Dark apprentice, p.11
Dark Apprentice, page 11
“I never told you why I left home, did I?”
Nikolai shook his head.
“I’m sure you’ve heard rumors, but as usual, rumors tend to fall far from the truth. I dabbled in black magic, that much is true, but I never did anything bad. You know how it is—a guy beats his wife, she comes to me, and I curse him for her. I helped maintain the peace and never took advantage of people. Everyone in town knew about my magic, and they respected me for it. Not like here, where you have to hide everything from the Mundane.”
Petrov sighed. “I made a terrible mistake. I . . .” He closed his eyes, steeling himself against the memory. “I caught my wife in bed with my brother. I don’t know what came over me, but I do know this—if I hadn’t known those kinds of spells, I might not have acted so rashly. Maybe I would have talked to them. Not sure what they would have said, but when a man loses his wife and his brother in the same instant, it’s bound to make you think of how things could’ve been different. I was impulsive, and it cost me everything. The worst was after. I couldn’t live with what I’d done. I couldn’t let it rest . . . let them rest.”
Nikolai perked up at this. Finally the man was getting to the point. “You resurrected them? I didn’t think such a thing was possible.” Resurrection was almost as good as immortality. Maybe there was something to be learned from the old man yet. But Petrov was quick to dash his hopes.
“No. Necromancy isn’t true resurrection. The bodies reanimated, and they moved, but there was nothing left of my wife or my brother.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t control them. They ran about like savage beasts, and I put them down like animals. By then, the whole town knew what I’d done. I’d crossed a line. All because of one lapse in judgment. My hasty actions were bad enough, but instead of owning up to my mistake, I tried to fix it and made things worse.”
What was the point of all this? Did Petrov seek to placate him with stories of poor necromancy? The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could be on his way.
“I see a bit of myself in you,” Petrov continued. “I was always drawn to the darker magics. But I tell you, boy, they require a certain frame of mind. They require control, and you’ve an impulsive streak. It’s a bad combination. Today you showed me that you can leash your emotions when you’ve a mind to. If you prove to me that you can hold back, maybe I can teach you a bit of what I know.”
Nikolai kept his face impassive even as his temper flared. A bit? The man admitted he’d taught him nothing the past two years, and he expected Nikolai to be fine with it?
Petrov reached a hand toward Nikolai, and for a moment he thought the old man would pat his shoulder, but it extended past him to the wall. When Petrov’s palm touched the wood, it dissolved to reveal a doorway. Petrov flicked his wand several times, and oil lamps blazed to life.
Shelves lined the walls in the room beyond, stocked with black magic artifacts—candles, feathers, bones, and body parts floating in jars. Rats stared with beady eyes from a rusted cage dangling from the ceiling. A grey, pockmarked altar took up most of the back wall. Wooden floor planks changed to smooth stone tiles as Nikolai entered. A summoning circle, at least six feet across, dominated the center of the room. The red paint on the floor drew the eye and pulsed the air with subtle magic. Nikolai stared in disbelief.
Petrov grinned. “Impressive, eh?”
“Indeed.” Nikolai forced a smile. Two years. The man had hidden this from him for two years. Why hadn’t he thought to cast a revealing spell in the hallway? Because it hadn’t occurred to him that Petrov had anything to hide, at least not on this scale. The room, fascinating as it was, was tainted with Petrov’s betrayal.
The shelf closest to the door was lined with books—Treatise of Life and Death, Forbidden Funeral Rites, The Key of Hell. He moved further down the shelves, where Pseudomonarchia Daemonum was wedged next to Binding Demons. Nikolai chose a book on curses and flipped through it. Minor hexes, ill luck charms—there had to be something here he could use.
“Now then, what’s something simple I could teach you . . . ah! I have it. How about a séance spell? You lost your family in the war, didn’t you? I’m sure you’d like to hear from them again.”
Nikolai could think of nothing he’d like less. What did a young man like himself have to say to the ghosts of children? Father went to war and never came back, the same as so many others, and he’d never missed the man. As for his mother, they hadn’t spoken since he left Russia—not that she was speaking much to him then. He had no idea how she fared, nor did he care.
The past was something to leave behind. Petrov’s casual presumption was insulting, but he found people got choked up about the war and did his best to mimic the expected response.
“Thank you for the offer.” Nikolai took a deep breath and continued with a quaver in his voice. “I’m afraid I must decline. It’s not something I’m ready for yet. Is there something else you can show me? Something more . . .” He left the thought hanging and gestured vaguely. To say he wanted something more interesting would have been discourteous.
Petrov gave him a sympathetic look and turned to inspect his shelves. “Hmm, something more fun . . .” His fingers trailed over different objects until he came face to face with the cage. “Here we go. Sit down and watch.” His manner spoke of a man anxious to show off.
Nikolai sat on the far side of the summoning circle, book open in his lap. He did his best to show interest in Petrov as he scanned the book for spells with backfire potential. The Academy loved to tell cautionary tales of clandestine black magic practitioners who fell victim to their own experiments. Whether or not the tales were true was irrelevant—people believed them. No one would look askance at a man who died in a room with black magic etched on every surface.
Petrov pulled a fat brown rat from the cage. Before the creature could struggle, he neatly snapped its neck and placed the limp body in the center of the circle, withdrawing his wand.
“Seco.” Blood welled in the wake of the wand as he traced the cutting spell across his own thumb. He made a fist over the rat. Scarlet dotted the rodent’s fur and dripped onto the cold stone floor. Petrov began a low, guttural chant as he ran his wand in complicated movements over the body. The rat twitched and stood up.
By some method Nikolai could not ascertain, Petrov signaled the beast. It capered about the circle, dancing and flipping in an almost comical fashion. Necromancy was a magic so dark it was taboo even among Magi. The rodent’s cavorting made it seem no more than a cheap party trick. It was almost insulting to see it used so frivolously. Nikolai feigned laughter at his mentor’s eager smile.
“Control is the hardest part of necromancy. When I first started, the rats ran amok biting things.”
“Do you have an army of rats then?” Nikolai asked hopefully.
Petrov laughed. “I’m afraid not. I can only control one at a time.”
A single rat was underwhelming compared to what Medea had to offer. From her, he could learn immortality as well as necromancy. The opportunity was too good to pass up.
“Can I pick the next spell?”
“I suppose so. What did you have in mind?”
“Can you summon a wraith?” Nikolai held up the book in his lap and turned it toward Petrov. According to the spell, a wraith was a vengeful spirit that could be used to hunt enemies. Give them something to track—bone, blood, hair, or skin—and they would find their target no matter the distance.
“Pass it here,” said Petrov. Nikolai reached across the circle to hand him the book. “Hmm. Seems easy enough. Yes, I think I can do this. Move back, out of the circle. Good. It shouldn’t do anything without a target, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. Safety is important when you cast black magic.”
Petrov stood and brandished his wand at the circle. His incantations were pitched higher this time. The inside of the circle darkened and something like smoke began to coalesce and take shape. A wretched face came into being and screeched with the ferocity of a banshee. The body was a formless mist except for two taloned hands.
“The circle will keep it contained. Mind the edges.”
The creature turned to Petrov and screeched again. Without warning, it slashed his face. Petrov fell back against a table, knocking over several bottles. Angry gashes lined his cheek. When the wraith crossed the boundary of the circle, Petrov’s eyes brimmed with fear.
“H-how?” he stammered. The wraith slashed again, this time scoring his belly. Blood soaked his shirt and dripped to the floor. He hastily conjured a shield and shouted at Nikolai to run, save himself.
“Thank you, but I’d rather stay and watch.” Nikolai leaned casually against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets. “The book said the wraith should disappear as soon as its target is dead. I’m in no danger. You, on the other hand, left blood in the circle when you reanimated the rat.”
“Then help me, boy! There! On the shelf next to you—the grey powder! Dump it on the beast.” Petrov pushed all his power into maintaining his shield. The wraith scraped it with increasing fury, pinning him to the table.
Nikolai plucked up the tub of grey powder and walked toward his mentor at a leisurely pace. “It’s a shame you didn’t see fit to teach me better spells before tonight or let me out of my apprenticeship willingly—”
“What are you doing? Throw the powder at it!”
The wraith ignored Nikolai, who came to stand beside Petrov. Quick as lightning, the golden dagger bit into Petrov’s jugular. The man’s eyes widened and his shield winked out.
“Then maybe I wouldn’t have to kill you.” Nikolai jerked the dagger free and stepped back to let the wraith fall upon its unprotected prey. Petrov’s scream melted into a faint gurgle as the wraith savaged his face.
When the deed was done, Nikolai made sure the book was placed on the floor near the circle, open to the page with the wraith spell. It took him longer to find the paint that Petrov had used to make the circle on the floor. Ever so carefully, he painted over the hairline scratch he’d made in the circle with his dagger.
Back at home, Nikolai opened his trunk and pulled out a set of clean clothes. Though he’d done his best to keep out of the splatter, he didn’t want to take any chances of a missed spot of blood. He penned a quick letter and stowed it in his pocket. Certain he’d packed everything of import, Nikolai gathered his bags, adjusted his hat, and left the small apartment without a backward glance.
The Hanged Man was not his destination. Not yet. There was one last thing he needed to do. At Petrov’s place, he spent a good ten minutes pounding loudly on the door until the neighbor woman stuck her head out the window to curtly inform him that maybe Petrov wasn’t in.
“Do you know where he went? I tried at the shop and he didn’t answer.”
She tugged a moth-eaten shawl closer about her shoulders. “Do I look like his secretary?”
“No, ma’am, and I’m sorry to trouble you, but this is urgent. I’ve accepted a new position, but I have to leave tonight. I wanted to tell Petrov in person. I owe him that much. Perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, can you give him this letter? It’s my resignation.”
The woman accepted the envelope with much grumbling.
“Thank you kindly. Please give him my best.” Nikolai tipped his hat and set off for the Hanged Man.
Medea had foregone her usual table and awaited him at the bar. She eyed him curiously as he approached. Fearing he had a speck of blood on his face, Nikolai feigned a cough and turned sideways to glance in a mirror mounted nearby. Nothing there. He coughed one more time and turned back.
“Excuse me, and good evening. How will we be traveling?”
She said nothing for a moment but continued to study him. Then, “Did Petrov let you out of your contract?”
“Certainly. I explained the situation and he agreed I could learn far more from you.”
“I see.” She let the silence stretch until even the barman raised an eyebrow.
Nikolai broke it first. “So, uh, do I have time to order a drink or—”
“Tell me, what was my first rule?”
“Don’t try to kill you?”
“Be honest with me.”
“Ah, yes.”
“I dislike liars. To adequately train you, there must be trust between us. Lying destroys that.”
She knew. No, that was impossible. There was no physical evidence of what he’d done. Did she suspect then? Yes. That was it. She knew what kind of man he was and was attempting to manipulate him into giving something away.
“I’m not lying. I really do want to know if I have time to order a drink.”
She crossed her arms and waited, but eventually a resigned look came over her face. “Fine. I suppose your apprenticeship does not technically begin until you set foot on my island. There will be consequences the next time you lie to me.” She walked past him and up the rickety stairs to the rooms, pausing on the landing. “Coming?”
He wasn’t sure if he should bring his luggage, but leaving it unattended didn’t seem like the best idea. He pulled out his wand and levitated the trunk to the second floor, then shouldered his rucksack and followed. Every step creaked loudly with his passing. Medea had vanished from sight, but he soon found her again down the long hallway. She waited for him at the last room. At the door, she motioned him inside. Perhaps she wanted to grill him further about Petrov and didn’t wish to make a scene downstairs.
Cramped and musty, the room offered little in the way of furniture or comfort. The bed was made up with a garish green quilt that would have been at home in a grandmother’s house. It didn’t seem worthy of someone with her kind of power. Medea followed him in and closed the door. Not sure where she was going, he tried to step aside, but the confined space made it impossible to get completely out of the way. Her body pressed momentarily against his in passing, leaving a familiar tightening in his pants in its wake.
At the closet she raised her palm to the wood. Suddenly the close quarters and her insistence on having this particular room made sense. There was probably a larger suite hidden beyond the closet door, and this first room was a decoy for assassins. Did the innkeeper know about the second room, or had the secret died out over generations? Medea lowered her hand and opened the door.
Beyond lay the ocean.
10
THE ISLAND
It was an illusion. It had to be. A trick from a paranoid woman to deter would-be killers.
“You first,” said Medea.
Nikolai stepped from the warmth of the inn onto the beach and was nearly brought to his knees as he crossed the barrier. His brain struggled to grasp the sensation, to compare it to something familiar—the first breath after being submerged, the slow trickle of warmth spreading through hands numb with cold, the blessed relief of removing a tie at the end of a long day, a bite of food after a long fast. Nothing had ever felt so profound or so right. He gasped, barely registering where—or who—he was.
“Move.”
A sharp poke from behind brought his awareness back. Seabirds cried overhead. A chill wind whipped around him, catching his clothes and spraying his face with a fine mist. The beach sloped up a hill covered with swaying grass. If this was an illusion, it was damn impressive. Fooling one sense was easier than several. It even smelled like a real beach.
Nikolai stepped forward and turned to find Medea exiting a stone archway. In the center of the archway, hung impossibly in space, was a door-shaped view of the bedroom.
“You look surprised,” she said. “Never used a gateway before?”
It took a moment for him to process her words. The sensation, whatever it was, still permeated his being. He was whole and happy, and it was wonderful to be here.
“Are you alright?”
“Absolutely!” He beamed despite himself, wiggling his fingers idly at his sides, as though he could stir up whatever was in the air. “I’m sorry, you asked me a question?”
“I asked if you’d ever used a gateway before.”
“No, no.” The sensation wasn’t going away, but he was getting used to it. He took a deep breath and continued. “At first I thought this might be an illusion.”
“It’s real. This is my island. You won’t find it on any map. I’ve sunk enough ships that sailors know to avoid the area for fear of treacherous waters, and it’s heavily warded against trespassers. Did the Academy fail to educate you on gateways?”
“I came across them in my reading, but I’ve never met anyone who claimed to be able to make one. Some of my professors seemed to think they were no more than stories dreamed up by the Mundane.” He laughed at the idea of his former professors seeing this and circled the archway. The inn was only visible from one side. Around back, he could view Medea between the weathered granite columns. The whole thing sat well above the high-water mark, allowing one to come and go without risk of wet feet.
“I see a lot of that lately. Ironic those who should know the most about magic seem to understand it least. The concept is quite simple really, though it takes a great deal of skill and power to perform. Tell me, do you sew?”
“When I need to mend something,” he said, returning to the front of the arch. “Usually a loose button.”
Medea grabbed the front corner of his coat, pulling it taut. “Pretend this is the world. Space.” She pointed to one button. “This is where we are now.” Her fingers walked to a second button. “This is Haven. How do you propose we bring the two together?”
“Fold the coat so they touch.”
“Yes! We simply pinch the fabric together until the two meet. That is all a gateway is. It’s a place where the caster pinches the two locations together.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. The world doesn’t move like that.”
“Not that you can see with your eyes. That is why it takes an advanced practitioner. One who can see beyond what is there, to the space between places. Now, this particular spot is not where you will normally exit. The wards do not recognize you, and so they have redirected us to the beach, rather than inside my home. Stand still so I can identify you to the wards.” Medea walked around him. As she did so, sand swept out of the way to form a circle with strange symbols within. “State your name.”
