That proved to be a mistake.
Ethan couldn’t hold the image of Greenleaf anymore. But the illusion spell had served its purpose.
Mackintosh was gaping at Darrow now, terror on his face. “You’re doin’ somethin’ t’ him! You’re hurtin’ him! Bu’ you haven’ touched him! He’s right, isn’ he? You’re a witch, too! Th’ two o’ you are usin’ witchcraft on each other!”
Darrow’s face contorted with rage, but only for an instant. With a visible effort he calmed himself. He even forced a smile. “Enough,” he said, his voice level.
As abruptly as it had begun, the torment ceased. Ethan sagged against the tree; had it not been for the chains, he would have crumpled to the ground, although hanging from them made the pain in his shattered shoulder unbearable.
He wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep. A part of him wanted to relent and die. Mostly though, he wanted to kill Peter Darrow and end this nightmare. With an effort, he got his feet under him and stood once more. Mackintosh was afraid of Darrow now; the conjurer couldn’t allow this to go on much longer. He needed to kill Ethan quickly.
Ethan had only seconds in which to act. And he still had no idea how to defeat the man.
That is, until Darrow himself gave Ethan an idea. For a second time, the conjurer suddenly stared off into the night. This time his brow furrowed, and when he faced Ethan and Mackintosh once more his jaw was set, his expression resolute. He had seen something through Anna’s eyes. Again.
Why couldn’t Ethan do something similar?
He closed his eyes and, drawing on the flames once more, summoned another illusion-the first form that came to mind. This one, though, didn’t form in the circle of firelight. Instead, he sent it out in the same direction Darrow had gazed a moment before. As before, he drew on the flame. Videre per mea imagine ex igne evocatum. Sight, through my illusion, conjured from fire. He felt the power. So did Darrow.
“What are you doing, Kaille?” the conjurer asked, sounding alarmed.
Ethan ignored him. Suddenly he was on a road, or it felt like he was. He could see three people approaching, walking quickly.
“Wha’ d’ you mean, wha’s he doin’?” Mackintosh’s voice. “He’s not doin’ anythin’.”
Ethan’s illusion approached the men and Ethan saw with elation that he knew them. Mr. Pell, whom Ethan had sent to keep watch on Darrow; Samuel Adams; and James Otis. Ethan had his illusion stop in front of Pell, who regarded the figure with obvious suspicion.
“Who are-?”
“I haven’t much time,” Ethan made the illusion say.
“Stop it, Kaille!” Darrow warned.
“Ethan Kaille is by that fire, with Ebenezer Mackintosh. They’re in danger; they need your help. Ethan said to tell you that if you really want to be a thieftaker, this is the time to start.”
Pell had been eyeing the illusion doubtfully, but his eyes widened at this last remark. “She’s telling the truth!” he told the others.
“Darrow is a conjurer,” the illusion said. “You’ll need hel-”
“I said stop it!”
The spell with which Darrow fractured Ethan’s knee hurt even more than the one that had shattered his shoulder. He was wrenched off the road and back to the tree and his chains. He collapsed again as far as the shackles would allow, gasping at the agony in his leg and his shoulder. He assumed that his illusion had vanished, and he wondered what Pell, Adams, and Otis would make of what they had seen and heard.
He opened his eyes and found Darrow standing directly in front of him. Rage smoldered in his dark eyes, and Ethan could see that it was all he could do to keep himself from smashing every bone in Ethan’s body.
Despite the throbbing pain in his knee and shoulder, despite the gag in his mouth, he flashed a quick smile Darrow’s way, which only enraged the man more.
“Tell me wha’ he’s doin’!” Mackintosh demanded, still panicked and far beyond his depth. “He’s a speller, you say. An’ he says you are, too. Fine then. Wha’s he doin’?”
“An illusion spell, like before,” Darrow told the cordwainer. “He’s communicating with his friends, trying to bring help.”
“Help?” Mackintosh said, his eyes like those of a scared child. “You mean more witches?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Darrow said. “He’ll be dead before they get here.”
Uncle Reg had been standing utterly still, watching all of this unfold. Now, though, he turned to Ethan, avid, a plea in his eyes. Ethan had never seen the old ghost so eager for a spell.
But what to cast? Blood still oozed slowly from the finger he had ripped open; the blood on his hand was growing sticky as it dried. He would have only one chance at a blood spell. His best hope lay in surprising Darrow, and he could only do that by attempting something he had never done before.
Imago ex igne evocata. Illusion, conjured from fire.
Power pulsed and Darrow pulled the blade from his belt.
But then he saw the figure Ethan had conjured. The same figure Ethan had sent to speak with Pell, Adams, and Otis.
Anna. Or at least Ethan’s best imitation of her.
“Very clever, Kaille,” Darrow said.
“I don’t want to die,” Ethan said through the image of the girl. “And I don’t want to be tortured anymore.”
“I’m sure you don’t. You should have thought of that before you set yourself against me.”
“Is it too late for that partnership you spoke of earlier?”
Ethan barely listened to the man’s response. He concentrated instead on maintaining the illusion spell while at the same time casting again. Ambure ex cruore evocatum! Scald, conjured from blood! It had worked once; Darrow told him as much. Perhaps it would work a second time.
Ethan felt a change in the pulse of his conjuring, and knew that Darrow had, too. He had hoped that by masking the power with his illusion spell, he would catch the man off guard. And since Darrow wouldn’t expect him to have access to blood, the spell should have been strong enough to break through whatever warding Darrow used.
For an instant, he thought that it would work. Darrow stiffened suddenly, and he growled through gritted teeth-he was obviously in agony.
And then he wasn’t. Ethan felt Darrow’s spell, too. It had to have been a warding, cast with nothing more than a thought, fueled by something other than blood. In the span of a single heartbeat, the rictus of pain vanished from Darrow’s face, leaving only an angry glare.
“Scalding again? Not very creative, are you?” He dragged the edge of Ethan’s knife across his hand. “Fine. Here’s an old favorite for you.”
It couldn’t have been any more painful if Darrow had taken a bayonet, plunged it through Ethan’s head, and pinned him thus to the tree. Ethan let out a wail that echoed across the surrounding fields and beat his fists against the tree trunk until he thought the bones in his hands would shatter again.
“Two spells at once,” he heard Darrow say. “You’re learning. A pity that you won’t live long enough to put your new skills to use. Your time is up.”
The agony ended. But immediately, Ethan felt a sudden odd tugging at his chest. It didn’t exactly hurt. But his heart had begun to labor; he couldn’t draw breath. A shadow darkened his sight; the firelight faded. He could barely keep his balance.
And he thought, This is what it’s like to be the source for a killing spell.
Chapter Twenty-two
Life was draining from his body like blood flowing from an open wound. And Ethan could do nothing to stanch it.
“Wha’ are you doin’ to me?” Mackintosh asked, sounding panicked. Apparently he felt something, too. How ironic. At last, he sensed Darrow’s power, and it was too late for Ethan to do anything to save them.
“Darrow!”
Ethan raised his head, the effort taking every ounce of his ebbing strength. Darrow had turned at the sound of his name. So had Mackintosh. Dimly, Ethan saw Samuel Adams and James Otis standing at the edge of the firelight
. Both men held pistols.
The conjurer sighed, sounding more annoyed than alarmed. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Put down the knife and untie Kaille,” Adams said, stepping forward, his firearm aimed at Darrow’s chest.
Darrow laughed. “This knife? It’s nothing. A trifle.” He tossed it to the ground so that it landed beside the fire. “You believe you’ve tamed me now? You have no idea what you’re dealing with. Go home, Samuel, before you get yourself hurt. And take James with you.”
Ethan could stand again. He felt stronger, more alive. He glanced at Mackintosh only to find that the cordwainer was already watching him. He still looked scared, but there was anger in his gaze as well. Ethan understood. Darrow had tried to use a conjuring on him; Mackintosh had felt it. At last, he had chosen sides in this fight, and like the good street captain he was, he now looked to Ethan for orders.
“What is it you hope to accomplish here, Peter?” Otis asked, his protuberant eyes alight with the glow of the fire. “And what does Kaille have to do with any of this?”
“He’s a witch,” Mackintosh said. “They both are. Bu’ Darrow-he tried t’ work a spell on me.”
Darrow held himself still, his eyes fixed on the cordwainer. Ethan could see his thoughts churning, and after tracking the man these past few days, he had finally started to understand the workings of his mind. He didn’t like what he saw on the conjurer’s face. In the next moment, Darrow shifted his gaze to Ethan and actually smiled.
“New plans,” he said, just loud enough for Ethan to hear.
Of course. He couldn’t have Mackintosh kill Ethan now, not with Adams and Otis here, knowing what they did. But he could kill all three men, and use power drawn from their murders to compel Ethan to accept the blame. With that much power, he might even convince Ethan of his own guilt.
Darrow glanced off into the night again before facing Adams and Otis. “I don’t think you need those anymore,” he said.
The ground hummed and a second later, both men dropped their pistols as if they had suddenly grown too hot to hold. Adams rubbed the palm of his hand. Otis stared down at his weapon, his mouth hanging open. Then he looked at Darrow, and there could be no mistaking the terror in his eyes.
“How did you do that?” Otis whispered.
“How do you think?” Darrow answered, a mocking grin on his lips.
Ethan drew on the flame for another illusion spell. Anna appeared before him.
Darrow regarded her sourly. “What now?”
“Mackintosh is right,” Ethan made the girl say. “Darrow is a conjurer. He intends to kill you all, and he’ll see to it that Kaille takes the blame.”
“I’m afraid he’s right about that,” the conjurer said, looking faintly amused.
Ethan didn’t hear what was said next. Once more he used one spell to mask another. Maintaining the image of Anna that stood in the firelight, he sent another image of the girl down the road and peered into the night through her eyes. Doing so, he beheld what Darrow had seen only moments before. Pell was coming; the real sheriff and a few men of the night watch walked with him.
“… Kaille?”
Ethan forced himself to concentrate once more on what was happening in the firelight. Darrow had said something and now glared at him. The others watched him, too, Otis looking frightened and uncertain, Adams grim but alert. Mackintosh, the street fighter, merely waited.
“I asked you what you’re doing,” Darrow said.
“I’m keeping this illusion going,” Ethan said through Anna. “I’m telling these others that you intend to kill them, and that they should flee while they can.”
Darrow shook his head, his eyes narrowing. “No. You’re up to something else.”
They were out of time. Ethan knew what was coming and knew as well that he needed to be precise in what he did next. The timing of the spells was crucial. He was exhausted; never had he cast so many spells in so little time. Never had he been tortured like this. But he could give in to his weariness, or he could survive the night. He couldn’t do both.
He closed his eyes again, drew on the fire, but also on the air, and on the fine mist forming over the nearby fields. And he succeeded in creating an illusion that was more real than any he had conjured before. His image of the sheriff and men of the watch rushed into the firelight, their footsteps scraping on the road, their pistols glinting in the glow of the blaze as they leveled them at Darrow. But he felt his own spell, and so did Darrow. Otis and Adams jumped out of the way of the illusions. Darrow laughed at them.
“They’re not real,” he said, contempt in his voice. Glancing at Ethan he added, “Really, Kaille, is that the best you can do?”
Ethan’s conjurings waved their weapons at the lawyer, making the same motions over and over. They looked pathetic really, as Ethan had known they would.
But he needed them to mask yet another spell.
Discuti ex foliis evocatum! Shatter, conjured from leaves!
Power coursed through the ground. Darrow’s eyes snapped to Ethan’s. A second conjuring made the earth hum, so that the two spells skirled discordantly, like strings on a poorly tuned violin.
Except that Darrow’s spell was a warding against Ethan’s assault. And Ethan hadn’t aimed his spell at the conjurer. He aimed it at the shackles that bound his arms.
The chain snapped at the last link before the cuff on his left hand, and immediately Ethan grabbed hold of the chain with this right, and swung it hard so that the links whipped toward Darrow. No doubt the conjurer’s warding would have worked perfectly against a spell, but it wasn’t intended to guard against a physical assault, and he didn’t have time to cast again.
The end of the chain lashed Darrow across the side of his face, knocking him to the ground.
Mackintosh dove forward and grabbed the knife that had fallen near the fire. At the same time, Ethan cast a second spell to free his legs, and ripped the gag from his mouth.
Adams and Otis started toward their guns, but they couldn’t reach them in time.
Still lying on his back, Darrow roared something in Latin that Ethan didn’t understand. There could be no mistaking the effect, though. It seemed that a keg of gunpowder exploded in their midst. The spell threw Adams, Otis, and Mackintosh to the ground, leaving all three men addled. It also hammered Ethan back against the tree. The breath was knocked from his body, and he collapsed, landing hard on his wounded shoulder and knee.
Darrow stood slowly. Blood flowed from his nose and the corner of his mouth, and his cheek had already started to darken. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Ethan knew what was coming. He saw the blood vanish from his face, felt the ground tingle. Still, how did one prepare for such agony?
He felt as though his skin was being flayed. Molten steel coursed through his veins again. The spike had impaled his head once more. This was torment beyond anything the man had done to him before. He couldn’t escape it, and it went on and on. He thought Darrow would kill him with the pain. Ethan didn’t even know if that was possible. He could hear himself howling like a wounded animal, but he couldn’t make himself stop.
“Beg me to kill you.” Darrow’s voice, even and calm, so close that the man could have been whispering in his ear. “Ask me for death, and I can end this. The others are lost anyway. You can’t save them. Beg me.”
Through a haze of agony, Ethan drew upon the leaves overhead to cast a warding spell. He might as well have tried to block a cannonball with a sheet of parchment. Still, Ethan refused to surrender. He tried to attack Darrow with fire, with scalding, with another shatter spell, and with the blindness casting he had used two nights before. He felt the conjurings tremble in the ground beneath him, and he knew that the spells had worked. But he could do nothing to breach the man’s wardings. Darrow was too strong. Even Pell and the sheriff and the men they had brought wouldn’t be able to help. All of them would die. Already Ethan felt his life ebbing away. His heart was being seared; he could barely draw breath. He
couldn’t fight it. He wasn’t even sure anymore that he wanted to.
And yet, in the next instant, the pain ceased. Ethan took a deep breath-he could breathe without feeling that his lungs were on fire. A warm breeze touched his face. He wanted to savor the sensation. He wanted to rest.
He forced his eyes open. Darrow loomed over him, but he was staring over his shoulder at Mackintosh. The cordwainer backed away from the man, terror in his eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Darrow turned slowly, and Ethan saw that the knife Mackintosh had retrieved jutted from the conjurer’s back, just below his shoulder blade. Blood darkened the man’s coat, but only for a few seconds.
Ethan had time to shout a warning to Mackintosh, but it did little good. The blood disappeared, and Mackintosh’s coat burst into flames. The cordwainer dropped to the ground and began to roll from side to side. Adams and Otis leaped to his aid, batting at the flames with their hands.
Darrow reached back and pulled out the knife. The blood on the blade caught the firelight, and then it, too, was gone. Ethan braced himself for another assault, but it didn’t come. Darrow, he realized, had used the blood to heal the wound on his back.
Ethan drew on the fire for another illusion spell. Two, actually. With the first he sent Anna down the road. With the second, he conjured again the image of Greenleaf and the men of the watch.
The illusions advanced on Darrow with raised weapons.
“Enough of this, Ethan,” Darrow said.
He kicked Ethan’s shattered knee, and Ethan cried out. But still, Ethan held the image of the men for a moment longer, until at last he heard what he had been waiting for.
Through gritted teeth he said, “You’re right. Enough.”
Looking toward the road, he let his illusion die away. And there, to take the place of his conjured images, stood the real sheriff and his men with Mr. Pell.
“Now, Pell!” he shouted.
He heard Pell say something, saw Darrow slash at his own arm with the knife. The conjurer’s voice rang through the night and then was drowned out by the rapid blasts of four flintlock pistols.
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