A Dragon of a Different Color

by Rachel Aaron

  “Welcome,” he said, his mouth moving not quite in sync with the words as they filtered through the translation spell. “He who would be Merlin.”

  “Thank you,” Myron said, smiling warmly as if he’d come here as a dinner guest and not someone bent on destroying everything. “I’m Sir Myron Rollins, Undersecretary of Magic for the United Nations, Chair of Tectonic Magic at Cambridge University, Master of Labyrinths, and Bound Mage of the DFZ.”

  Marci’s eyebrows shot up. “Mage of the DFZ?” she cried. “Since when?”

  “He means his spirit,” Ghost whispered, nodding to the ratlike thing at the end of the silver ribbon, which was still pulling against Myron with all its might.

  “No way,” she said. “That’s the DFZ? As in the place we live?” He nodded, and her eyes went wide. “A city can be a Mortal Spirit?!”

  “Anything humans value can be a Mortal Spirit,” Amelia said irritably, leaning forward on Marci’s shoulder until she almost fell off. “Now hush. This is about to get good.”

  Marci didn’t see how anything involving Myron becoming Merlin could ever be termed “good.” But that must not have been what Amelia was talking about, because while Shiro was still smiling politely at Myron as he had for Marci, his inhumanly dark eyes were as hard as slate.

  “You have indeed bound a Mortal Spirit,” he said, glancing distastefully at the giant rat-thing pulling at the end of Myron’s leash. “But her magic is not her own. She has been flooded with the blood of lesser spirits, and she reeks of Algonquin’s water.”

  Marci didn’t understand what he was talking about for that the first part, but now that he’d mentioned it, there was a strong smell of lake water coming off Myron’s spirit, but not the usual kind. Even when it was flowing under the Skyways, Algonquin’s water always smelled clean. The stench coming off this thing reminded Marci of the storm drain she, Julius, and Justin had climbed through what felt like forever ago. She was wondering if the spirit was sick when Myron stomped his foot.

  “What does it matter where her magic came from?” he demanded. “She’s a Mortal Spirit, and I am her bound master. That gives me the right to walk through this door.”

  “There you are wrong,” Shiro said, looking more disgusted than ever. “You have no rights here, mage. As I told the young lady behind you, Merlins are champions of humanity. They cannot be beholden to foreign masters. You have bound a spirit in servitude, but as long as you yourself are the servant of the Lady of the Lakes, I will not allow you to enter this sacred place. You may try again when you have freed yourself from Algonquin’s influence. Until then, you are unworthy to stand in the light of this gate.”

  And then he slammed the door in Myron’s face.

  Marci laughed out loud. “Serves you right,” she said as Myron stumbled back. “I can’t believe you agreed to work for Algonquin. You’re such a traitor. How did General Jackson not shoot you, too?”

  “Because I didn’t give her the chance,” Myron said, glaring over his shoulder at her with a look of pure hate. “Don’t confuse us, Novalli. I am nothing like you. You’re a PhD dropout who lucked into a spirit she never deserved. You’ve never known what you’re doing because you did nothing to earn it. All you’ve ever had is dragons willing to use you and your own arrogant grasping, which apparently extends even after death. But I’m no dragon lackey, and I’m not Algonquin’s servant, either. I am the Master of Labyrinths, the greatest living mage! Everything humanity knows about Merlins or Mortal Spirits comes from my research. I am the one who deserves to be here, and I will not be kept out.”

  The smile slipped off Marci’s face. “Hold up,” she said, putting up her hands. “Just what are you planning to—”

  She never got a chance to finish. Myron wasn’t listening, anyway. He just turned back to the door, tightening his grip on his spirit’s lead as he ordered, “Break it down.”

  The spirit of the DFZ roared in defiance, a horrible amalgam of breaking cement and terrified human screaming. When it didn’t stop, Myron pulled again, yanking the rat-monster forward until the silver cord choked it, cutting off its roar to a pathetic, defeated gasp.

  After that, the spirit didn’t fight again. It just cowered, looking more like a rat than ever as it obediently turned to the Merlin Gate and slammed its body into the door.

  The crash went through the churning magic like a bomb blast, knocking Marci back even through the Empty Wind’s protective gale. She was still getting her feet back under her when the spirit charged again, attacking the door with claws and teeth that sparked like the muzzle flashes from gunshots in dark alleys. And as it clawed and bit and clawed again, the thick wood of the Merlin Gate began to crack.

  “Stop!” Marci shouted, stepping to the very edge of her spirit’s protection. “This is stupid, Myron. You don’t even know what you’re doing.”

  “On the contrary, I know exactly what I’m doing,” he said, raising his voice over the violent roar of his spirit. “You don’t rise as high as I have by taking no for an answer.”

  “So you’re just going to force your way in?” she cried. “Smash and grab the Heart of the World?”

  “If that’s what it takes.” Myron said, glancing back over his shoulder. “I’m a mage, Miss Novalli. Audacity is the base line for entry.”

  Marci swore under her breath. She’d used that line so many times herself, she’d forgotten it was from one of his books. But while she absolutely agreed that a bit of recklessness was necessary to push modern magic to its full potential, this was insane. “Breaking something we know nothing about just so you can get what you want isn’t audacity. It’s selfish and stupid. What if you destroy something irreplaceable? It’s not like we know how to make another one of these. And even if you do break in, it’s not like Shiro’s going to suddenly change his mind and give you your Merlin ticket.”

  “That’s not his decision,” Myron growled. “I’ve read enough to know a shikigami when I see one. He’s a clockwork, magic shoved into a binding net of spellwork that mimics human intelligence. But mimicry is not being. He may have been left as a watchdog by the last generation, but he said it himself: Merlins are the champions of humanity. He can close the door and lock me out, but I have more right to be inside that pillar than he does.”

  “You don’t know that,” she said, exasperated. “You don’t know any of this for sure. All you know is what you’ve scraped up from thousand-year-old texts and stories. You say you’re the expert, but you have no more idea what’s actually on the other side of that door than I do.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said. “But use your eyes, Novalli. Do you think this occurred naturally?” He pointed up at the perfectly smooth pillar of stone rising like a skyscraper from the flat floor of the Sea of Magic. “Of course not. It was made by the Merlins. Made by men, not gods. And what man has made, man can break.”

  “Why would you want to break this?” Marci cried as his screaming spirit slammed into the door yet again, sending another boom through the black haze of magic that was now frantically swirling around them. “You’ve found the place that makes Merlins, and you’re smashing in the door like a barbarian!”

  As if to prove her right, the spirit of the DFZ chose that moment to slam its claws into the wood again, only this time, one of the boards cracked. It started as a hairline fracture then quickly widened into an inch-wide gap that sent the warm light from inside spilling into the dark.

  “You see?” Marci said, dragging her hands through her short hair in frustration. “I know you want to be Merlin more than anything, Myron, but this is too far. You told me once that the Merlins were humanity’s hope. The power that would finally put our species on equal footing with dragons and spirits. Now we’re finally here, at the place where that happens, and you’re punching it down. How can you risk something so vital to all of us for your personal ambition? Are you really that selfish?”

  That last part was a desperate play, and for a moment, it seemed to work. Myron actually hesitat
ed, lowering the hand that held his spirit’s leash. But then, just when she thought that maybe she’d gotten through, he turned his back on her again.

  “You understand nothing,” he said, voice shaking with fury. “You think I don’t know what I’m risking? I’ve dreamed of being Merlin since before you were born. I thought the Mortal Spirits were our salvation, our weapons. You were the one who showed me I was wrong.”

  “Me?” Marci said, but when Myron looked back again, it wasn’t at her. He was staring at Ghost, and his eyes were full of fear.

  “I thought I knew our enemies,” he said. “But Algonquin and the dragons are nothing compared to the gods we made in our fear. Humans have always been experts at finding fates worse than death, and when I saw your monster and his army of ghosts walking through Reclamation Land, I knew that the only way to keep us from destroying ourselves was to stop the problem at its source.”

  Marci’s jaw clenched. “You have been listening to Algonquin.”

  “I didn’t need to,” he said. “I already knew what had to be done. The only reason I played along with Algonquin was so I could get the Mortal Spirit she was building. Now that it’s mine, I’m going to do what I’ve always done.”

  She looked pointedly at the cracked door. “Destroy things?”

  Myron gave her a look of utter disgust. “Save humanity.”

  He yanked his spirit’s leash again. When it cowered, he unclenched his right hand from the silver lead and reached out to place his palm over the glowing crack in the door. When it was pressed flat, he squeezed his fingers together, lining up the wide metal bands of his rings so that the intricate mazes engraved into their matte titanium surfaces matched up to form one continuous path. Marci didn’t know enough about Myron’s unique style of magic to say if the alignment was for show or if he actually needed the physical maze for his casting, but the moment the pattern came together, the labyrinth opened, and the dark magic swirling around them stopped spinning in circles and started pouring into him.

  “What is he doing?” Amelia yelled over the roar. “I’ve never seen a human work magic that way.”

  “No one else does,” Marci yelled back, grabbing hold of Ghost as the Sea of Magic rushed past them into Myron. “Labyrinth casting is a Sir Myron Rollins original. I’ve read all three of his books on it, and I’m still not sure how it works, or how he’s not burning himself out. I can’t even touch the magic here.”

  “That’s because you’re dead,” the dragon said, anchoring her tail around Marci’s neck so she wouldn’t get swept away. “He’s not.”

  Marci scowled. “Then how is he here?” Because if Myron had gotten in without having to pay the piper, she was going to be pissed.

  “Because he is not bound to death,” the Empty Wind replied, his glowing eyes fixed on the rat cowering at Myron’s feet. “I don’t know how the DFZ brought him to this side, but she did it without killing him. I’m not sure where his body is, but so long as it breathes, he has protections you do not.”

  “Great,” she muttered, glaring at the mage, who was happily pulling down fistfuls of magic that would have killed her, folding the power into complicated mazes that he laid down on the door in brightly glowing patterns of green and blue. She didn’t know Labyrinth magic well enough to know what these particular mazes did, but it didn’t take a genius to guess it wasn’t going to be pretty. A blasting spell, a cutting charge, maybe something nastier.

  Whatever it was, Myron had made it clear he wasn’t pulling his punches, which meant she had to do something fast. His glowing maze already covered a third of the wood around the crack. At this rate, he’d have the whole door marked for destruction in minutes, along with Marci’s hopes of ever being a Merlin. Or getting out of this alive.

  “Screw this,” she growled, turning to her spirit. “Ghost?”

  The name wasn’t out of her mouth before the wind surrounding them picked up. I thought you’d never ask.

  She grinned at the eagerness of the voice in her head, but Amelia curled her body closer, wings twitching nervously. “Marci,” she whispered. “I’m not sure sending him out is a good—”

  A howl of wind drowned out whatever she’d been about to say. The protective magic surrounding them didn’t budge, but Ghost himself was gone, his centurion’s body blowing away like dust only to reappear directly beside Myron. The mage snatched his hand away from the door, turning to block himself instead, but Ghost wasn’t going for him. He was reaching for the leashed spirit, snatching the black rat-thing up by the scruff of its neck and throwing it into the dark. But just as Marci thought they’d landed it, the DFZ twisted in midair, launching itself off of nothing to slam into the Empty Wind like a furious, sharp-toothed school bus.

  “Ghost!”

  He went down with a crash, his shadowy body crushed under the rat-shaped spirit, who was getting bigger as Marci watched. In the seconds they struggled, it had grown from bus sized to house sized, its orange eyes gleaming with wild fury. No matter how big or angry it got, though, Ghost was still a wind. When the monster tried to trap him, he simply blew away, racing through the dark to safety. The rat didn’t give up, though. Ghost was infinitely faster, but the spirit of the DFZ was stuck on him as stubbornly as it had been on the door. No matter how deftly he dodged, it just kept coming, forcing him to run again and again, retreating farther and farther back into the dark.

  “Why is he retreating?”

  “That’s what I was trying to warn you about,” Amelia said quietly. “It doesn’t look it, but Myron’s DFZ is a lot bigger than your Empty Wind.”

  That couldn’t be possible. “How is the spirit of a city bigger than the fear of being forgotten?”

  “It isn’t, but remember what the shikigami said: the DFZ was stuffed full of spirit magic. Ghost rose on his own. He has enough juice to be conscious and active, but he’s nowhere near full, and you’re not alive to feed him power anymore. That’s a double whammy. Not only did he start in the hole, but he’s still running on the magic that he came in with when you died. That’s nowhere near enough to face a full-blown, fully juiced Mortal Spirit.”

  “Then I’ll feed him magic!” Marci said desperately, looking around at the swirling dark. “There’s plenty of it around.”

  “Too much of it. That’s the problem, remember?”

  How could she forget? The one time she’d touched the stuff without the Empty Wind’s protection, she’d nearly lost her hand. Even so. “I have to do something!” She pointed at Myron, who was already back to working on his maze. “He’s halfway done.”

  “Then don’t help him by being stupid!” Amelia snapped. “I know you want to do something, but if you touch the raw magic out there without a physical body to help diffuse it, it’ll burn right through you, and then Ghost will really be lost.”

  Marci clenched her jaw. Amelia was right. The spirit of the DFZ might not have looked like much at the beginning, but now that they were going head to head, it was obvious the Empty Wind was outmatched. If he hadn’t been so fast, he’d have already been ripped to shreds, and while he retreated, Myron’s maze on the door got bigger and bigger and bigger.

  “Screw this,” she growled, taking a step forward.

  “Marci!” Amelia cried, digging her claws into her shoulder, but Marci wasn’t listening. She didn’t care if she burned out. That pompous idiot was not allowed to win. Not after they’d fought so hard to get here. So, before she could chicken out, Marci lunged forward, thrusting her hand through the protective swirl of winds Ghost was still maintaining.

  Touching the raw magic felt like sticking her hand into a roaring furnace. The swirling chaos around them might have looked like ink-black water, but it burned like acid. Even braced for the worst, it still hurt more than she’d expected, but Marci didn’t let go. She just took another step, grabbing as much of the raw pulsing magic as she could and shoving it through the spellwork that was still marked on the inside of her bracelets.

  The chunky plastic he
ld up better than she’d anticipated, probably because it wasn’t actually plastic. Like all the rest of her, the colorful circles were only echoes, the residual magic of a life. For all that, though, her spellwork held up fine, as well it should. The founding theory of Thaumaturgy was that spellwork was a tool, a way for mages to keep the immensely complicated logic needed to cast spells straight in their heads. No chalk or marker could actually channel magic. Even the circle, the base of all casting, was just a physical line to serve as a mental barrier.

  That was the theory, anyway. Of course, since nothing was physical in this place, casting this spell meant Marci had just accidentally proven the theoretical basis of the most popular casting method in the world. That should have been an enormous deal, but Marci didn’t have time to think about the ramifications. She was too busy forcing the burning magic through the bracelet containing her trusty microwave spell and out into Myron’s back.

  As theory predicted, the spell worked perfectly. The moment she let it go, heat exploded from Marci’s fist, shooting instantly across the distance to leave a blistering burn mark across Myron’s back between his shoulder blades. He screamed in pain, dropping the maze he’d been carefully crafting as he reached instinctively for the wound. A blow that would have felt more like a victory if Marci hadn’t been screaming, too.

  She hadn’t felt it during the rush of the attack, but now that the magic was gone, her whole arm was throbbing in pain. Even with no physical flesh to scorch, the burning magic had still blistered her skin to her elbow. Her entire right hand from the wrist down was a bloody, scorched mess, far worse than the second-degree burn she’d landed on Myron. But even knowing she’d come out the worse in that exchange didn’t keep the defiant smirk off Marci’s face when the older mage whirled around.

  “Are you mad?” he yelled, stomping forward to face her. “What is it you hope to accomplish here? You’ve lost, Novalli. I have the bigger spirit, the ready magic, and the physical life needed to safely handle it. Even if we were on equal footing, I would still have the advantage because I’m the better mage. I’m more experienced, more educated, and my labyrinth casting is infinitely superior to your pedantic Thaumaturgy. I am better than you in every possible way. You have a zero percent chance of stopping me, and you’ll only hurt yourself more if you try.”