The room tilted. Viper backed away and sat down on the cold stone bench at the side of the room. He rested his face in his hands.
“Stop your sniveling, boy.” The captain slapped his palm on the desk. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Doing? He looked up in weary bewilderment. He wasn’t doing anything. Not even thinking clearly.
“The deceased was the child’s only guardian,” the sergeant said mildly. “I expect the boy feels like a bull kicked him.”
“That’s no excuse,” the captain muttered. “How did Trevor die?”
Tears clogged his throat. “Murdered.” And he’d helped the murderer.
“Where?”
“In the– the–” Blast, he couldn’t take them to the Lab. He’d sworn he’d never take anyone down to the labyrinth. Sworn to Trevor on his very first trip down the spiral steps. “I can’t say.”
“Can’t say.” The captain leaned back and glared at him. “What was he doing to get himself killed?”
“He was searching in the Obsidian Mirror for trouble in Shi.” Viper sat up straight. He would give full honor to Trevor’s achievements. “The Mirror exploded. A stone splinter lodged in his eye.” And burned his brain out, from the look of it. Nausea rose and battered at his mouth. He wouldn’t throw up in front of these horrid people. He wouldn’t.
“Poor old Trevor.” Bahtdor Nose choked down a laugh.
The captain spun to face the herbalist. “What do you mean?”
“Trevor’s mad pride caught up with him.” Frujeur chortled, though tried to look sober. “Please forgive me for laughing, but it’s so tragically funny. The old idiot always fancied himself to be wizard material, and that’s what killed him. An Obsidian Mirror is eleventh level magic. Sorcery only goes up to eighth level. He overstepped his ability, and the backlash killed him. How pitiful.”
“He was successful,” Viper whispered. “There’s a Mindbender in Shi.”
“There, there, boy.” Frujeur patted the muzzle of a stuffed deer. “I know it’s a shock. But poor old Trevor only imagined that he saw dire things. He always was given to crazy experiments.”
The captain glared in Viper’s direction. “So it’s not murder after all.”
“But it appears there was a death,” the sergeant said. “The child has no way of knowing the true cause.”
“Assuming there was a death, why he won’t tell us how to find the body? What’s this chatter about a mirror? And a stone splinter?”
None of that was important. “We have to shut down the spell!”
Bahtdor Nose snorted. “Magic collapses as soon as a sorcerer relaxes his attention. Trevor wasn’t good enough to create a wizard-level spell.”
“He was!” Viper fought back the tears that pressed against his eyelids. “I helped create the spell.” He balanced on the edge of hysteria, and he knew it, but each word rose higher on a musicless scale of misery. “I helped, and it killed him. I couldn’t protect him, I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t save him– His soul is in it.” He covered his mouth with both hands to stop himself from howling to the moons. How could Trevor be dead?
The captain rolled his eyes. “How old is this child?”
“Twelve or thirteen, I think.” Frujeur shrugged. “Hard to tell with mongrels.”
He wasn’t a mongrel. He wasn’t a child. Not anymore.
“That old.” The captain’s gaze swept over him. “I had thought him much younger. Still, he’s too young to be on his own. We’ll have to place him in the orphanage until we verify the old man’s death.”
“Thunderer, no!” Viper jerked his knees to his chest and scooted back against the cold wall. Trevor had warned him about the orphanages here. Even Lorel got pale when anyone mentioned them.
“That won’t be necessary.” Bahtdor Nose bobbed on his toes. “Trevor was a good man, a worthy associate. I can take on his apprentice.”
The sergeant frowned. “But we don’t have a corpse. How do we know the boy is orphaned?”
“Someone has to take him. Let the sorcerers work it out between themselves.” The captain turned to his desk. “Sign these papers, master sorcerer. Unless a better claim is filed, the boy is your responsibility.”
Wait, they’d handed him off to Bahtdor Nose? They couldn’t do that! Could they?
The captain glared at him. “The City Guard will be watching you. If you try to run away I’ll lock you up in prison for a few days before I consign you to an orphanage.”
He tried to hide it, but a shudder rattled his bones. Lorel said children came out of prison looking worse than dead. He knew that feeling.
For now he’d obey Frujeur. But just until he got word to Faye to come rescue him. And to Samiderf to go recover Trevor’s body, and to shut down that renegade spell.
˜™
Sleeping on the floor of Bahtdor Nose’s shop hadn’t been restful. Every time he moved the shackle attached to his ankle clanked like the warning bell on a plague hearse. His only consolation was the chains on Natalie and Belle’s legs jangled just as loudly. What was the point of chaining them? There was nowhere to go.
Darkness slowly gave way to morning. Pink light reflected off the cobblestones like diluted blood. Viper yawned and glanced toward the street. It wasn’t even properly dawn yet.
Brown-furred horses snorted and stomped in Frujeur’s tiny courtyard. Rented, according to Belle. Old Bahtdor Nose was too poor to afford a horse of his own. How did he manage to pay two apprentices? Or servants. He still wasn’t clear on the girls’ status.
One of the creatures jerked its head up and yanked its rope out of Frujeur’s grasp. The old man grabbed the rope and punched the animal’s neck. All of the horses Lorel drooled over seemed much calmer than these beasts. Had Bahtdor Nose had chosen these monsters in hopes of frightening him? Or were they half-crazy from the way he treated them?
Natalie’s bruised face hovered just inside the shop’s entrance. Frujeur’s apprentice peeked around the edge of the door as if she feared the herbalist would hit her if he noticed her. Which he might. The cold goat had slugged her twice just this morning.
The girl’s patched skirt reminded him that he needed a change of clothing, or he’d soon look just as pathetic. If he didn’t already. He was covered with dust and ash and his own dried blood.
Viper trudged down the steps. He was only a few blocks from home. If he was allowed to call it home now that Trevor was dead.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Bahtdor Nose paused at whatever he was doing to the horse and glared at him.
He hesitated several feet from the gate. Did he need permission? “Could I run to Trevor’s house and get some clean clothes?”
Bahtdor Nose shook his head and checked a strap. “No need, boy. Traveling will just get them dirty.” The horse Frujeur was saddling shied and stamped.
He could probably walk under the beast without ducking his head. “I’ve never ridden a horse by myself.”
“You’re going to learn how very quickly, aren’t you.” Frujeur checked the strap again. “Or do you want to back down?”
“I’d rather be your apprentice than your slave.” Viper shook his head. He wished he could shake the numbness away. “If you don’t want me, why don’t you send me to Samiderf or Marise? They’d take me in.”
“But I do want you, dear boy.” Frujeur pulled at another strap. “Besides, the city gave you to me. You are my responsibility and my property until you gain eighteen years.”
He wasn’t property. He was his own responsibility. He didn’t need anything from sandblasted Bahtdor Nose.
“The offer stands, boy. You can come with me and take my apprentice test, or you can stay and serve in my shop and home. After all, I do need a new servant. Natalie will be eighteen in less than a lunar, and while I love her dearly, I don’t think I can induce her to stay much longer.”
Natalie cringed and backed farther into the shadows.
Frujeur turned from the horses and looked directly at Viper for
the first time that morning. “I’m a good master, boy. You’ll have your play times. Why don’t we call off this ridiculous trip and stay home to enjoy the day?”
A good master? Who did Bahtdor Nose think he was kidding? But riding out to the middle of nowhere on one of those monsters? What choice did he have?
The horses were so tall he couldn’t see their backs. His life was so messed up he couldn’t see any future. What would he do without Trevor? Without his silly grin, his wild enthusiasms, his unconditional trust?
Darkness swarmed over him. He couldn’t seem to breathe.
“Well, boy? I don’t have all day. Choose.”
He gasped for air. “I’m a third level apprentice.” Almost, anyway. Trevor had believed in him. He threw back his shoulders and stood as tall as he could. “I’ll take your test.”
“So get on that horse and let’s go.” Frujeur snorted rudely and swung into the saddle. “That is, if you can.”
Pretending he was simply climbing another cliff wall instead of a fidgeting, stomping, snorting monster, Viper clambered up the side of the horse and into the saddle. The foot thingies – hadn’t Lorel called them stirrups? – dangled far below his feet.
Natalie darted out of the shadows. “Be careful,” she whispered.
He reached down and squeezed her thin hand.
Frujeur kicked his horse into turning around, and headed it in the direction of the mountains.
Viper nearly slid out of the saddle when his beast shook itself and followed. His fingers grabbed its brown hair – its mane? – and clung like tangleweed in desert grass. How was he supposed to control the creature?
Natalie dashed to its head and led the horse for two blocks. She handed him the reins and whispered instructions on how to start, stop, and turn the beast, as well as how not to fall off.
By the time she left him, he felt confident that he didn’t know what the deathwind he was doing.
His horse seemed to know, though. It followed Bahtdor Nose’s beast no matter what he told it to do. Up the hill, past the Trader’s Inn, through the orchard and into the forest.
After several hours in the saddle – hours he wanted to forget as quickly as possible – the sun slid behind the never-ending mountains. He tried to concentrate on the boulders, the trees, the clouds, the flowers. On everything except his aching back, his throbbing thighs and calves, his pulverized rear end.
And its endless, jouncing contact with the saddle.
It was nearly dark when Frujeur announced, “This is close enough. Gather wood for a cook fire.” He glanced at Viper and chuckled before swinging down from his saddle.
The horrible man had been laughing at him all day. Had his misery been that obvious? The nasty jokes had petered out soon after he’d stopped talking to the cold goat. If that was all it took the shut the sandcrab up, he’d never speak again.
He rolled onto his belly and relaxed enough to slide off his horse. Down, down, down. Finally his feet met the ground. His knees refused to hold him up, and he had to lean against the animal’s warm, sweaty fur.
The horse turned its head and gave him a dirty look.
Thunderer, don’t let the wicked creature step on him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever walk again, even without a mashed foot. As big as it was, the horse would stomp his foot clear off.
Given any alternative, he’d never get on another horse. No wonder Trevor always chose to walk. My poor legs. My poor tail. I’ll never be able to walk again. Never.
But he’d rather walk home than get on another horse. Sandblasted monsters. Why on Menajr did Lorel worship them?
He glanced over at Bahtdor Nose, sighed, and limped to the edge of the forest to gather fallen branches. He stacked the wood in the center of an old, well-used fire pit. Who came out to this forsaken dip in the mountains?
Frujeur tended to the horses, but glanced around frequently. Was he afraid they’d been followed? Who would bother? No one even cared that Trevor was dead.
He lay down in sweet meadow grass and swallowed back tears. No one cared but him, and he couldn’t do anything about it.
Once the horses were hobbled, Bahtdor Nose started the fire with matches. Trevor never used matches. Never needed to.
The old man hauled a griddle out of a saddle bag, plunked it over the flames, and set some cakes on it.
The aroma was almost enough to get Viper to crawl over to the fire, but the pain in his legs and pelvis changed his mind.
“Get up and join me for supper.” Frujeur snickered and walked over to stare down at him. “You’re too weak as it is. You’ll need your strength for tonight. Sit up and eat.”
No thank you. It just wasn’t worth moving.
Frujeur kicked him in the butt, right on a saddle sore.
He lost control and shrieked like a turybird.
Bahtdor Nose howled with laughter. “You sound just like– something I was thinking about. Caught me quite off guard. Do forgive me.”
Forgive him? Who was he kidding? The cold goat had hurt him on purpose. His rear end was probably bleeding from a broken saddle sore. He’d have blood on his trousers, and he’d look like the night Kraken had– No, he wouldn’t think about that.
Frujeur raised his foot for another kick, but let him roll out of reach. He chuckled at Viper’s icy glare. “Come eat, boy.”
Food didn’t seem worth the trouble, but neither was arguing with Bahtdor Nose. Or rather, with his boots and fists.
The griddle cakes didn’t smell as good as they had earlier, but after Frujeur sprinkled spice and sugar on them, they tasted even better.
But the old man hadn’t used the brown powder on his own cakes.
Viper stopped eating. “What’s in the spice? Why aren’t you eating it?”
“Too hard on my belly.” The herbalist shrugged and took another bite. “One of the disadvantages of getting old. You know it’s too late to worry about it, don’t you? But it’s only ground cinnamon and anise.”
Anise and what else? But he finished the last bites of cake.
Frujeur set the griddle aside and lit a torch from the fire. “It’s time to start.” Light flared and wavered as the pitch hissed and sputtered.
“Why the torch?” Trevor only used a candle when he was conserving his magic. And only used a will-light when it was too dark to see his feet. “The Monitor is bright enough to walk by, and the Miner will be up soon.”
“We must find our objective before the Miner rises.” Frujeur stalked away from the camp. “Come along and stay quiet.”
He sighed and trudged after old Bahtdor Nose. His saddle sores burned worse with every shuffled step. Only walking bowlegged kept the blisters from rubbing on his clothing. The cold goat would fall over laughing if he noticed him walking like a footsore prairie chicken.
Frujeur led the way down to the valley floor, searching the ground intently. His torch stank of green pine and rancid pitch. Didn’t the old man know how to build a decent torch? Or was that burning herbs he smelled?
They left the rocky trail, and the scents of sweet grass and wildflowers rose from around their feet.
Viper stumbled along behind. It would be easier to see without the flickering torchlight. Should he try to explain it to Bahtdor Nose? Not worth the trouble. The cold goat never listened to him.
It didn’t help that his legs felt seven feet long, and as wobbly as limp celery stalks.
Besides, he was unwilling to disturb the silence of the vale. It was a comfortable, warm silence, rather like the labyrinth. It made him want to curl up and listen.
“This hole makes me thread-fraying nervous,” Frujeur muttered.
What hole? What was there to be nervous about? There weren’t any trees around to molest them.
“Where is it?” Frujeur held the torch higher. Pitch spluttered and flared. “It’s got to be here. But where?”
The sorcerer swung the torch to the side. “At last.” He knelt by a plant with several long, broad leaves shaped like floppy rabbit ears.
“This is it. Hold the torch, boy. You may speak now, but keep your voice down.”
“Are we stealing something?”
Frujeur glanced up at him and snorted. “It’s part of the ritual that the valley must remain quiet. This is your test. Do you understand?”
Viper shook his head. This so-called test had puzzled him from the beginning.
“I want you to wait until the Miner sits atop that mountain.” The herbalist pointed east, but continued to stroke the velvety leaves with his other hand. “When the Miner is wholly risen and balanced there, I want you to pull up this root. Do you think you can manage that?”
Viper felt his eyes grow wide. He nodded silently, but his stomach sank. Could the grimy old man really expect him to pull a–
“I’ll be back at sunrise.” Frujeur gave the leaf a final gentle stroke, stood, and dusted off his knees. “Wait here for me. You will wait for me here?”
He nodded. He couldn’t find his voice to protest.
“Good boy.” Frujeur took the torch back and strutted away. His boots barely missed two other velvet-leaved plants.
Mandrake root. That bloody chunk of bahtdor bait had left him here with orders to pull a mandrake root.
No wonder he thought it so funny when I screeched. He thinks a silly root can scream. He also thinks that moon time is important. He can’t will open a door, he can’t mind-light a fire, and he can’t see a mandrake unless he steps on one.
He’s got a lot of gall, claiming to take me on as apprentice when Trevor thought he was only third level, himself.
Viper stroked the leaves, one after another.
You could be the death of me, you poor little plant. Either I pull you and go mad, else I go with Bahtdor Nose as a slave. Or I could run away and be a hermit in these mountains. But I don’t think I’d live long here.
What if pulling the root actually can kill me? Or worse, cripples me?
The Racer rose and began its mad dash across the night sky. In the bright white moonlight, the leaves appeared to be a deep velvet burgundy.
How lovely you are, little plant. How lovely. I really don’t want to hurt you.
He touched the leaves at their base near the root and felt reassured. The mandrake would not mind.
Sorcery's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 2) Page 8