The phoenix keeper, p.42
The Phoenix Keeper, page 42
Once he’d assured himself the spell was as I said, Grimm motioned me closer and gingerly grabbed my left arm with one hand. With the other, he held the spell paper between thumb and forefinger and began to cast. His brow furrowed in concentration. Smoke gathered in his hand and rose up into the air as magic ate the words I’d written, burning away the paper as it went. He didn’t even have to speak the words of the spell aloud.
I will passionately deny admitting this if asked, but Grimm is a brilliant caster. Most sorcerers can’t cast silently, but he did it as a matter of course. If he’d been even a little bit better-natured, this kind of careless display of power might have been attractive. As it was, I found Grimm about as appealing as the austere marble statues that graced the Fount’s hallways—just as haughty and twice as cold. Most of our tiermates disagreed with me on that front. Grimm had plenty of admirers who were willing to overlook his personality in favor of his talent. Little good it did them. Grimm had just given more attention to studying my spell than I’d seen him devote to any of his followers over the years.
The paper wasn’t even completely finished burning when Grimm tugged me forward and our feet left the ground. This spell was undoubtedly more exciting than a lightfoot charm, which floated you upward with all the urgency of dandelion fluff drifting on a light breeze. My version hit with the same adrenaline as a gutless drop, only in reverse. A sort of falling upward, if you like. We had nearly cleared the wall when Grimm’s free hand shot out and grabbed the nearest tree limb, halting our progress before we could descend on the other side. I was hardly tipsy anymore, but our landing was awkward enough that only Grimm’s unsteady grip on my arm kept me from tumbling down. I wobbled on top of the wall like a toddler, laughing and giddy, buzzing from the rush.
“That was brilliant. Why did you stop us?”
“We were going too fast,” Grimm said, scowling. “Your spell likely would have catapulted us headfirst into the ground had I let it continue.”
A little of my rush faded, replaced by annoyance. It was one thing to have everyone turn their noses up at me for something I was admittedly bad at, but my charms worked just fine. I wouldn’t have dared let anyone use them otherwise.
“Climb down on your own then, if you don’t trust my scriving.” I pulled my arm away with a quick tug, intending to move toward the nearest tree and away from Grimm. But hardly tipsy is not quite the same thing as absolutely sober, especially when one is standing on a narrow bit of stone ten feet above the ground.
I leaned.
First one way, then the other. My balance was further thrown off by my violin case, heavier than usual thanks to the winnings I’d stashed there. My free arm flailed for something, anything, to hold on to, and the only thing within reach was Grimm.
My fingers caught on the sash at his waist, causing Grimm to cling even tighter to the branch he held, rather than offering me any assistance.
“Let go,” he snarled, but I clutched that sash like a lifeline, silk twisting in my grasp. Briefly, I thought it would hold, but the fabric was too delicate. It gave way under my fingers with a hushed riiip, and I tumbled over the wall.
It was fortunate that there was grass beneath me, rather than stone, but the impact still rattled my bones and sent the case in my grasp bouncing forward to connect with my face, hard enough to leave me seeing stars. I lay there, dazed, as something wet trickled down from my nose and the metallic tang of blood bloomed at the back of my throat.
By the time I managed to sit up, Grimm was just finishing making his way down one of the trees, landing with an elegant hop. He slowly leaned over to pick up the pieces of his sash. It had been torn neatly in two.
Sorcerers decorate their sashes, you know, or at least most of us do. I’d never bothered, but Grimm’s sash was covered in careful stitches that depicted droplets of water and waves. Now the threads trailed through the air, ripped down the middle of the design.
Grimm folded the pieces carefully and put them in his pocket. Then he looked down at me, coldly furious, and said, “I don’t know how you manage to keep your place here. You’re useless, Loveage.”
There were many things I had argued with Grimm about over the years, but this was not one of them. I didn’t say anything now, either, as he walked away. My own uselessness was something I’d spent years perfecting. Not all sorcerers could be like Grimm. Some of us had powers best left untouched.
S. A. MacLean, The Phoenix Keeper
