down on the tape, then laid two more pieces of tape over the back.

  There was a pair of scissors in the basket, too, and they were surprisingly sharp. I trimmed the edges and held it up. Poor man's laminate. Eventually, the tape would yellow and curl, but it would protect the ghost knife for a little while.

  I sure as hell hoped I didn't need it longer than that.

  I did the same thing to the three steeled glass spells next. As I was slipping them back into my pocket, Hank returned.

  "Why don't you eat something?" He set a box on the table. There was a small stack of napkins and a pair of bran muffins inside.

  My stomach flip-flopped. I picked up a muffin and bit into it. It was dry and bland and wonderful.

  "I didn't realize I was hungry," I said around a mouthful of muffin. As apologies went, it was pretty lame, but Hank didn't seem to care.

  "I'm sorry it took so long to return with them. I had a couple things to take care of out front."

  I brought out my wallet. Hank waved at me to put it away. "I should pay for this food," I said. The earnestness in my voice surprised me. I wasn't a charity case. I didn't want to owe a debt to this guy.

  "They're leftovers from a staff party. If you don't eat them, they'll be thrown out, so please enjoy and don't worry about it." I couldn't argue with that. I shrugged and put my wallet away. "So, Payton," he said, "are you taking any medications?"

  It took me a moment to remember that I'd given him a fake name. Luckily, I'd already taken another bite of muffin and had an extra moment to get my thoughts together. "No. I've had a hard couple of days. Seriously, I'm not taking drugs and I'm not high or anything. Just stressed out." I took a small bite. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Doing what?"

  "Helping me. You don't know me." I watched Hank's expression, trying to figure out his angle. Karl and Theresa had helped me because Theresa was my mother's sister. Andrea had hired me to get close to Jon. Jon had been my friend for years, even if I didn't deserve it. But this guy was a stranger. He didn't have any connection to me and I didn't have anything he wanted. He'd even turned down my money.