by Layton Green
He was sitting cross-legged in the cell after their shift, addressing Caleb, Dalen, and Marek. Thick callouses had formed on Will’s hands, the muscles in his forearms looked like grapefruits, and his blond hair brushed his eyes.
“That’s assuming a thousand things,” Caleb said. His hair hung past his shoulders, and Will thought he looked like a Hollywood actor starving himself for an indie role.
“Even if it works, then what?” Caleb continued. “You want us to risk our lives just because this darvish claimed to nobody in particular that she could free us? Free us how? She didn’t do a very good job saving herself from capture. And what if your cursed armband of Babel is lying to you? What if she’s really telling you to bring her a steak and some French fries?”
“What if she’s not?” Will said softly.
Caleb started to say something else, then fell silent.
Marek gave a slow nod. “I vill go vith you. It is better than rotting in here.”
“If she can guide us through the Darklands,” Will said, looking at Caleb and then Dalen, “she may be our only hope.”
“Or she might take us straight to hell,” Caleb muttered. “Look, of course I want to get out of here. I just think we need more of a plan. And before we do anything, I want to see Yasmina. We have to know she’s able to go with us.”
“I agree with that.” Will said. “But if her condition is worsening, getting her out of here is her only hope.”
“Let’s just find her.”
Dalen interlocked his fingers and placed his hands on his knees. “Aike, Will, none of this matters if we can’t escape this cell. And you haven’t told us how we’re going to do that.”
Will frowned and looked away. He hadn’t figured that one out yet, either.
“We might be able to help with that,” said a voice, followed by two shadows materializing in the near-darkness outside their cell.
Not just any voice, but a familiar female voice.
Yasmina.
-31-
Val realized he had turned down the prom queen. Adaira ignored him the next week, though he kept catching her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
But he had bigger problems to worry about, such as keeping his head above water in wizard school, avoiding the supernatural killer picking off his peers, and navigating the mysterious Planewalk so he could find his brothers.
He had gotten nowhere with Gowan. In addition to the pyromancer’s jealousy of Val’s acceptance into spiritmancy, Gowan had a crush on Adaira, and word had spread that Val and Lord Alistair’s daughter had been seen together at the pleasure garden.
Gowan refused to study with him, and Val had no other leads. He had scoured the Abbey library, the Hall of Wizards, and the Museum of History, but none of them mentioned the elusive spirit mage exam. He had twice returned to Bohemian Isle, and both times Alrick’s door had been shuttered.
On Friday morning, Val walked into the coterie house to find Adaira slumped into a chair, eyes red. Dida eyed him as he entered, then looked away. Gowan was staring straight ahead, and Riga had yet to arrive.
“What happened?” Val asked, looking around the group. “Dida?”
“Another murder has occurred,” the bibliomancer answered, more somber than Val had ever seen him. “The victim was Xavier.”
Though Professor Gormloch pressed on with class, it was a gentle session, and he let them go early. Xavier’s empty dais loomed beside them like a fresh grave.
After class, the five of them met on the rooftop for lunch. No one touched the food.
“He had children,” Adaira said. “A boy and a girl.”
Val had been thinking of that himself.
Adaira’s fingertips pressed into her temples. “We have to do something.”
“A memorial service?” Dida offered.
“Of course,” she said, eyes flashing. “But something more. He deserves justice.”
“Justice?” Dida echoed.
Adaira was staring in the direction of her father’s blue-white spire. “I’m going to find whoever’s doing this. I’m going to find him and stop him.” She looked them in the eye, one by one, though her gaze slipped away from Val. “Who will help me?”
The bibliomancer rested his palms on the table. “Xavier was my friend,” he said quietly. “I shall assist you.”
“Thank you,” Adaira said, then turned to Riga, the question unspoken.
“I am sorry,” the kethropi woman answered. “My consulate would never approve, and I fear my magic would be of little assistance to you. Please, if there is any way I might help from afar, let me know.”
Adaira pressed her lips together and nodded.
“I’ll help,” Gowan said. “I’ll find the bastard and burn him.”
Val had the feeling Gowan wanted to impress Adaira more than he wanted to find Xavier’s murderer. Or maybe, since he couldn’t be a spirit mage, he was desperate to stand out from the crowd.
Or maybe you’re too cynical, and the guy just wants to help.
Whatever the reason, this was an opportunity for Val to get closer to Gowan. Not only that, but Xavier had been Val’s friend. Though he doubted they would actually find the murderer, with all of them sticking together, it would lessen the danger quotient.
Adaira covered the pyromancer’s hand with her own, and Val could see his Adam’s apple bob. “Thank you, Gowan. Your prowess will be a most welcome addition.”
The pyromancer glowed at the compliment, and she removed her hand. After glancing at the clock on the wall, her eyes flicked to Val. “I propose that those who are interested meet here after discipline class. We’ll discuss how to proceed.”
When Val landed on his floating dais inside the Observatory, joining Lydia and Damon for the afternoon spiritmancy class, he raised his hand before Professor Azara could begin. It was time to expedite matters.
Her imperious gaze leveled on him. “Speak your mind.”
“I’d like to know more about the Planewalk. I feel it’s never too soon to begin preparing.”
Damon coughed a laugh, earning a glance from Professor Azara that silenced him like a muzzle.
“Val’s intentions are not misplaced,” she said to Damon. “And it would behoove you to emulate his habits, since he has made the most progress in class. Despite the fact—” this time her piercing stare was for Val –“that he still cannot fly.”
Val clenched his jaw at the rebuke. He was all too aware of that fact, and wished Professor Gormloch would hurry up and teach that skill. Val wanted to practice on his own but it was all he could do to keep up with his studies.
“By design,” Professor Azara continued, “the Planewalk is a trial that one cannot prepare for. Nor is outside assistance allowed, either from magical items or from other students.”
“How do we know when we’re ready?” Val pressed.
She whipped her gaze around. “You’re ready when the faculty deign you so, nish? Since the inquisitive mood is upon you, you should know that historically, no more than two graduates per year attempt the Planewalk.” Her chin lifted, her posture straight as a flagpole. “Only one time have both students succeeded. Often neither does.”
“They . . . perish?” Lydia asked, with a twitch of her thumb.
“One may choose to abort the test at any time, but some choose to continue rather than face failure. Now, then. Today is an important day. You’ve done well with your Wizard Shields, and we are ready to begin summoning spirit fire. Or at least to attempt.”
Val caught his breath. Summoning spirit.
“Beware,” Professor Azara continued, “that until you have mastered summoning spirit fire in class, you must not attempt it at home. If it escapes your grasp, you or those around you could perish.”
Val shifted on the dais. He remembered the black energy he had seen crackling at the fingertips of Professor Azara, the power he had sensed. He felt flushed, as if someone had turned up the heat in the room.
The Professor claspe
d her hands behind her as she paced. “We began with Wizard Shield for a reason, as the process of summoning spirit fire is analogous. Analogous—but one must reach deeper with spirit than with air. Much deeper. Concentrate as if forming your Wizard Shield, then choose a point of reference—I suggest a fingertip—and focus your will on that point. Pretend you are splitting apart this invisible point until you feel it opening. An act of great finesse. Once a crack is managed, you must fill that invisible space with your will, as much as possible. Shove your will inside. This is where strength is important. Quite literally, none of the other acolytes at this school are able to summon spirit fire—they have not the raw power. We believe that you can, which is why you are here, but whether we are correct, and to what degree, remains to be seen.”
After that daunting opening monologue, they spent the rest of the class attempting to call forth the mysterious energy of spirit. Val absorbed Professor Azara’s instructions, but try as he might, he failed to produce a spark.
His only consolation was that the other two failed as well.
“You may practice opening the doorway to spirit—finding the crack—at home,” Professor Azara said as class ended. “But no more than that. If you do succeed in creating an opening, you must not, under any circumstance, infuse it with your power.”
When Val returned to the coterie’s rooftop patio, only Adaira had arrived. Her hair was tied in a braid, and she was dressed in leather breeches, a cotton blouse, and a thin, pale blue traveling cloak. Val had untucked his white dress shirt, leaving the high collar unbuttoned.
He sat across from her. In a neutral tone, she said, “Xavier changed your mind?”
“That, and other things.”
“Such as?”
He decided not to answer, not wanting to lie to her if he didn’t have to, instead meeting her gaze and letting her imagination go to work.
Her gaze softened, and she put her hand over his. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Dida interrupted them, plopping down beside Val in a camel hair dinner jacket. Gowan arrived soon after, his heavy frame settling next to Adaira, the wool shirt and trousers matching his dark curls.
A butler brought out cold cuts, cheese, bread, and fresh pineapple juice. “As I’ve told Val,” Adaira said after they started eating, causing Gowan’s jaw to tighten, “I’ve talked to the majitsu in charge of the investigation.”
She relayed to Gowan and Dida what she knew about the first two murders. “And Xavier?” Val asked. “Where did his murder take place?”
“On the periphery of the French Quarter. Close to the site of the first murder, and not far from the Canal Bridge.”
“Were the details the same?”
Her eyes moistened, but her voice was venomous. “He was stabbed in the back. Similar claw marks on the body. It happened in an alley, between two busy streets. No witnesses have come forth.”
Val frowned. “What was Xavier doing in an alley in the French Quarter?”
“His lodging was nearby. I assume he chose it for reasons of thrift.”
“What do you propose?” Dida asked.
Adaira leaned forward. “Someone saw Xavier leave the Abbey library near midnight, placing him in the French Quarter not long after. The first murder was estimated to occur at a similar time.” She took a deep breath. “I propose to walk the quieter streets of the French Quarter near midnight, with the rest of you close by, ready to assist.”
“That’s a terrible plan,” Val said. “Either we’ll be too far away to help, or too close for the murderer to appear.”
“I have something in mind. An item that can keep you close but unseen.”
“Such as?” Gowan asked.
“A Sphere of Veiling.”
Gowan frowned. “None of us is advanced enough to cast such a spell.”
“I’m aware of that. It would involve a trip to the Goblin Market.”
“Hardly a place for acolytes,” Gowan muttered. “Not to be presumptuous, but do you not have access to an item that might help?”
You should be more presumptuous, Val thought. She might like you more.
Adaira’s voice turned cold. “I remind you that we’re not yet wizards. And quite obviously, I cannot ask for my father’s assistance in this endeavor. He has also restricted my access to our family’s magical possessions until I pass my discipline exam. I would ask the same of you, Gowan. Or are your family’s items restricted to spiritmancers?”
Gowan looked as if he had been pole-axed. Adaira relaxed her stare. “Forgive me,” she said. “That was unfair. We’re all on edge.”
Gowan swallowed, and Val almost felt sorry for him. “It’s fine,” the pyromancer muttered as he looked away. “It’s the truth.”
“When do you wish to leave for the Goblin Market?” Dida asked.
Adaira pushed her plate away, eying the declining sun. “Now.”
-32-
Caleb sprang to his feet. “Yasmina! Thank God you’re okay!”
Will watched with a lump in his throat as they embraced through the bars of the cell, reaching up to cup each other’s faces. The person standing beside Yasmina, an old man with wild hair and snowy eyes, was holding a skeleton key.
“I’m relieved beyond words to see you,” Will said to Yasmina, “but get us the hell out of here.”
The old man unlocked their cell. “This is Elegon,” Yasmina said. “After my fever broke, he helped me escape.”
“How?” Will asked. There were murmurs from some of the other cells, prisoners wanting to know what was happening.
“With a little help from some friends,” Yasmina said, with a mysterious glance at a mole scurrying inside the sleeve of her companion’s cloak. “I’ll tell you later, okay? Elegon thinks if we can reach one of the tunnels, there’s a small chance we can escape into the Darklands. After that—” her eyes slipped away—“our chances aren’t good.”
Will noticed Elegon glancing at Yasmina with kind but sad eyes, as if he knew a harsh reality of which she was unaware. Will wasn’t sure why, but he already trusted the old man.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Will said, “but I need my sword.”
He quickly told them about the plan to enlist the help of the darvish. Elegon leaned against the cell, nodding sagely. “An interesting idea, if you can free her.”
“It’s settled, then,” Will said. “Let’s go.”
Caleb peered into the darkened courtyard. “Now?”
“What about the other prisoners?” Dalen asked. A few cellblocks close to theirs had noticed what was going on, and were clamoring for release.
“If ve free all slaves,” Marek growled, “delvers hunt us down. If ve go alone, maybe not worth the trouble.”
Everyone was looking at Will. He mashed his hands together, trying to decide what to do, remembering the prisoner the tuskers had stuffed into a pot. It was a damnable choice. Still, it was not his to make. Everyone should have the right to choose their own destiny. “Marek’s right. If we free everyone, our chance of a stealthy escape goes way down.” He ran a hand through his hair, took the key from Elegon, and unlocked the next cell over. “But I can’t leave them.”
“Good choice, little bro,” Caleb murmured.
To Will’s surprise, only one of the four prisoners left the cell, a red-headed woman with tribal tattoos covering her face. The other prisoners watched her leave with disbelieving stares. “Where will you go?” one asked. “It’s certain death out there.”
“Better death than captivity,” the woman said.
“Aye,” Marek agreed.
“Free whoever wants to leave,” Will told her. “After that, you’re on your own.”
She clasped his hand, forearm to forearm. “Thank you,” she said, then hurried to the next cell over.
The six companions crept through the silence of the ruined delver city. They knew the way to the barracks, but it took time to peer around each blind corner and pile of rubble for signs of a guard. Will knew the exit tunne
ls and the funiculars were swarming with delvers—a problem they would soon have to confront—but the interior of Olde Fellengard was quiet. It must be what passed for nighttime.
The octagonal roof of the barracks came into view. As they approached, the party kept to the intervals of darkness between the hanging mineral lanterns, eyes straining for signs of a sentry.
“Two by the door,” Dalen whispered, pointing out a pair of shadowy forms near the front entrance of the barracks. Delvers, each carrying a shield and a war hammer.
A large courtyard fronted the barracks. The party slipped behind the last building before the open space, and Caleb pointed out a flat-roofed structure on the left. “That’s where they took our gear when we arrived. I’ve got no idea if it’s still there.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Will said. “Dalen, can you provide a diversion?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do better than that. Caleb, as soon as Marek and I engage, you’re on.”
Caleb swallowed, palmed the sliver of tilectium he planned to use as a lock pick, and started creeping through the shadows towards the equipment room. Will prayed his brother was up to the task.
And then, as the group made a rough plan of attack, he prayed that he was.
As Dalen wove his hands through the air, an emerald mist started to form. The illusion took the rough form of a delver girl, albeit a green and insubstantial one.
“You’re getting better,” Will murmured.
Dalen blew out a breath, and the illusion drifted in view of the guards. Will heard them gasp, and Dalen pulled his creation back behind the wall.
“Help,” Yasmina cried, in the voice of a little girl. “Help me.”
Will heard boots slapping on stone. He exchanged a look with Marek as the party backed against the wall. Once the delvers rounded the corner, Dalen disintegrated the illusion, stunning the guards with a flash of green light.
Will and Marek pounced.