by Jasmine Walt
Gala grinned at him, as eager as a child, and dove into another book, flipping through it with the same inhuman speed.
Taking a deep, calming breath, Blaise decided to leave her to it and quietly exited the library.
He needed some time to himself to figure out what happened and to think about what to do next.
Entering his study, Blaise sat down at his desk and pricked his finger, starting a Life Capture session out of habit. He always recorded himself at work these days, just in case he had some kind of a revelation and needed to relive it later.
Of course, he wasn’t expecting to have any kind of revelation about Gala right now. What happened today was so incredible, he could barely begin to process it.
He had created a magical being. A super-intelligent magical being with potential for unimaginable powers.
A being who was also the most beautiful woman Blaise had ever seen.
In hindsight, the fact that Gala took on a human shape made perfect sense. Blaise had been striving to create a mind that was similar to a human’s—a mind that could understand regular spoken language and convert it into the sorcery code directly, without having to use any kind of magical objects or spells. He should’ve considered the possibility that a mind like that would take on a human appearance.
But he hadn’t, focusing instead only on the idea that an intelligent object created in the Spell Realm could be used by anyone, regardless of their aptitude for sorcery. An object like that—particularly if made in large quantities—would’ve been a game changer, forever altering the class dynamics in their society and completing the process started by the Enlightenment.
Gala was not the object he’d meant to create, but it didn’t matter. She was something else—something even more wonderful.
His brother Louie would’ve been proud, Blaise thought, reaching for his journal.
5
Augusta
The sun was beginning to set, and Barson issued the order to stop for the night. Augusta gladly dismounted and stretched, her body aching from unaccustomed exercise. She would have to do a healing spell on herself later; otherwise, she might be sore tomorrow.
“Dinnertime for your men?” she asked, following Barson toward a tent that the soldiers were already setting up for him.
“First practice, then dinner,” he said, courteously lifting the tent flap for her. “You can rest if you’d like. I should be with you in an hour or so.”
“Rest in a tent while your boys play with swords?” Augusta lifted her eyebrows at him. “You’re joking, right? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
He grinned at her. “Then come and watch.”
They walked together to a small clearing where most of the other guards were gathered. As they approached, Barson’s men respectfully stepped aside, clearing the way for them.
“Why don’t you get on your chaise?” Barson suggested, turning toward her. “It will provide you with a good view and keep you safely out of the way.”
Augusta smiled, charmed by his concern for her. “Sure, let me get it.” Although she’d ridden here on the horse, she’d had the chaise follow them at some distance, just in case it was needed.
Pulling out her Interpreter Stone—a shimmering black rock that resembled a large piece of polished coal with a slot in the middle—Augusta loaded it with a pre-written spell for summoning her chaise and waited. Two minutes later, the chaise arrived, landing softly on the grass. Deep red in color, it was shaped like the piece of furniture it had been named after. However, it was made of a special crystalline material that looked like glass but was warm and soft to the touch, like a plush, padded armchair. Augusta had invented this particular magical object fairly recently, and it had caught on among the sorcerer community immediately. It looked quite incongruous here, among all the trees, and Augusta almost laughed at the looks on the men’s faces as they stared at it.
Climbing onto the chaise, Augusta did a quick verbal spell to get it hovering in the air a little to the right above the clearing. Then, comfortably tucking her feet underneath herself, she leaned on one of the sides and prepared to watch the spectacle that was about to unfold.
Archery practice was first.
Augusta watched in fascination as one man let loose a strange-looking arrow. Large and covered with extra feathers, it appeared to be flying a little slower than usual, making it easier to see mid-flight.
Before she could wonder about its purpose, she saw the feathery arrow get hit by another arrow—an ordinary one this time. Apparently, the large arrow was the target—a target that some soldier had managed to hit with unbelievable accuracy.
Looking down on the ground, she saw that the men were divided into pairs, with one guard sending up those arrows and his partner shooting them down. Every time the target was reached, there would be cheers from the other soldiers. If Augusta hadn’t seen this herself, she wouldn’t have believed it was possible to perform this feat even once—yet every single one of Barson’s men managed to do this. The mathematics involved were staggering, and Augusta marveled at the ability of the human mind to do something so complicated without any conscious calculations.
Finally, it was Barson’s turn. Looking up, he gave her a wink, then motioned to his soldiers. To Augusta’s shock, not one, but two men sent up the special feathery arrows—and her lover’s arrow pierced them both in one shot. The other soldiers cheered, but not any louder than for any of the others. Apparently, it wasn’t the first time their Captain had done something so impossible.
After archery, the guards sparred with swords. Augusta watched with bated breath as steel clashed against steel, making her flinch every time someone narrowly avoided an injury. Even though this was only practice, the swords used by the men were quite real—and potentially quite deadly.
All of the soldiers appeared to be highly skilled, however, and nobody was getting hurt, causing Augusta to relax a little. Observing the fighters, she couldn’t help but take pleasure in the sight of their strong, fit bodies twisting and turning as they engaged in a kind of macabre dance. There was beauty to war, she thought, watching as they thrust and parried with incredible grace.
Barson was walking around the clearing, giving pointers and instructions to his soldiers. She wondered if he would fight as well—and if so, whether he would be as skilled with the sword as he was with the arrow.
As though in answer to her unspoken question, Barson walked to the middle of the clearing, stopping the fight between the men who were there. “You four,” he said, pointing at them, “I need some warm-up.”
Warm-up? Augusta grinned, realizing that her lover was probably trying to impress her.
The four big men approached Barson gingerly. Were they actually scared to go four against one? Augusta knew the Captain of the Sorcerer Guard was good at what he did, but she had never actually seen him in action.
The four soldiers took their positions, surrounding their leader. What happened next was so amazing, Augusta couldn’t help but gasp.
Barson started moving slowly, in a strange pattern, somehow keeping all four men in his sight at all times. Then he lashed out with lightning speed, apparently spotting an opening, and Augusta saw a droplet of red welling up from a scratch on one of the soldiers’ wrists.
First blood, she thought, mesmerized by what was happening.
The blood seemed to serve as some kind of a signal, and all four guards attacked at once. To Augusta’s untrained eye, there was only a flurry of movement. Barson’s blade seemed to be everywhere, blocking every move his opponents made with a skill and speed that seemed superhuman. There was something hypnotic in the way Barson moved. Every gesture, every move, was perfectly calibrated. He dodged thrusts, while using the same turn to deliver an attack. His deadly proficiency was breathtaking.
“More,” he shouted after a few minutes. “I need more.”
Four more fighters joined in. Augusta directed her chaise to fly closer, because all she could see now was a row of
bodies surrounding Barson’s powerful figure.
Suddenly, there was a scream.
Augusta’s heart skipped a beat, but then she saw that one of the other soldiers—not Barson—was on the ground, clutching his thigh. The others stopped fighting, forming a circle around the wounded man.
Landing her chaise, Augusta quickly jumped off and ran toward them. Barson was kneeling beside the man, a look of dismay on his face. The soldiers stepped aside, letting her through, and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the gushing wound in the man’s leg. To her astonishment, Augusta saw that the man was very young—barely more than a boy.
Barson ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt and tied it around the soldier’s thigh. “This should help the bleeding. I am sorry, Kiam,” he said somberly.
“These things happen in practice,” said Kiam, clearly trying to keep the pain out of his voice.
“No, it’s my fault,” Barson said. “I shouldn’t have taken on so many of you. Like a rookie, I couldn’t control where I aimed my thrust.”
At that point, he seemed to notice Augusta’s presence, and she knew what Barson was going to ask before he even said it.
“Can you help him?” he said, looking up at her.
Augusta nodded and walked back to the chaise, where she’d left her bag. Strictly speaking, using sorcery on non-sorcerers was frowned upon. However, these were special circumstances. Now that she wasn’t so panicked, Augusta recognized the boy. Kiam was the son of Moriner, a Council member from the north. She remembered the Councilor saying that his youngest son didn’t seem to have any aptitude for magic, only for fighting. But even if Kiam had been a nobody, she would’ve still helped him as a favor to Barson.
Grabbing her Interpreter Stone, Augusta carefully chose the cards she needed. The boy was lucky that she and Blaise had come up with this invention. If she’d had to rely on the old oral spells, Kiam would’ve likely bled to death while she planned and chanted something of this complexity. Even Moriner, who was considered the foremost expert on verbal spell casting, would’ve been unable to help his son in time.
Written sorcery was much quicker, especially since Augusta already had some of the components of the spell in her bag. All she had to do now was tailor those components to Kiam’s body weight, height, and the specifics of his injury. When she was ready, she walked back and set the Stone next to Kiam, loading the paper cards into it on the way.
The flow of blood from Kiam’s thigh slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Within a minute, no trace of the injury remained, and Kiam’s face lost its pallor, looking healthy again. The young man got up, as though nothing had happened, and Augusta could see the looks of awe and admiration on the soldiers’ faces. She smiled, glowing with pride at her accomplishment.
Without saying a word, Barson squeezed her shoulder with rough affection, and she grinned at him, looking forward to the night to come.
Practice was over for the day.
6
Barson
Barson watched Augusta as she walked away, her hips swaying with the seductive grace that was as much a part of her as her golden brown eyes. She was a beautiful woman, and he was glad she’d chosen him to be her lover. She still pined for that exiled sorcerer, he knew, but not when she was in Barson’s bed. He’d made certain of that.
“That was not particularly smooth, I have to say,” a voice drawled next to him, interrupting his musings.
Turning his head, Barson saw his right-hand man and soon-to-be brother-in-law. “Shut up, Larn,” he said without much heat. “Kiam will be fine, and he’ll know better than to jump under my sword the next time.”
Larn shook his head. “I don’t know, Barson. That kid is a hothead; I’ve warned you about him before—”
“Yeah, yeah, look who’s talking. You think I don’t remember all the trouble you got into when you were his age?”
Larn snorted. “Oh please, you’re a fine one to talk. How many times did Dara have to plead your case? If it weren’t for your sister, you’d still be grounded to this day.”
Barson grinned at his friend, remembering all the mishaps they’d gotten into as children.
“He reminds me of you quite a bit actually,” Larn said, glancing in the direction of Kiam, who had picked up his sword again, apparently getting ready to practice on his own time. Then, lowering his voice, he said in a more serious tone, “Can she hear us?”
“I don’t think so,” Barson said, though he wasn’t entirely sure. One could never be certain with sorcerers; they were sneaky and had spells that could enhance their eavesdropping abilities. However, Augusta would have no reason to do such a spell right now—not when she was getting ready for bed in his tent. “In any case, it’s far safer to talk here than anywhere in the vicinity of the Tower.”
“That’s probably true,” Larn agreed, still keeping his voice low. “Why did she come along, anyway?”
Barson shrugged.
“Oh, the legendary Barson strikes again.” Larn wiggled his eyebrows lasciviously.
Barson’s hand shot out with the speed of a striking cobra, grabbing Larn’s throat. “You will show her respect,” he ordered, filled with sudden anger.
“Of course, I’m sorry . . .” Larn sounded choked. “I didn’t realize—”
“Well, now you do,” Barson muttered, releasing his friend. “And you better hope she didn’t hear any of this.”
Larn paled. “You said she couldn’t—”
“And she probably can’t,” Barson agreed. “The fact that you’re still alive is evidence of that.” Like all members of the Council, Augusta could be quite dangerous if provoked.
Larn stepped back, rubbing his throat. “Your sorceress aside,” he said in a low, raspy voice, “we have some business to discuss.”
Barson nodded, feeling a small measure of guilt at his lack of control. “Tell me,” he said curtly. Larn was his best friend and his most trusted soldier; soon, he would be family as well. Barson shouldn’t have reacted so strongly to his good-natured ribbing. What did it matter what anyone thought of his relationship with Augusta? He must be feeling particularly violent after the practice fight, he decided, not wanting to analyze his actions too much.
“I made a list of the most likely candidates.” Larn pulled out a small scroll and handed it to Barson. “Before, I could’ve sworn that none of these men could do this, but now I’m not so sure.”
Barson unrolled the scroll and studied the eleven names written on there, his anger growing again. Lifting his head, he pinned Larn with an icy stare. “They all fit the behavior pattern?”
“Yes. All of them. Of course, there could always be some other reason for their actions—a mistress or some such thing.”
“Yes,” Barson agreed. “For ten of them, it’s probably something like that.” His hands clenched into fists, and he forced himself to relax. Every one of the eleven men on that list was like a brother to him, and the thought that one of them could’ve betrayed him was like poison in Barson’s veins.
Taking a deep breath, he glanced at the list again, mentally running through each of the names. One name in particular jumped out at him. “Siur is on there,” he said slowly.
“Yes,” Larn said. “I noticed that, too. He didn’t come with us this time. Did he tell you why?”
“No. He said he needed to stay in Turingrad. It’s Siur, not some rookie, so I didn’t press him for explanations.”
Larn nodded thoughtfully. “All right. I’ll continue working on this list and keeping an eye on the ones already there.”
“Good,” Barson said, turning away to hide the fury on his face.
No matter what it took, he would get to the bottom of this matter—and when he did, the man who betrayed him would pay.
7
Blaise
Wrapping up the Life Capture recording, Blaise came back to the library to check on Gala. To his surprise, he saw her lying on the floor unconscious, in the middle of a huge pile of books.
/> Worried, he ran to her and crouched down to take a closer look. To his relief, he saw that she looked quite peaceful, her breathing slow and even. She was simply sleeping.
Without thinking too much about it, Blaise picked her up and carried her to one of the guest bedrooms. She was light in his arms, her body soft and feminine, and he found himself enjoying the experience. Reaching the room, he gently placed her on the bed, and as he was covering her with a blanket, she opened her eyes.
For a moment, she seemed confused, then her gaze cleared. “I think I fell asleep,” she said in astonishment.
Blaise smiled. “I would’ve thought you wouldn’t know what sleep was like.”
“I didn’t before, but I learned quite a bit from your books.”
He studied her with fascination, wondering if she’d read all those hundreds of books that were lying on the library floor. “How many books did you get through?” he asked.
She sat up in bed, brushing a few strands of long blond hair off her face. “Three hundred and forty nine.”
Blaise blinked. “That’s very precise. Are you sure it wasn’t three hundred and forty eight?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said seriously, then smiled. “In fact, it was 138,902 pages and 32,453,383 words.”
“Are those the exact figures?” He could hardly believe his ears.
Gala nodded, still smiling. In a flash of intuition, Blaise realized that she knew just how much she had impressed him—and that she was enjoying his reaction tremendously.
“All right,” Blaise said slowly. “How do you know this?”
She shrugged. “I just know. As soon as I wanted to tell you, the numbers came to me. I guess I must’ve counted as I was reading, but I don’t remember doing it.”
“I see,” Blaise said, watching her closely. On a hunch, he asked, “What is 2,682 times 5?”