A Mage's Power

by Casey Wolfe

  “Maybe she did. I’ll probably never know.”

  “Sure you do. It’s exactly like she said it was.” Shaw pressed a kiss to Rowan’s cheek. “Come on. Let’s go inside. I’ll make you some tea.”

  Rowan laughed. “Maybe I should do it.”

  “Oi! I know how to make tea!” Shaw grinned, snagging Rowan’s good hand. He would play along if it kept that smile on Rowan’s face.

  “I don’t know about that,” Rowan teased.

  Shaw pulled him carefully along, mindful of the limp—they were so having a discussion about the particulars of his injuries later.

  “We could always start talking about how pissed I am you ran off to fight a dark mage all on your own,” Shaw offered.

  There was a beat before Rowan said, “You make excellent tea.”

  Shaw smirked, ushering him up onto the porch. “Oh, are you gonna…?” He gestured out to the trees.

  “Oh.” A shadow crossed Rowan’s face, but merely for a moment. Shaking his head as if to clear it, Rowan focused on the task. With a simple wave of his hand, the ice melted like a wave, water crashing down to the grass.

  Shaw’s eyes widened. He didn’t think he’d ever get over being impressed by Rowan’s casual use of magic. “Wow.”

  Leaning over the railing, small flames danced across Rowan’s fingertips. He blew outward, sending embers to the pond. When they hit the ice, it started to melt away, the water appearing like nothing at all had happened.

  Shaw was shaking his head when Rowan turned around. “You’re something else.” The words were out of his mouth without thought. Rowan smiled, allowing Shaw to pull him in and give him a gentle kiss.

  “Now,” Shaw continued, prodding Rowan inside. “Tea.”

  Once the kettle was on, Shaw leaned over and kissed him again, more thoroughly. He held Rowan’s chin as he pulled away. “I’m very glad you’re okay.”

  Rowan let out a little huff of a laugh, lips ticking up into the hint of a smile. “You and me both.”

  Shaw was distracted by the lips that found his, holding Rowan and simply being thankful for his continued existence—only the whistle of the kettle broke them apart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ROWAN SLEPT IN fits and starts, giving up by late morning and having a shower. When he got out, there was a cup of tea and buttered toast waiting for him. Shaw coaxed him into having some fresh fruit, as well, before driving them into the city.

  “I’m going to check the rumblings at the temple,” Shaw informed him. “Call me if you need anything.”

  Rowan hummed.

  “Rowan, I mean it.”

  “I know.” Rowan reached over and laid his hand limply on Shaw’s, which covered the stick shift, the bandage scraping. “Just…tone down the protective mode a bit, huh? My head is killing me and I just really want to sleep.”

  Warmth crept up Rowan’s hand, and there was a smile tugging at Shaw’s lips.

  When the truck stopped beside the bridge to the Mages Guild, Rowan leaned over, pressing a kiss to Shaw’s cheek. “Thanks for the lift. I’ll keep you updated.”

  Shaw turned his head quickly, catching Rowan’s lips before he moved away. “Don’t go getting into any more trouble, yeah?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Shaw swatted at him, grumbling while Rowan just laughed. “Careful,” Shaw said all the same, leaning across the seat to hold Rowan’s upper arm as he lowered himself gingerly from the truck.

  Rowan held up his hand in farewell, watching the truck pull out of the parking lot. Looking up at the floating walls of the Everstrand Guild, he sighed, feeling a knot in his gut that shouldn’t have been there. He shot off a text to Quail to tell him that he was there, before making the trek across the bridge—it may have been magically stabilized, but the thing still gave him vertigo if he tried to text and walk at the same time.

  Temperance Hall was quiet, the apprentices off at their regular high school classes already. While the first floor was set up in a dorm style for them, the next two were private apartments for non-apprentices. Any Guild member could request housing. Some stayed there because it was cheaper, while others—such as Sacha—kept a room there in case of late nights. Only the apprentices were required to stay on Guild grounds, unless their legal residence was within Everstrand.

  Rowan knocked on the door of Quail’s third-floor apartment. “Come in!” Quail called, the door glowing faintly to allow entrance.

  “Why are you so awake?” Rowan complained, finding Quail bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He was moving around the table, which was already covered in potion bottles, a rack of vials, and a bubbling cauldron.

  Sacha sat on a creaky stool, legs crossed. “I don’t think he’s been to bed yet.”

  Rowan sighed heavily, dropping his satchel by the table. “Quail.”

  His chastising fell on deaf ears—hell, it hadn’t even begun. Quail shoved a vial into his good hand. “Drink that. Now, where did I put the—ah, and then drink this one.” A bottle was set on the table in front of him.

  Nose crinkling, Rowan asked, “Why does this smell like feet?”

  “I said drink them, not smell them.”

  Rowan made a vomiting noise, ducking his head when Quail shot him a look, and did as he was told. They didn’t taste much better than they smelled. Thankfully, Quail followed it up with a shot of what could have been called cotton candy. Not a flavor Rowan would have chosen, but at least it washed out whatever rotten egg, garbage tastes Quail had him drinking beforehand.

  “I should point out how much trust I have in you,” Rowan said.

  “And I appreciate it immensely.” Quail apparently couldn’t let an opportunity go to waste, however, as he added, “Do let me know if you feel like you’re about to die.”

  “No, but my leg itches.” Rowan lowered his brows.

  “Ah, good, the dark magic is working its way out.”

  Sacha gave a put-upon sigh. “If you don’t mind?” she prompted.

  “Ah, yes,” Quail agreed, “by all means.” He gave her a wave, going back to the cauldron.

  She motioned Rowan to sit on the stool beside her. “While those potions are taking effect, I’ll take care of your hand.”

  “Fine by me.” She and Frey were probably their next best healers, and it was likely Sacha wanted Quail to concentrate on dealing with the dark magic. He did tend to get scattered if he was given too many things to focus on at once.

  As she carefully unwound the bandages, she asked Quail, “Do you have any rosehips balm? That won’t interfere with whatever you’re giving him, will it?”

  “Hmm? No, no, that’ll be fine.” Quail levitated a small bottle over to her.

  Shaking her head, she gave the painkilling tonic to Rowan. “I’ll use a numbing spell, as well, but it doesn’t hurt to have something else already on board for when it wears off. This won’t be the most pleasant experience.”

  “No shit.” Rowan managed to find a spot on the overflowing stand beside them for the empty bottle. “Would be nice to be sedated, but I don’t think any of us want to explain to the hospital staff how I screwed up my hand.”

  “Or your leg.”

  Rowan grumbled.

  Sacha cradled Rowan’s hand, hovering her other one over it and casting a diagnostic spell. Instantly, a three-dimensional, interactive image of the inside of Rowan’s hand appeared. It was far better than any other mundane imaging processes—like X-rays—although hospitals still used them to avoid unnecessary strain on their healer teams. That was why diagnostic spells tended to be reserved for emergency patients and prepping for surgeries.

  “You’re lucky,” Sacha concluded. “I can repair the damage.”

  “That’s a relief.” Rowan had started to worry, once the adrenaline had worn off and he was thinking straight again, that he had done more damage than what magic could fix.

  That was the thing with magic, even that had its limits. Bone breaks, muscle tears—it would be unwise to simply force thos
e things back together again. Rather, any major injuries had to be taken care of the mundane way. Granted, that didn’t stop mages from being able to speed the process along in various ways.

  “You didn’t go as deep as I feared,” Sacha assured him, rotating the image. “But, it will scar.”

  “Not worried about that.”

  “Let’s begin, shall we?” She pressed her fingers to several points around the long laceration and Rowan felt everything start to go numb. “Thank you,” Sacha mentioned while she worked, her magic carefully stitching ligaments and tissue together again. “For what you did.” Her dark eyes met his.

  Rowan tried to brush it off. “Don’t mention it.”

  “What you did was very brave.”

  Rowan scoffed. “More like reckless.” He nodded toward his hand pointedly.

  “You used your skills and faced down your fears in order to save us. That is brave.” Sacha smiled gently at him, thumb brushing over his cheek. “So, thank you.”

  Deciding not to argue, Rowan bowed his head and mumbled, “You’re welcome.”

  “How’s that leg?” Quail asked.

  “Still itches, but otherwise, no change.”

  Another vial was shoved under his nose. “Have this one. Almost done there, Sacha?”

  “Just about.”

  “Good, I might need a hand with this.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Rowan said, brows drawn together. He drank the potion anyway, making a blah sound when it tasted like overly sour lemon.

  Quail ignored him, going back to his potions. The one he’d been working on when Rowan arrived was transferred into a bottle. It glowed a pale green, and Quail put a stopper in it before moving on to other things.

  “Why don’t I like the sound of that?” Rowan checked with Sacha instead, more insistent.

  “Getting the dark magic out is likely to be painful. Hopefully, Quail managed to isolate it last night. If it spread, that will draw out the process.”

  “Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Rowan groused.

  “Just about done.”

  Sacha wasn’t kidding. Rowan had been distracted, yet Sacha clearly wasn’t. She was stitching the last few layers of tissue together again. What was left behind was a blazing red line of flesh.

  “Salve, please,” she said.

  Quail levitated it to her, along with a fresh bandage.

  “Thank you.” Sacha rubbed the gel in, laced with a bit of magic, no doubt; Rowan couldn’t feel it, thanks to the numbing spell that was still active. As she wrapped his hand, Sacha instructed, “I want you putting this salve on twice a day, and change the wrapping as needed. Come to me if it looks like anything is wrong with it. Or go to Quail, if you wish.”

  Rowan side-eyed the large green potion Quail was carrying toward them and said flatly, “I’ll take you.”

  Sacha smiled, eyes twinkling a bit with amusement. “There. Go easy with it for a few days. I did just stitch your ligaments back together, after all.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  She raised a skeptical brow. “It’s just as well I wrapped it snuggly.”

  Quail interjected, “Yes, yes, now over to the couch with you. And drop your pants.”

  “What?” Rowan’ felt his face heat up.

  Sacha laughed, stifling it and hiding her mouth behind her hand. Quail made a shooing motion.

  Rowan stood and backed up a couple steps, still bright red. “Seriously, Quail?”

  “Boy, unless you want me to rip your jeans, I suggest you lose them. For the sake of the Goddess, no one is about to ogle you. Now, off.”

  Grumbling, Rowan obeyed. He removed his sneakers and his pants, kicking them into a bunched-up pile beside the couch.

  Quail sat at one end and directed Rowan to sit sideways so his right leg was laid in Quail’s lap. “Drink,” he ordered, working at the bindings.

  Rowan popped the cork, a little smoke rising from the potion. “Not inspiring,” he muttered, tossing it back before he could think better of it. He immediately started to cough. What the hell did you put in that? he thought of demanding but couldn’t as he felt his insides roil. He doubled over, the hacking cough shaking his body. Sacha was crouched beside him, making sure he didn’t tip over onto the floor.

  “Hang on there, Rowan.” Quail began to chant quietly, the warmth in Rowan’s leg quickly giving way to sharp pain.

  “Fuck.” Rowan’s hands clenched into fists. It only grew worse, Rowan biting his lip until he tasted blood. He thrashed out of instinct more than anything, forcing Quail to hold his leg down, continuing to draw the darkness out of the wounds.

  “Hold onto me,” Sacha encouraged, taking his fists.

  Rowan was enveloped by warm, healing light. Air was forced into his lungs and for a long minute, his mouth was open in a silent scream. Then it all came rushing out and he could breathe once again.

  “There you are.” Sacha’s eyes glowed indigo. “Steady breaths, okay?”

  Nodding, Rowan tried to ignore the throbbing in his leg.

  “I believe you’re safe now,” Quail said. Rowan looked over, watching Quail’s grip loosen as he sat back, taking a deep breath of his own. “Just need to do a quick diagnostic.”

  “Allow me,” Sacha offered, obviously seeing how much that had taken out of Quail. He inclined his head in thanks. A diagnostic spell confirmed all trace of Badger’s magic was removed from the wounds—and Rowan’s system as a whole—but it also revealed a new issue. “These punctures are too deep to seal with magic. There’s been too much muscle damage.”

  “Frey offered to stitch them,” Quail said. His cell phone was already in hand, presumably sending her a text.

  Rowan groaned, putting his face in his hands. He had forgotten about Frey and Ieus. “What did you tell them?” he asked, voice muffled.

  “Everything, of course,” Quail answered casually.

  Sacha, at least, patted Rowan on the knee sympathetically. “Remember what I said about your hand. I’m going back to bed.”

  He caught her hand with his good one, looking up at her. “Thank you.” They shared a smile and Sacha nodded before she took her leave.

  Rowan hissed when Quail jostled his leg. “Damn it! That hurts, y’know!”

  “Sorry, sorry,” he replied, his mind already elsewhere, going straight for his potions. There was a knock and Quail waved his hand. “Come in.”

  Frey walked in, shaking her phone and huffing. “What in the hell is this even supposed to mean?” she asked Quail. “You sent me nothing but those silly pictures.”

  Rowan raised a brow.

  “Emojis,” Quail explained. “They’re called emojis. You’ve got to be hip to these things.”

  “Okay, now I have to know,” Rowan said.

  “Maybe you can make sense of it,” Frey grumbled, handing him the phone.

  It was an arrow, a tree, a face with a medical mask, a needle and thread, and finally, a pair of scissors. Rowan barked a laugh. “That was his way of saying to come over and stitch me up.”

  Frey threw her hands up. “So why didn’t he just say that?” Before anyone could answer, she snapped, “And, you…” She shook her finger at Rowan. “You are in for such a talking to, young man.”

  Rowan ducked his head.

  “Quail, where are my supplies?”

  They levitated over and Frey set them out as she would need them on a tray table. She made Rowan twist awkwardly, putting his foot on an ottoman rather than her lap, before she started to numb the area.

  “What are we going to do with you?” Frey tsked.

  “Sorry?” he mumbled, feeling every bit the child being caught setting off dung bomb spells in the dorms.

  After a moment of silence, he looked over to find that rather than appearing angry, Frey was smiling softly. “I’m very proud of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course I am, dear. We all are. When Quail and Jorah told us what happened, I wanted to rush right out t
o your cottage, but Ieus…” She heaved a sigh. “Well, Quail assured us you were in one piece and would be coming here today, so I refrained.” She glared at Quail’s back and raised her voice as she said, “Although, this doesn’t exactly look fine to me.”

  Without turning around, Quail waved his hand. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”

  Frey scoffed and Rowan had to wipe the smile off his face when she looked over at him. “Sorry?” he offered.

  Frey’s shoulders sagged. “You should have been more careful.”

  “I didn’t know what to do,” Rowan admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

  Frey reached over, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. “I told you I was proud, didn’t I? Ieus is as well.” She started to suture up the wounds, allowing the silence to linger a while, save for the clinking of whatever Quail was concocting now. Unexpectedly, she said, “Your grandmother would have been proud too.”

  Rowan froze. He hadn’t spoken to Frey about his grandmother since the funeral, save for a brief mention after he earned his second masters and she wasn’t there. They had been best friends, which was why Frey hadn’t hesitated to accept Rowan as an apprentice, despite the fact she had a full teaching schedule and hadn’t sponsored an apprentice for years.

  “You think so?” Rowan’s voice was hoarse.

  “Dierdre would be crowing about now.” Frey huffed. “You two were much more alike than you ever gave her credit for. Your passion for knowledge comes from her; that’s for sure. So does that stubborn streak of yours.”

  It was Rowan’s turn to huff and Frey glanced at him with a small upturn of her lips.

  She sobered, looking back to her work. “She would be proud of everything you’ve done, Rowan. This would be no different.”

  He paused, before repeating the same thing he’d said to Shaw: “I killed someone.”

  “What choice did you have? Tell me.” She had him there. “That’s what I thought.”

  After a few minutes, Rowan said, “I miss her.”

  “As do I.” Frey paused, looking at him. “Do you know there are still days I think of something, and I pick up the phone to call her, expecting that she’ll be there on the other end of the line?”