“Stop. Consider what you’re saying, apprentice.”
“I think you’ve known all along—you must have—and yet, you want to go on like you’re some sort of chosen one.”
“I am. Doubly chosen.”
“But you can’t even speak its name.”
His nostrils flare, his mouth going taut. “The Chasm,” he whispers. “I was chosen by the Fire, and then by the Chasm. Blessed by both.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Isn’t there? And what about you? I know what you’re getting at, that if I saw darkness inside your head, then your power must come from the Chasm. But obsidian is a blending of both. It’s fire and darkness, order and chaos, together as one.”
“And which power did you use on Rathe?”
“It’s us against the wizards. I did what I had to.”
“You used Chasm magic, you mean. Do you even still have your power from the Fire? Or did it revoke that ability the second you accepted the darkness?”
“How dare you say that to me! This isn’t how an apprentice should talk to his master.”
“Then maybe I’m not your apprentice.” And he’s definitely not my master. I instinctively reach for the knife that isn’t there. And now I wish I’d brought it, because even if I do remember all these spells the wizards put in my head, I have a lot more practice with the knife.
“You pledged yourself to me. You promised to do anything. And here you are, going back on your word. We made an exchange. You became my apprentice and I healed her. Wouldn’t it be a shame if I undid that?”
My blood burns with rage, even without the knife. Spells swirl inside my head, faster and faster. “If you ever hurt her again—”
“Ah.” He taps his chin, as if he just thought of something. “But I wonder which would hurt her more. Undoing that healing magic, or telling her the truth?”
My insides go cold at the words. I try to hide it, but he must see the fear on my face.
“That’s right,” Endeil says. “How would you like for everyone to find out the truth about you? Rathe found out and then he tried to kill you. You say it was the Chasm that changed him, but I wonder. Was it really, or was it your betrayal?”
The spells that were at the surface of my thoughts, ready to be used, now collide and jumble together. It was his magic that corrupted Rathe. But I can’t say that Rathe finding out the truth about me had nothing to do with it. The way he looked at me, when he saw me hurting him, liking it . . .
“Perhaps he saw the real you. And he couldn’t take it. Perhaps it was your darkness that hurt him, not mine. Just like it’s yours that’s going to hurt her when I—”
The words to a spell come to life on my tongue. It’s his skin I’ll turn inside out. And then I’ll turn it right-side in again and get my knife and do it all over by hand. And when I’m done, I’ll turn his lungs to ashes, like I did to that wizard years ago.
Endeil makes a choked, gasping noise.
It’s a complicated spell—not as quick as casting a light or healing my hand—but I’m so much stronger than he is. I can feel it. I can sense his energy in the room, but it’s something to draw from, not anything that poses a threat.
Endeil holds up a trembling hand. A strip of flesh turns pink and raw, running down his wrist and then his arm. He screams in agony. His face is mottled, pale in some spots and an angry red in others. I concentrate on his throat, on stopping the screaming.
I hate what Leora might think if she could see me now. I want to look away from the agony on his face, but I make myself stay focused. This might not stop the war, but it will stop Endeil from corrupting anyone else.
Black fire blazes in Endeil’s palms. Too late. Way too late.
And then the flames suddenly flare up. The room goes pitch black. The scent of decay fills my nostrils. Damp earth and rotting blood. Just like in that room in the basement. I feel the chair’s straps tightening around my wrists. Then my ankles. I can’t breathe.
Then Endeil’s office comes into focus again. I’ve stopped casting the spell. The black flames in Endeil’s hands climb higher and higher, building a barrier to block me out, so that the only energy I can draw from is my own.
He smiles. The strip of exposed flesh on his arm heals. He’s able to speak again, his voice only slightly hoarse. “So you discovered your wizard magic, did you?”
The flames creep from his hands to the floor, growing into dark walls that spread through the room. I’m surrounded by darkness, by magic that makes my skin crawl. I struggle to start up the spell again. It’s not fair. One moment, I was easily overpowering him. And the next he throws some vision at me.
The wall of fire closes in. I feel like my bones are being ripped apart. Every part of me is on fire. Not the addictive fire of obsidian, but an excruciating pain that leaves me screaming too hard to cast, even if I could focus enough to call up the words. I haven’t felt anything this agonizing since my days at the High Guild. And here it was Hadrin, my old tormentor, who warned me not to confront Endeil. That I wasn’t ready.
Sweat pours down my forehead. My shirt sticks to me like it’s the hottest day of summer. I’m on my knees on the floor. It’s so dark and there’s so much pain, for a moment I think maybe I never left the wizards’ guild at all. Maybe everything since then has been a dream. They’ve driven me so mad, the only way to exist is through some wild delusion.
And then Endeil approaches, stopping just outside the wall of fire, and says, “Would you like me to stop?”
The pain eases, just enough for me to answer. “If you stop, I’ll kill you.” It’s the truth. I’ve always been a terrible liar, anyway.
He laughs, and the flames turn an even darker shade of black. “I’d like to see you try.”
I feel like my skull’s going to crack apart. I press my hands against my ears, as if I can stop it, as if I can hold it together—my bare hands against his magic. This is it. He’s really going to kill me. I’ll never see Leora again. And what will happen to her, if our lives really are so intertwined? I never should have come here. Not without my knife.
“What is going on?!” an angry voice shouts from the hall.
The dark flames disappear, as if they’d never been there at all. I’m left crouching on the floor, dazed and sweating and clutching at my skull.
And then Father Gratch, of all people, storms in. He takes one glance at me—me, his least favorite acolyte, to put it lightly—and scowls in disgust. As if to say, Oh, it’s you.
Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been Father Moors? He’s always protected me, looked out for me. He’s never tried to get me expelled from school or kicked out of the church.
But then Father Gratch glares at Endeil. “High Priest Endeil, what were you doing to this boy? Everyone could hear him screaming bloody murder all the way at the other end of the hall!”
“I’m sorry,” Endeil says, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “I was wrong about him. He spent the whole day shirking his duties and lazing about on a whim. And it appears,” he goes on, giving me a sharp look, “that his hand is completely fine and he was faking his injury. I’ve only just now caught up with him, you see—hence the late hour.”
He must suspect the truth about my wound, because I had my hands pressed to my head so tight. Or he doesn’t really know and is just making up an excuse for why he’d be punishing me. But then I glance down at my hand and see that the bandage has come loose, exposing the healed skin underneath.
Father Gratch doesn’t look like he quite buys Endeil’s explanation, but he nods anyway. “Doesn’t surprise me. I knew you’d picked the wrong acolyte for your apprentice. I’ve had this one on my list ever since he got here.”
If only he knew. Another few moments and he wouldn’t have had to worry about me ever again. I glance at the door, wondering if I could make my escape. Would Endeil risk using his dark magic in front of Father Gratch? But he wouldn’t have to risk it. Father Gratch is standing between me and th
e doorway, effectively blocking my exit. He’d grab me before I could get past him.
“Then you understand,” Endeil says. “If you’ll shut the door on your way out, I think you’ll find the noise to be an acceptable level.”
“You want me to leave, so you can continue torturing him?” The words come out a growl. Father Gratch takes a few steps forward to stand in front of me. “I don’t know what kind of practices you keep in Newhaven, but that’s not how we do things here in Ashbury.” He reaches out a hand to help me up.
My mouth falls open a little. Father Gratch doesn’t look at me, keeping his eyes on Endeil, but he doesn’t take his hand away, either. I consider not taking it, but then I think maybe I need all the help I can get, and slowly, my legs wobbling, I manage to get to my feet.
“Torture,” Endeil repeats, his expression souring on the word. “I think you misunderstand, Father. I was merely reprimanding the boy.”
“Were you, now?” Father Gratch scoffs. “If that’s what you call it.”
“He overreacted. He’s nothing more than a liar and a cheat who would love for you to think something terrible was happening to him. In fact,” Endeil says, “he attacked me. He even threatened to kill me. Didn’t you, Azeril?”
My eyes dart from Endeil to Father Gratch, not knowing what to say. He’s painted me into a corner, so that either the truth or the lie would condemn me. My voice comes out a desperate whisper. “I wish you had expelled me,” I tell Father Gratch. “I wish you’d done it before he ever came here.”
Father Gratch raises an eyebrow at Endeil. “Seems you’ve kept the upper hand.”
“I should hope so. I should hope the High Priest wouldn’t be thwarted by one powerless boy. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we can finish up here and everyone can get to bed.”
“And leave him here alone with you? I think not.”
Endeil eyes us both. “Do I need to remind you, Father, that I outrank you?”
“That depends. Do I need to remind you that we don’t torture children here?”
This from Father Gratch, who’s made me scrub the floors until my hands bled. I never thought I’d feel so grateful to him.
“I can make you regret this,” Endeil says.
Father Gratch sighs. “I already do. Come on, Azeril. We’re done here.” He shoots one last hateful look at Endeil before steering me into the hall, making a point of closing the door behind him.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I’m still trembling all over. I half expect Endeil to burst through that door and kill us both.
“This doesn’t change anything,” Father Gratch mutters. “You’ll likely be expelled. And I don’t know what went on in there, but if one word of what he said was true . . . You’d better run, boy. Run like the Chasm itself is at your heels.”
He doesn’t know just how right he is. And I don’t need him to say it twice. We share a look of understanding, just a glance, really, and then I’m out of there.
For good this time.
Hadrin’s tearing the room apart when I get back to the inn. Or at least that’s what it looks like. He’s in the middle of yanking some clothes out of a drawer and stuffing them in a bag when I walk in.
“Hmph,” he says, shooting me the barest of glances—but obviously disapproving of what he sees—before adding, “Those do not sound like the triumphant footsteps of a victor.”
Leora’s sitting on the bed, wringing her hands. She looks up at me and bites her lip. “Az. You didn’t . . . You didn’t kill him.” It’s not a question. It’s what she wants to believe.
“Oh, no, he didn’t kill him,” Hadrin says, pausing from his rummaging—no, packing—for a moment. “But don’t think he didn’t try.”
Leora glares at him. “And you should know. You’re the one who put all those spells in him. You’re the one who wanted him to be some kind of weapon. So don’t act so high and mighty, like you’re better than him.”
I stare at her in shock. “Leora—”
“Save it, Az. I know you’re not like that. I know you’re not a weapon. I get that. I was just making a point, because you going after the High Priest doesn’t give him the right to stand there and act like he’s above it all.”
“Here,” Hadrin says, pulling a set of blue robes out of a drawer and tossing them to me. “Put those on.”
I hold the robes as far away from me as possible. “You want me to dress like a wizard? Like you?”
“Oh, so you didn’t confront Endeil tonight? You actually had the sense to turn around before you went anywhere near him? Well?” he asks, when I don’t respond. “Did you?”
Leora massages her forehead with her palms. “Dad.”
“No,” I tell Hadrin. “I fought him and I lost. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“That I was right and you weren’t in the least bit ready?” He hesitates, then takes a deep breath, calming himself. “No,” he admits. “I wish you would have stayed here, like I told you. But I’m not glad to have been right—not this time. And you’d better put on those robes. Unless you want to be recognized, or worse, killed.”
“I don’t need you telling me what to do. I can take care of myself. I have my spells now, don’t I? And my knife.” I gesture to the drawer. And I could have killed Endeil tonight. I was strong enough. He just . . . got the better of me. I think.
Hadrin rolls his eyes and makes a point of not offering up the key, but Leora stomps over to the desk and unlocks the drawer with a touch just to spite him.
“You can take care of yourself,” he repeats with a derisive snort, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “If you’d listened to me earlier, we wouldn’t be in this predicament. And you’d better listen to me now. Endeil’s going to be looking for you, and a wizard is the last thing he or anyone else would ever expect you to look like. So get dressed. Now. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“We’re going home.”
I thought I was home. “And where is that?”
“To the capital,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “To the wizards’ guild.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Two days and a long, bumpy carriage ride later, I’m standing in Newhaven, the capital city, staring at a two-story wooden house. Leora’s house, where she and her mother lived. And Hadrin. And . . . it’s also where her mother died.
The house is in a quiet neighborhood, on a street lined with beautiful houses, all with cobblestone walkways and hedge fences. Unlike its neighbors, though, this one has seen better days. It could use a new coat of paint, and a few of the shutters need replacing, and it’s obvious no one’s lived here for a few years at least. When Leora opens the front door, the movement stirs up a cloud of dust that makes us both cough and cover our noses.
I pause, standing just inside the doorway and gaping at the staircase with the intricately carved banister. At the shelves in the living room lined with expensive, leather-bound books that I wouldn’t even be allowed to touch back at the church. The couches—there’s more than one of them—look too nice to sit on, even with several layers of dust settled on them.
“Az,” Leora says, squeezing my hand, “I’m home.” She closes her eyes and just soaks it in for a minute.
“This is where you lived?” I can’t help sounding incredulous. Though I don’t know what else I expected. Even back then, Hadrin was a high-ranking wizard, running a top secret experiment. The Guild must have paid him well to torture me.
I picture the cramped cell I used to sleep in. The small bed with the thin, hard mattress that took up most of the space, so that there was hardly any room left to stand. I didn’t know any better. I thought that’s how everyone lived, until . . .
I press a hand to my forehead, remembering the day I discovered I was a prisoner and that the wizards all went home at night. Some of them lived at the guild, but most of them lived in houses, with families. I was six, maybe seven. I’d been in the wizards’ custody for a few years. I don’t know
where I lived before that—if it was better or worse. A couple of wizards were locking me up for the night, and, innocently, I asked them who locked them up when they went to bed. After all, if they were tucked away in their cells, who would turn the key? But they just laughed at me. A cruel kind of laughter that filled me with doubts about my situation.
Not that I thought everyone spent their days like I did, being tested and prodded and made to recite things I didn’t understand. That was before the chair, of course. They saved that for me until I was a little older.
“It must be weird for you,” I say, pushing those dark thoughts away. I’m glad Leora had a nice place to live. I’m just not glad that Hadrin did. “I mean, you haven’t been here since your mother died. Have you?”
She shakes her head. I follow her into the dining room, where there’s a long wooden table surrounded by fancy wooden chairs.
“Wow. Did you have the king and queen over for dinner often?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s exactly how I remember it. I doubt my father’s stepped foot in the place in years. Probably not since he left us. He’s certainly not here now.”
It’s true. Hadrin went straight back to his rooms at the High Guild as soon as we got to the city. He asked Leora if she remembered how to get here, double-checked that she remembered his room number if she needed to contact him—45B—and then abandoned us. Though not without a stern reminder that there was a guest room I should stay in, alone, and that if I even thought about touching his daughter, he’d drag me back to that chair himself. He said all this while Leora was in her favorite bakery, buying some twisty-looking pastry they apparently don’t have anywhere else. I refused to make him any promises, and he glared at me and clenched his teeth until I thought I heard one of them crack.
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