Mine to Spell (Mine #2)

by Janeal Falor

  He scoots back, and I can breathe again. I use the opportunity to focus on the topic and not on my confusing feelings. “Just an excuse? What are you planning to do while you’re here then?”

  “I’m going to help you safely register for the tournament, and then we’re going to practice until you’re ready to defeat them all.”

  For the first time since I decided to enter in the tournament, hope courses through me with the thought that it may actually happen.

  Chapter Ten

  My nerves bounce about like bits of magic bursting to get free as we near the tournament headquarters three days later, yet I don’t let them show. I do slow, though. With Lukas at my side and a plan in place, there’s no reason not to go through with this. I can do it. It will work. Except knowing so doesn’t make it any easier to slog on.

  “You do know that by participating in the tournament, you could die,” Lukas says.

  And there is that. “Thank you for being so encouraging.”

  “Sorry. It just occurred to me we never talked about the usual risks. The fact you’re a woman trying to cross into a man’s world and the council hunting you down seemed like enough.”

  Yes, all that. With everything against me, the usual risks seem minor in comparison. Warlocks did die last year though, some of them hexed painfully to bring about their end. My voice is small. “I know.” And I keep walking.

  He nods like he approves of my determination. Or perhaps he’s just agreeing. The door to the building swings closed after a warlock enters.

  “I’m right here,” Lukas says.

  The words are reassuring as he opens the door for me and guides me in with a hand on the small of my back. The light touch is comforting. I draw strength from it, but the moment the door closes behind us, it’s gone. The loss is immediate and aching, especially with everyone in the room staring right at me. Not the type of staring one wants either but the type of stares that send girls crying into dark basements.

  I’ve seen those looks before. Too many times. I’ve survived them. Serena may have done much to protect me, but I wasn’t wholly kept from punishment. I’ve lived through hexes before; I can live through them again. Whatever comes, I’ll take it and come out stronger. Or dead.

  Wish that thought had not have come. It’s harder to paste the smile on my face. Yet, I do it. I give a smile that’s faker than a warlock being kind and march to the end of the long line.

  The warlocks stare at me as if I’ve jewelry pouring out my ears. The desire to stare at the wood-slatted floor is unbearably strong, rife with years of acquiescing, yet I keep my gaze firmly locked on the white wall behind the warlocks at the counter. No longer will I look down for them.

  The warlocks at the counter are having a hurried conversation while one of them sends a spelled message flying out the window. As they debate, the collar of my dress grows more choking, tighter and tighter as if someone has hexed it to render me unconscious. Yet, there is no hex plaguing me, only the stifling expectations of women’s dress crowded by my fears.

  Thankfully, I’m not forced to wait long with the imaginary hex. Unthankfully, one of the warlocks from behind the counter has stopped debating and is heading straight for me, meaning a real hex could be unleashed momentarily.

  We have a plan. This will work.

  “Get out. Women aren’t welcome.” A burgundy hex flickers at his fingertips, proving my fears valid, but he doesn’t strike me. Yet.

  “That may be. Except I’m not just any woman.” I widen my smile in spite of it all. “I am Cynthia, Stephen’s daughter, and I was given my freedom, which means I have the status of a warlock.”

  The man’s face scrunches with anger and disbelief, but his eyes contain a hint of fear. “That can’t be. Those are just rumors.”

  I want to cower. To slump my shoulders, lower my head, and play the dutiful role I’m accustomed to. But if I could play that role well enough to trick everyone, I can do the same with this one. I can and I will. “Not rumors. Truth. So I’d suggest you treat me with the proper respect.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Lukas interrupts. “It’s as she says.”

  I chafe at him having to enter the conversation. When we discussed it, I knew it was likely needed, yet I wish I could have accomplished this on my own. Lukas hands the warlock several official letters. One of which certifies the fact of my freedom. Procured from Zade, rather unwillingly though still quickly, from Edward. The whole thing was official. It even had spelled on it Edward’s confession so there can be no doubt about its authenticity.

  The other letters are from high-ranking warlocks of influence, both in this country and others, who explain how anxious they are to see me perform in the tournament. Some are wondering if I can actually cast spells, or if I will be making a fool of myself for their enjoyment. No matter, though. They should give validity to me so I can at least sign up without payment of death. In this building anyway There's no telling what will happens once I leave. No telling if the officials will go along with the plan, either.

  He’s taking much longer to scan the letters than I expected, his face bunching together more and more as he reads until it looks like he bit into a bad lemon. Finally, he folds the papers and moves to put them in his coat. Lukas calmly holds his hand out.

  “If I may,” Lukas says, though from the tone of his voice it’s clearly not a request. The man’s nose flares, but he hands them back.

  Lukas proceeds to read aloud, the words making everything more real. Almost too real. I can’t believe I’m actually here doing this. Hearing about my freedom, read aloud to a room full of warlocks. Hostile warlocks. I force myself not to edge closer to Lukas as he finishes.

  “And just so we are all clear,” Lukas continues, “I have personally sent an official letter to all those of high rank both in Chardonia and its surrounding countries, declaring that Cynthia has the status of a warlock and is using that status to enter the tournament. I’ve already received replies. Her performance is highly anticipated.”

  And hopefully this is enough to keep them from murdering me and trying to erase everyone’s memory. There’s simply too many memories that would need to be erased, some not even in this country, in places where the council and Grand Chancellor have no control.

  The warlock sputters, glares at me, then stomps back to his place behind the counter. He calls out a gruff, “Next.”

  They are truly going to let me sign up? The plan had merit, yet to see it actually work makes me want to dance across the floor letting spells of yellows, golds, and reds twist through the room in rhythm with my happiness.

  But we agreed it'd best to keep my magic contained, to make them wonder whether or not I’ll actually perform any spells.

  It takes a moment, but then the next warlock clear at the front of the line steps to his spot. Things begin again after that. The line moves slowly, but still moves. The stares are still hostile, but I do my best to ignore them. My collar is still choking, only not as strong of a panic-gripped, hex-like fear as before.

  The movement of the line has no real pattern. Sometimes it quickly moves through warlocks. Other times it doesn’t move at all. When the warlock before me is called to the counter, my collar suddenly tightens again, encircling my neck more roughly than ever. I struggle to keep my expression neutral and breathing calm.

  Forever seems to pass before a warlock calls out, “Next.’

  I stumble forward, ignoring my ungraceful gait, and hand the warlock my prefilled application, grateful Lukas had the forethought to help me fill it out. We went over it together an innumerable amount of times, making sure there was nothing they could find fault with.

  The warlock scrutinizing it takes longer than on any of the other applications, longer than I stood in one spot while in line. His finger taps over every line, traces every word. Even with the extra time we spent preparing it, he’s likely to find something amiss with this sort of scrutiny.

  Suddenly, a warlock sla
ms the door open, striding straight to us. The warlock looking over my paper says, “Ah, Chancellor Ryan, we’re so glad you could make it to help us with this… dilemma.”

  The Chancellor? As in the second-highest warlock in the government besides the Grand Chancellor? The Chancellor position held by only two individuals—him and Zade. The Chancellor that Zade and Serena both loathe?

  “Let me see the paperwork.” Chancellor Ryan studies my paperwork with even greater interest.

  Why did he have to come? I hold myself as still as possible, waiting for news. The world pricks with black spots as the breaths I take are too shallow. His hands can just as easily tear my application apart as they can give me what I desire.

  The world tilts and sways. Ever so slightly, I lean forward, balancing my weight against the counter. I force myself to take deeper breaths, clearing not only the spots from my vision, but the possibility of fainting in front of a room full of warlocks who likely wish to see me dead.

  Finally, the Chancellor thrusts the papers back at the warlock. “Sorry. These are legitimate. Good news though. She’ll probably be dead on the first day.”

  Fear scrambles my insides, yet I work to keep my face calm. The warlock scowls, but sets the papers aside, makes a note in his ledger, and thrusts another stack of papers at me.

  “Next,” he calls out.

  I grab the stack, hurry past the Chancellor and out of the building as fast I can, while still maintaining my dignity. Once we’re a few blocks away, I finally slow and take a deep breath of fresh air. My head clears and thoughts come easier.

  “The Chancellor came just to look over my papers.”

  “No one said it would be easy.”

  “At least this part is over.” Though I already saw what the warlock wrote, I take a closer look. Lukas peeks over my shoulder.

  “Looks great,” he says

  “Dueler number two hundred twenty-three.” That’s going to be me. That is me. I am officially entered into a tournament that has ever had any woman do any kind of work at except serving the warlocks or being sacrificed. And most definitely never had a woman dueler.

  “You know what this means, right?”

  “That death will come from either the council trying to kill me or a warlock in the tournament.”

  “Nope. It means we need to practice.”

  The thrill of his words flares inside me. Being able to not only practice magic but doing it with another person dulls the fear. And then I realize it’s not just another person I’m going to be practicing with but Lukas. The thrill intensifies. I wonder what new types of spells he knows that I’ve never even seen before.

  Chapter Eleven

  When he said we needed to practice, he meant it. As soon as we return to what I now think of as my house, even though it’s not really, he leads me to the sitting room that Zade took me to the first time I arrived.

  I don’t even bother trying to hide how like an unstarched dress I feel. I plop down on the couch, letting it support all of me. That was an experience like none other and not in a good way. To think it’s only the beginning of what’s to come. Lukas sits across from me, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him, and eyes intent on me. Too intent. I sit up straighter.

  “What do you know about fighting in a tournament?” Lukas asks, not giving me any time to think over how terrifying the experience of signing up was. Just as well, since it drudged through my thoughts unceasingly on our return.

  “Not nearly enough, I’m certain.”

  He smiles at me, soft and comforting to my taut nerves. “Don’t worry. That’s why I’m here. Let’s start with what you do know.”

  I let his reassurance build my lack of confidence. “It was difficult to learn much of anything at the tournament last year. No one wanted to tell me anything, and I was afraid of asking too many questions. I know there’s some sort of a point system. And time limit. If you’re killed, your stuff goes to the winner. Luckily, I don’t have anything.”

  His gaze grows intense with something much stronger than talking about spells. “You have something more important than simple things.”

  I duck my head down so he won’t see the flush flooding my cheeks.

  He clears his throat and continues as if he never said anything, which is probably for the best, yet it leaves a tinge of disappointment. “You’ve figured out the basics. You have two minutes to attack your opponent as many times as you can. Attacks to the limbs are worth one point. Attacks to the head or torso are worth two points.”

  “So it’s as if you attacked someone physically. Arms and legs won’t be as effective as vital areas of the body.”

  “Exactly, but it must be with a spell. And any form of defending yourself from an attack is one point.”

  “No differentiating of points for defending? It seems like those spells could vary a lot.”

  “They do, and defending is important, but Chardonians don’t think it’s as meaningful as attacking an opponent where they could be critically injured.”

  I don’t want to think on the critically injured part—neither giving nor receiving. “Chardonians don’t think? What about other countries? Do you have a tournament like this in Chryos?”

  “All the time. And other countries, too. Chardonia is the only country that doesn’t participate in tournaments outside of its own. Most other countries are fairly friendly, but travel between countries is very difficult so it’s not as easy to maintain as we’d like.”

  “Truly? Do women participate in other countries? In Chryos?”

  He laughs. “You’re insatiable.” I twist my hands together under the table, wondering if that’s good or bad, but before I can decide, he continues, “The tournaments in other countries vary a lot. Some are small, a lot are bigger, mostly because Chardonia makes it tougher and tougher for outsiders to come in.”

  “But you’re here. And others come. Why not just go to another country’s tournament?”

  “Trust me, most do. But some, like me, are trying to get in to help. Or, in the case of this year, seeing if any changes are happening. Others want to show Chardonia up. I don’t know why they still think that, when only a Chardonian council member has won for as long as anyone can remember.”

  “Someone from the council always wins?”

  “Always. Well, except last year the Grand Chancellor’s son won, but he might as well be on the council.”

  It’s true. I remember, after Zade beat Thomas and won Serena, hearing the announcement while I was waiting for her to wake and fretting she might not. For many hours I feared father wouldn’t allow her to. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to see what we can do about that then, won’t we?”

  And it hits me that not only are we both competing in the same tournament, but that we may compete against one another. I don’t want to fight him. Though with as many participants as there are, it’s highly unlikely we’ll have to fight against each other, unless we both make it far in the tournament. If that happens, well, I’ll concern myself with it if it happens.

  I change the subject to distract myself from that disturbing line of thought. “What about women? You didn’t answer that question.”

  “Only because you ask so many questions it’s hard to keep up.” I start to apologize, but he smiles and says, “It’s not a bad thing. I like it.”

  He does? That’s certainly new, but something I could become accustomed to. “What about women then? Do they enter tournaments in other countries?”

  “Many do. Some countries still have more men competing, but Envado sometimes has more women than men. Probably another reason Chardonia doesn’t participate in them. They could never stand losing to a woman.”

  Yet to me the thought has a nice flash of appeal. It also reminds me of Edward’s cowering. “I can understand how that might bother them. But I’m willing to defeat them anyway.”

  “You will.” He winks at me, and a trill of happiness bounds through me.

  There are still s
o many questions I want answers to. So much I need to learn before the tournament. There’s little time to think on his smiles and winks. I probably shouldn’t inquire, yet I can’t help it. There must be more to know about the man who’s willing to help me. Willing to wink and smile at me. “Did you have someone you left behind? Property you signed away?”

  He gives me one of his grins, though this one has a touch of something I don’t understand. “No family. No property.”

  “Oh.” I study the rings on my left hand. No probably about it. I shouldn’t have pried. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been an orphan for a long time. I’m used to it, but it left me with no money and very few things.” He shrugs. “It happened so long ago, it’s just part of who I am.”

  “Don’t you get lonely?” Even though I should have already learned my lesson, I can’t help but ask because I’ve been lonely for a long time, except for moments like now when he’s here.

  “Nah. There’s a couple who took me in when I was a kid. They’ve taught me a lot. Sent me to school and made sure I had a lot of kids to play with. I was always the one that was sent to school with enough treats for everyone. Extra treats for someone having a bad day.”

  “I can see how you’d get along well with lots of people.”

  “You seem like you would, too.”

  The thought startles me. “What makes you say that?”

  “Other than the whole trying to evade me in the beginning, you’ve been really nice to talk to.”

  The compliment warms me, stirring my magic. “I’ve never truly been given the chance to get along with very many people. I only ever had my sister and a few classmates. Class isn’t the best place to build relationships. The ball was my best chance to get to know more people, and I ruined that.”

  “What ball? How did you ruin it?”

  I rub my hand on the cushion next me. “Serena’s ball, the one where she was given her freedom. Do you know of it?”

  “I’m quite familiar with it. What happened there with you?”