Spark

by Anna Holmes

  That’s the other thing. You can’t help but think about stupid things. When it’s either that or worry so hard your brains start boiling over, your mind wanders. And you feel guilty about it. So guilty, you wander right back into the thick of it, even though there’s nothing I can do. “How long does it usually take to get to the University from here?”

  “Five minutes one way,” a brittle voice croaks from below.

  Alain’s eyes are open now, but just barely, his breaths close between. But he smiles anyway. My eyes fly to his chest. They’re just scars again, dull in the flickering torchlight. The bluish tinge to his skin has stayed, and he’s obviously not well, but something has changed. I glance to Riley, who sighs and shrugs. I understand. I’m taking my life into my own hands, but I can’t care. I seize Alain’s upper body in a hug. “Dear gods, you idiot genius, don’t you ever, ever do that to me again.”

  Alain chokes out, “Caelin, my love, you are going to break ribs.”

  I ease my grip. “Godsdamnit, Alain, so help me—"

  “I know, I know,” he groans, struggling for an elbow. “Murder. Vengeance. Many sword-beatings will be given.” I sit back and wipe at my eyes, and he stops fighting to sit up for a moment and reaches out a hand for mine. He’s still so warm. His face twists in a combination of amusement and concern, his other hand tracing the path of the treasonous fluid leaking from my eyes. “What’s this—Caelin, I’m fine.”

  “You’re not—fine,” I splutter, waving my free hand in his direction and moving to dab away some blood from his split eyebrow. “You’ve hit your head.”

  “That explains the throbbing, then,” he says, the smallest grin fleeting across his mouth. “Caelin, I’m all right.”

  “You’re blue,” I get out.

  “What?” He almost laughs.

  “You are blue,” I say through gritted teeth, lifting his hand into his line of sight.

  And now his face does something else entirely. I don’t have words for it. Confusion first, then a sort of flash of possible comprehension, then frustration as that slips away. At last, he smiles again. “Well. That’s…unusual.”

  “When’s the last time you handled any cryst?” Riley wants to know.

  Alain’s eyes lift to the ceiling. “I was…nine years old.”

  “Honestly, Northshore.”

  “Honestly, Bannon. We used to sneak down to the sea mines to poke at it because we were told not to and we were stupid.” He starts to frown, then cringes and touches the spot where his eye has begun to swell. “You aren’t asking me for fun, are you.”

  “I have been informed I lack the capacity for fun,” Riley answers, lifting his eyebrows in my direction. It works, a little, but the sharp anxiety still stabs at me. The hallway is still quiet. If the professor refuses to come, too, I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  “Blast me, Bannon, that was almost a joke. I should swoon more often. It makes you damn close to agreeable.” Riley makes a face as if he feels the need to automatically disprove the point, and Alain sobers. “No. No cryst.”

  I fish out the handkerchief he’d wrapped my present in from my pocket and start to blot at his head a little. He lets out a little hiss of breath and squeezes his eye shut. I bite my lip again and try to breathe myself. “Someone’s off looking for Professor Thorn,” I tell him.

  “Oh, wonderful,” he mutters immediately.

  “What’s wrong with that? Professor Thorn is a highly competent magician and my godsfather.”

  “I know all that,” he says, reaching up to set my hand back in my lap. “It’s just he always kind of stares at me like he wants to dissect me.”

  “Well, if the scalpel comes out, I’ll say something.”

  He nods a little, maybe unconvinced that I will, maybe unconvinced that saying something will be enough, but either way, I don’t want to argue right now. I curl up next to him so we can wait together.

  Chapter Three

  Alain

  I should feel worse, shouldn’t I?

  I mean, my mouth tastes something like someone’s crammed a mildewy washcloth in it and my headache is absolutely murderous and oh dear gods, I’m so tired, but mysterious fainting spells that leave one blue should likely come with at least an upset stomach. I spend a moment taking stock, evaluating extremities.

  My leg doesn’t hurt.

  Perhaps I’ve hit my head harder than I should admit to Caelin. She stays with her head rested on my chest despite Bannon’s pacing like a nervous mother sheepdog. He’s probably right, or would be if this were actually cryst poisoning, but I can’t bring myself to try to convince her. I can feel the wet spot from her tears growing in my shirt.

  A lousy birthday gift.

  Professor Thorn arrives, as is his custom, in a swirl of glossy black robes. This gets Caelin to her feet. She flies into his arms, and he adjusts his glasses, blinking down at me in his owlish way. “Now, now, then, Caelin,” he says with a stuttering little laugh. “We’ll have it sorted, hmm?”

  Oh, I’m an it. Comforting. Caelin seems to be buoyed a little. I’m glad of that, at least. She lets him go and sinks back to my side while Thorn sets about tucking the ostentatious sleeves of his robes back. I suppose being named the head of the Arcanum earned him the right to be a bit eccentric, but casters deal with enough stereotypes that I begrudge him this a little. He kneels. “Well, then, Your Grace,” he says to me with a bobble of his head to swoop a bit of his graying brown hair out of his eyes, “let’s have a look.”

  “I’ve told you, Professor,” I say around my oddly dry mouth. “You don’t have to call me that.”

  “Old habits for an old man,” he says with a wink. Caelin smiles a little, and I close my eyes so that’s the last image I remember while Thorn starts his examination. “Well, I’m glad you sent for me,” he says. “This is no ordinary illness.”

  “Don’t know of many that turn people blue,” I concur.

  Caelin nudges me a little. “Lieutenant Bannon posited cryst poisoning, but the Prince hasn’t been in contact with any.”

  The Professor laughs a short, clipped laugh. The sound is odd enough that I open my eyes again despite the glare of the light and the thrum of my head. It’s hard to make out his features, but the way his mouth is set is…grim. “No, I should say not.”

  Perhaps a little defensively, Bannon folds his arms. “He was glowing,” he returns.

  Thorn sits up ramrod straight, still peering down at me. He reaches out with a finger to sidle his glasses higher on his nose. “Truly?”

  Oh. Blue and glowing. Marvelous. Caelin nods, her hand on my shoulder. “Yes.”

  “Any heat expenditure?”

  “A lot.”

  He rubs at his clean-shaven chin. “Fascinating. That’s improbable, given the temperature in the air, but it’s been known to—”

  I glance up to Caelin pointedly, and she clears her throat. “What do you think it is, Professor?”

  He rubs his hands together, like my grandfather used to do in front of a fresh pie. “Well. If Your Grace would permit me, I would like to gauge your energy.”

  I look up to the ceiling to keep from rolling my eyes. “You won’t get an accurate reading.”

  “Nonsense.” He reaches into a worn leather bag at his side. “My gauge is precisely calculated.”

  “From experience, Professor?” I say tersely. “If you do that, you’ll need a new gauge at the least, and the Queen may need new flooring in this ballroom. That’s not a boast.”

  Thorn gets animated, unbuckling the leather strap around his brass cylinder, the green liquid sloshing inside. He starts fitting it to the palm of my hand, covering the brand before I have a chance to. “So you’ve had measuring before!”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you ever given a precise—”

  “No,” I tell him, lifting my head to look at him. “I did receive bills for four energy gauges, though.”

  He laughs reverently, starting to unclamp the
device again. “Incredible! Utterly incredible. My alchemists and the object casting team might be able to put something together if I can work out how much to scale it. The understanding we could glean!”

  “If I’m being honest, Professor, I’m not terrifically interested in becoming an object of study.”

  Caelin adds, “We would like to know what’s going on now, if you can tell us.” Thorn looks to her anxiously, as though waiting for her to overrule me. “Please,” she adds. “I’m worried.”

  “Right, right, of course, of course.” He puts the gauge away and assesses me a moment longer. “Well. There is something else I can think of to get an idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  We all sit here in silence for a moment, the only sound the creaking of Bannon’s boots as he rocks back and forth from his heels to his toes. I look up at Caelin, who nods. “And…what is that?”

  Thorn, up until now still staring at me, seems to shake himself back into action. “Right. Yes. I can—with permission, of course—attempt to cast a spell using the Prince’s magic. A trick you’ve used yourself, I believe.”

  “Unorthodox,” I start.

  “So are most of the things for which you’re famous.”

  “I just hardly expected that from the head of the Arcanum.”

  He taps a finger to his nose. “Once you’ve learned everything the books have to teach you, you start fiddling with what they can’t. I was young once myself. I remember.”

  “Even so, what will casting for me tell you?”

  “I'll have a better understanding of what you have to work with. I think we're dealing with an imbalance issue.”

  “I don't see what his leg has to do with it,” Caelin interjects.

  I can't help a short laugh. “Not physical balance, love. Droft's Theory.”

  Thorn ruffles himself like an excited bird. “So few understand the fringe theories. It's a relief to me to hear that someone pays attention. Droft postulates that magical energy in a human body may come into conflict with other elements at play from outside substances—”

  “And throws the cycle of magic consumption and restoration out of balance,” I finish, mostly to interrupt the glee. “The error there, Professor, is that I don't consume base alchemical elements in mass quantities. Most sane casters wouldn’t."

  Thorn takes up my wrist and pauses for a moment, counting. “Yes, yes. Your pulse is high.”

  “Likely because I'm vexed at the accusation!”

  Caelin leans forward. "Accusation?"

  “Some people believe it's possible to enhance magical abilities by taking in raw alchemical supplies, but I have no desire to gamble with losing my mind.”

  Bannon coughs a little conspicuously. Caelin shoots him a frown, and Thorn shrugs. “I'm not here to pass judgment, my lord, only to help if I can. Shall we?”

  Caelin gives me an encouraging little smile, and I sigh. I'd rather not, but her light is so dim, and gods know Bannon needs no further confirmation of his baseless suspicion of me. At last, I nod. Thorn places my hands, palms up, on my chest, then holds his own over me.

  I have done this before; he was right. I always pictured it as sidling into an opening and taking charge of what I found when I got there. When Thorn tries, it's like a tentative knock at the door, a nagging in the fore of my mind, the prickling of my scalp when I'm about to hit my head on something. I sigh. Best help this along, if I want to get up off this hard floor at some point today. I shut my eyes and imagine a door swinging open.

  Of their own accord, my eyes shoot open. Pain snakes its way up my leg first, then charges into my chest as two columns of blue light burst from my upturned hands all the way to the vaulted ceiling. It sears with an audible crackle, sparks arcing along the webbing between my fingers, cutting my breaths short. My shoulder blades press hard into the tile, my back arching. I try to drop the spell, but my will slams into something hard. I look, see Thorn bearing down with his hands as though he's a few feet away from shoving me. His eyes narrow, and he steps back.

  The searing fades into shortening pulses as the light dies. My head thumps back against Caelin's lap. I can hardly feel the warmth of her hands on my forehead, barely hear her calling my name. The world around me seems slowed, trapped on the other side of a wall of ice. It seems to melt as the last of the pulses do, and I attempt to catch my rushing breaths. “What… the devils…was that?” I manage.

  Thorn looks down at me with a crooked smile, slapping a hand to my arm. “That,Your Grace, was simply incredible.”

  “What did you cast?”

  “I meant to conjure a flicker of light. You seemed to have other ideas.”

  I try to sit up and find myself choking on the back of my own tongue. Caelin lays me back down and keeps me pinned there with a hand to my chest. I cough, “I didn't have any ideas. I'm not sure I have any now. What is happening?”

  Thorn rubs at his smooth chin. “Tell me. When you were first assessed on joining the Rosalian Legion—” Bannon leans forward rigidly. He might as well growl like a cornered animal. The professor looks ceilingward. “Yes, yes, Lieutenant, I find it as distasteful as you do, but ignoring it doesn't mean it didn't happen. When you were evaluated, as is their custom, what was the assessment?”

  I can't help a stunted laugh. “Wrong. Very wrong.”

  “How wrong?”

  “They classed me as an object caster.”

  Bannon frowns. “That's a load and you know it, Northshore. I'm an object caster. No one would ever confuse you for me.”

  “That's more or less what I told them, if it comforts you.”

  “Not remotely.”

  Thorn holds up a finger. “Perhaps not, but that's important information. What changed between then and your reevaluation? What was that—four years ago?”

  “Three. Not much. The Legion works slowly. I took a furlough while they approved a new examination.”

  He takes a moment, turning gods know what over in his head, looking off somewhere over Bannon's shoulder. The longer this goes on, the more the strain of trying to stop that spell catches up with me. My eyelids start getting heavier, and I struggle against sleep while Thorn collects himself. “And has there been a change in your casting habits lately?”

  “Best hope so,” Bannon mutters.

  “Haven’t,” I answer, the syllables starting to slur together. “Haven’t been casting.”

  “What—at all?” He looks taken aback.

  “Is that bad?” Caelin asks, shooting a look at Bannon.

  “Is that—?” Thorn cups his forehead in his hand, shaking his head. “Gods preserve me.”

  “The Prince Consort made an agreement,” Bannon injects. “No casting outside approved training situations or other officially sanctioned actions.”

  The professor looks at me, aghast. I shrug slightly. “I teach…theory, Professor.” And it keeps people like Bannon at least comfortable enough not to demand that I be observed at all times.

  Thorn shakes his head. “No. That won't do.” He looks pointedly at Bannon. “Aside from shackling arguably the most talented magician of your generation, this agreement has very real ramifications for the Prince's well being. Am I wrong in assuming that immediately preceding this episode was some duress?”

  I juggle my leadened thoughts, sluggish muscles, and the urge to burst out laughing. Caelin's hand closes a little tighter around mine. “I…think that's fair to assume, yes.”

  “As I thought. As energy remains uncycled, it grows…agitated. A day, even a week without casting would pass unnoticed. But months of backup? That magic, unused, will start to take any stressor as a means of escape. Without much thought to control or effect.”

  “What does that mean for Alain?”

  “Practically speaking?” He stands, giving Bannon a stare. “I'd start approving more training sessions. Immediately.” To me, he says, “Sleep this off. Come back at it a bit at a time, and you should have no further trouble. And if you ever change your mind on th
e gauge….”

  Caelin stands and throws her arms around Thorn again. “Thank you, Professor.”

  “I'm only glad to be of assistance after all this time.” He pulls back, squeezing her hands. “Happy birthday, my dear.”

  Suspended between Caelin and Bannon and dangling from their shoulders, I'm half carried, half dragged up to the tower. “I can probably walk,” I mumble.

  “You've smeared enough of your blood all over the castle tonight," Bannon returns.

  Caelin sighs. “What Riley meant to say is that he's worried you'll fall.”

  I'm sure. “Lucky he has you to translate.”

  Bannon lets my other arm slump over Caelin, fishing on his thick ring of keys. I’d be concerned that he has the key to my bedroom, but that was entirely expected, even to my currently slothful brain. Caelin adjusts my weight, and I manage to roll my head forward to look down at her. “I’m sorry,” I tell her quietly.

  “For what?” She asks, reaching up to push a bit of my hair out of the tacky spot of blood on my forehead. She smiles a little, but the light’s not behind it.

  “Ending your party early.”

  “Oh, I think it was about time for me to turn in anyhow.”

  “Even if that were true, I don’t think that was how you wanted to do it.”

  “Well, no,” she frets, her fingers hovering just above my swollen eyebrow. “I much prefer you conscious.”

  Bannon manages to unlock the door and comes to relieve Caelin of my weight. “And I think we all prefer the windows stay intact.”

  I wince. “I…can try to put those back together.”

  “Somehow I doubt even you can do that.” He lets me slide down to the bed, and I wipe at my face briefly. “Most would be content to faint quietly. Not you, hmm.”

  Caelin shuts the door behind her, heading to my desk to warm up the jar of alchemist’s fire I keep there between her hands. “Oh, for gods’ sake, Riley, it’s hardly as though he did it on purpose. Besides. I don’t think his fainting summoned that masked woman.”