by Zales, Dima
As they walked through the greenery, Gala stared at the gorgeous nature surrounding them. “This is beautiful,” she said as they entered a small clearing in the woods. “Not as beautiful as yesterday’s lake, of course, but still quite nice.”
Blaise smiled at her. “Would you like to go back there?”
“Sure,” Gala said, smiling back at him. “But isn’t it far away now?”
“Not if we fly there,” he said and began chanting the words of a spell. When he was done, he explained, “This will summon the chaise to us. It should get here shortly.”
Gala grinned at him. “Great. What should we do while we wait?” She had one idea . . .
“How about I try to teach you how to control your magic?” Blaise suggested.
It wasn’t exactly what Gala had in mind, but she wanted this too. “Of course, I’d love that,” she said earnestly. Maybe if she had better control of her abilities, Blaise wouldn’t feel like he needed to protect her all the time.
“I have a couple of ideas for how to go about it,” he said, sitting down on the grass. “I think, for starters, I can teach you how to do sorcery our way, with verbal and written spells. It might help you understand it better, so you can gain control over that part of you that does something similar.”
That made sense to Gala. She sat down beside him and gave him her attention.
“I do wish I still had access to my house,” he said ruefully. “It would make things a lot easier.” He seemed sad for a moment, then shook it off. “Regardless, I should still be able to show you verbal spell casting, and I also brought some written spells with me when I rushed to your rescue. Those will have to do for now.”
Gala nodded, an idea beginning to form in the back of her mind. Perhaps Blaise wouldn’t need to be without his house for long . . .
“Another thing we could try is for you to learn to control and understand your emotions, since you seem to do magic when you experience strong feelings,” Blaise continued. “This might be a bit harder. Unlike the sorcery code, emotions are very imprecise.”
“I would love to learn more about human emotions in general,” Gala said, giving him a warm look.
He smiled. “Well, why don’t we begin with spells,” he said, “and see where we go from there. As you probably already know, both verbal and written spells require that you learn a new language. Two related languages, strictly speaking. One builds on the other, so once you master speaking spells, learning the written part will be easy.”
“I find it strange that oral casting is harder, but written casting lets you create more complicated spells,” Gala observed, remembering what Blaise had told her once.
He nodded. “The best analogy is to compare doing complex arithmetic in your head, which would be like using the spoken spells, to writing out equations on paper. Doing math in your head is much harder, and the complexity of the math you can do is much less.”
Gala cocked her head to the side. “Actually, I’m not sure if that’s true for me . . .”
He laughed. “Right, of course. I almost forgot that your mind can do any kind of math. But I can assure you, for most people, my analogy would work. You see, with written spells, because the coding language is simpler and more powerful, one can weave greater complexity into the spell. For verbal spells, the longer and more complex they are, the greater the risk of error—of saying something wrong. There have been a lot of accidents and unfortunate deaths as a result of that.” He paused, then added wryly, “Spells have gone awry because of something as simple as a sneeze.”
“A sneeze?” Gala found that absurdly funny.
He grinned briefly. “Indeed. Also, another powerful feature of written spells is that you can mix and match existing spell components—or even short, simple spells that had already proven themselves. That allows one to prepare ahead of time instead of always having to recreate the spell from scratch by speaking it—and that obviously saves time as a result.”
Gala nodded. This all made sense to her. She was impressed that Blaise had been the one to come up with the simplified language that enabled them to do the written form of sorcery. She recalled him telling her about himself and Augusta inventing the Interpreter Stone, and she felt an unpleasant twinge of some dark emotion. She didn’t like the idea of him being so close to that woman, she realized—of having worked with her . . . having loved her.
“Why don’t we start with teleportation?” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “Over short distances, it’s actually a fairly simple spell. You have done this without conscious control, but I will teach you how to do it using a verbal spell.”
“That would be amazing,” Gala said eagerly. Of all the feats she’d done, she had the least understanding of how she’d been able to get herself from one place to another in a blink of an eye.
“Great.” He smiled. “Before we go into the details of the actual language, let me tell you the spirit of what you would be doing. You need to be thinking of the world surrounding you as a set of coordinates. Think of the three-dimensional space around you as little cubes or spheres, whichever suits you, and establish a mathematical convention for naming each location.”
Gala visualized a grid ahead of her, picturing the meadow covered by evenly placed, tiny pebbles, where each pebble had its own unique name. The names were not fancy: pebble one was next to pebble two and so on a million times around the area of the meadow. She could also easily picture a whole meadow filled up with these imaginary pebbles and name them around the volume of the space. If she wanted what Blaise called a coordinate, she just needed to name the right pebble.
“I have it,” she told him. The entire process took her only moments.
He raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. “I was just beginning my explanation.”
Gala grinned at him. “Well, you can move on. I understand these coordinate things.”
“All right then, teleporting requires you to pick a coordinate you want to end up at. You need to plan your spell carefully. If you are going someplace outside your line of vision, you had better plan for what happens if there is an object already at that coordinate. That’s why long-distance teleportation is so dangerous.” He took a breath, then continued, “You need to picture your own body split into the same sub-units as the coordinates, so you can specify exactly the space you will occupy when the spell is done.”
This also made sense to Gala. She imagined her own body made of pebbles. If she wanted to put the pebbles that made her body somewhere, she needed to decide which pebbles it would displace. She nodded to show her understanding.
“When all that is done, you use the words that someone had already invented for this task, and just fill in the variables that I explained. This is a simple task, because you’re not inventing a new spell. Someone, long ago, already did that. You’re just tweaking it, so it works the way you want. And then you just need to say the Interpreter spell—”
“What exactly is the Interpreter spell?” Gala interrupted. “I know you’ve mentioned it before . . .”
Blaise smiled. “Well, I can explain to you what it does, but I can only guess at how it does it. From what we understand, it takes the logic of the spell and transmits it to the Spell Realm in some form—and then the spell acts upon our Physical Realm.”
“I see,” Gala said thoughtfully. She had more questions, but those could wait for now. “Can you please teach me what to say for the teleportation spell?”
Blaise proceeded to give her a language lesson. It was long, but Gala found every aspect of it fascinating. Blaise kept saying how amazingly quick she was to pick up all of the nuances of the arcana and how she was leapfrogging years of study. Gala accepted his praise with pleasure, even though this way of doing spells didn’t appeal to her as much as doing them directly.
The language itself was very natural to her. It was precise and logical. There were things like conditional statements—if A is true, then B follows—that existed in regular speech. However, with v
erbal spells, these statements had formal definitions and always had to be spoken in a specific way. There were a lot of words for formulas and quite a bit of formal mathematical constructs with their own version of grammar.
After hours of drilling, Blaise decided she was ready.
Closing her eyes, Gala recited the spell, followed by the Interpreter litany. It was supposed to teleport her a short distance. When she was done speaking, she opened her eyes and saw that Blaise’s face was much closer to her. Before the spell, they were sitting about an arm’s length apart, but now her knee was touching his. Even though she had planned it exactly this way, the sense of wonder was overwhelming.
Filled with joy, Gala looked into Blaise’s eyes. He held her gaze, and she could feel the growing connection between them. The joy immediately transmuted into something else—something that only Blaise could make her feel. Her heartbeat picked up, and she unconsciously moved toward him, her body beginning to ache with a strange longing.
“Gala . . .” There was a soft, deep note in Blaise’s voice. It made her skin prickle with heat, as though she was burning from within. “Are you sure about this?”
Gala stared at him, and then, without saying a word, she placed her hands on his shoulders. “I’m not as naïve as you think,” she murmured before pressing her lips to his. She could hear the catch in Blaise’s breathing, and then he encircled her in his arms, pulling her into his embrace and deepening the kiss. The fire burning inside Gala spread until she couldn’t think, overwhelmed by the sensations. The intensity of her feelings was too much, too sharp, almost as it was when she lost control before . . . and then she suddenly felt unbearable heat—heat that was coming from outside herself.
Gasping, she drew back . . . and saw that the meadow around them was ablaze.
She must’ve accidentally set it on fire.
Chapter 14: Barson
“I hear you thought I was dead?” Barson said, stepping forward when Augusta just continued staring at him, seemingly frozen in place.
“You’re . . .” Her face was pale, her lips barely moving. “You’re not dead.”
“No, I’m not,” he said gently, pulling her toward him. He could feel her beginning to shake, and fierce satisfaction surged through him. She cared. She genuinely cared about him. Nobody could fake that kind of physical response. He also felt an unwelcome twinge of guilt for putting her through this—a guilt that he immediately suppressed. As he had hoped, the Council had voted to confront the threat of the young sorceress, and he strongly suspected that the Guard being ‘dead’ was a factor in that decision.
“How?” Augusta whispered, reaching up to touch his face with a trembling hand. “I thought I saw you die . . . Is this real? Are you real?”
“Oh, I’m real,” Barson assured her, picking her up and carrying her over to the bed. “Why don’t I show you just how real I am?” he murmured, starting to take off her remaining clothes.
And for the next couple of hours, he proved to her that he was fully alive and well.
* * *
When they were lying spent in each other’s arms, Augusta began crying. Surprised, Barson stroked her glossy hair, not knowing what else to do.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a minute, wiping away the tears. “I think I’m just exhausted and . . . and so relieved that you’re alive. I still can’t believe it. How did it happen?”
Barson hesitated for a moment, then decided that he had nothing to lose by telling her about the battle. As he explained how the young sorceress had healed many of them, he could feel the growing tension in Augusta’s body.
Pulling back from him, she stared at him through tear-wet lashes. “Such power,” she whispered, and there was horror in her voice. “Such inhuman, unnatural power . . .”
“Yes,” Barson said, “I’ve never experienced anything like it before. It was euphoric, amazing . . . and the way she wielded the sword . . .” He couldn’t hide the admiration in his voice, which seemed to upset Augusta. Her expression darkened, her eyes narrowing into golden slits, and he quickly added, “Of course, she’s dangerous and needs to be dealt with.”
“She needs to be wiped out of existence.” Augusta’s voice was low and furious. “This kind of creature cannot be allowed to live.”
“Creature?”
Augusta nodded, and then she told him the most incredible story he’d ever heard. When she was done, he stared at Augusta in disbelief. Only a sorcerer would’ve done something so foolish—creating life without a thought to possible consequences. Their hubris knew no bounds.
“Does everybody know that the Guard has survived?” Augusta asked, interrupting that train of thought.
Barson understood where she was heading immediately. “No,” he said, looking at her. “I rode ahead of my men.” He’d suspected that this might be Augusta’s reaction, and he was glad that she was taking the conversation in this direction.
“I don’t know how to put it delicately,” she said slowly, holding his gaze, “but do you think your men could take a well-deserved vacation for the next couple of weeks?”
“Oh?” Barson arched his eyebrows. She was doing exactly what he’d hoped.
“Your survival could . . . change things,” Augusta said quietly. “It could cast the validity of the vote in doubt, since it was based on potentially faulty information.”
“I understand.” Barson hid his satisfaction. “We’ll do as you ask and stay dead for now. Though, of course, this won’t be easy on my men’s families . . .” He added that last touch to give the appearance of reluctance. It wouldn’t do to seem too eager.
“I know.” Augusta frowned a bit. “I don’t want them to suffer, but this is too important to be left to a re-vote. We need the Council to take her out. You understand that, right?”
“I do.” Barson sighed, pretending to be thinking about this. “Perhaps we can have my men dress as peasants for now and visit their families in secret.”
“That’s a great idea,” Augusta said, giving him a quick smile. “Thank you. I really owe you for this.”
“Of course, if Ganir finds out about this . . .” Barson let his voice trail off.
“Don’t worry. I will handle Ganir if it comes to that,” she said, and there was a hard glitter in her eyes.
“In that case, we’ll do as you ask,” Barson promised, leaning down to kiss her again.
This had gone even better than he’d expected. Everything was falling nicely into place.
* * *
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Dara said, greeting Barson with a hug as he stepped inside her house.
“What is it?” Barson asked curiously, following her toward her study.
“Actually, it might be best if you see this for yourself.” She led him toward the desk in the middle of the room and held out a needle. “Here, prick your finger. You’ll want to record this.”
“All right.” Not bothering to question Dara, Barson held the needle to his finger, letting a droplet of blood well up. Then he pressed it to the Life Capture Sphere that sat on the desk.
“Good. Now take this.” She handed him a droplet, and he realized that she wanted to retain the information on this droplet, to have his experience of consuming it recorded. Whatever was on this droplet had to be fairly important.
Putting the droplet in his mouth, Barson felt it overtaking his mind.
* * *
Picking up the droplet, Dara put it under her tongue, curious as to what it contained. She’d found it on the floor of Jandison’s office, lying carelessly under his desk. It helped that Jandison was such a slob. He would never notice its absence, she thought right before she was pulled under.
* * *
Jandison watched the final stages of the voting process with a strange mix of satisfaction and regret. He didn’t like Louie—the boy had always been Ganir’s puppet, treating Jandison without any respect—but Jandison regretted upsetting Louie’s brother. And Blaise would be very upset when he f
ound out the results of this vote.
Of course, that could only benefit Jandison at this point. He needed some way to reduce Ganir’s influence on the Council, and this was the first step in that direction. Ganir and Dasbraw’s sons were close, but they wouldn’t be for much longer. If all went according to plan, Louie would be gone, and Blaise would hate Ganir very shortly.
Jandison would need to speak to Blaise, to apologize for his role in Louie’s sentencing. He would tell Blaise that he’d changed his mind, but it was too late. He would explain how he had been persuaded to vote along with the rest of the Council, how everybody but Blaise voted the same way.
And everybody would end up voting the same way—at least once Jandison was done moving the voting stones into their proper place.
* * *
Regaining her sense of self, Dara stared blankly at the Sphere. She had never been so surprised in her life. Before she could analyze this further, she quickly touched the Sphere with her bloody finger, creating a new droplet.
* * *
“What was that?” Barson asked in shock, staring at his sister. “Did I understand it correctly? Jandison had something to do with fixing a vote?”
She nodded, her eyes shining. “Yes. And I doubt Louie’s trial was the only vote he’d tampered with.”
“But why?” Barson asked, frowning. “Why do something so treasonous?”
“Because I think this is his way of taking what he feels is his rightful due,” Dara said with an undertone of admiration. “Because, by controlling the vote, he—not Ganir—becomes the true leader of the Council . . . and I have long suspected this is something Jandison wants.”
“Of course,” Barson said slowly, “he’s the oldest, but most dismiss him as only a teleportation expert, nothing more. But that’s what the vote is, right? They teleport those stones in there?”
“Yes, exactly.” Dara beamed at him. “He must’ve come up with some way to move the stones from one box to another as it suits his purpose. I don’t think he teleports them, since I read that the boxes are made impenetrable to that kind of magic, but perhaps he created some kind of pathway or a portal between them to bypass this restriction—”