Dark apprentice, p.13
Dark Apprentice, page 13
“So you’re not fluent then. Let me hear your Turkish.” There was no way she spoke modern Turkish. He’d had to relearn it himself after arriving at the Academy.
“Why do you care so much about this?”
“Maybe because you’re offering to teach me in a language you don’t really know.”
She crossed her arms and gave him an appraising look, then spoke, completely mangling a phrase.
He stifled a laugh. “Even for Ottoman Turkish, that’s bad.”
“I don’t see what’s so funny. I’d like to see you learn every major language and remember them all with perfect fluency. Just for that, I’m going to make you learn Latin and Greek.”
He picked up the fork and stabbed a strip of beef. “Let’s stick with English. I could use the practice anyway.”
“You speak it well. Most Russians have trouble with ‘the’ and have a much thicker accent.”
He spoke between bites. “I went to Dublin on weekends. Watched American movies.” Mimicking accents or mimicking expressions—it was all the same to him. His chewing slowed.
Hunger satiated, Nikolai poked through the sauce with his fork. The taste wasn’t what he’d expected.
“Something wrong?”
“I thought it was supposed to have onions.”
“Oh, that. I don’t like onions.”
“You don’t like onions?”
“No.”
“So you didn’t summon onions?”
“Or mushrooms. Americans put mushrooms in it.”
Had the food she’d summoned been made without mushrooms and onions, or was there a plate somewhere in America devoid of its contents, save for a pile of mushrooms and onions?
“You’re responsible for your own meals. I often forget to eat, and more than a few apprentices have accused me of trying to starve them.” She chuckled and dug out her slip of paper again, waving it too fast for him to read, though it appeared to be in Latin anyway. “Now I have a list. ‘Make sure they can summon food.’ So, that’s done. You can store food here and cook if you want. Some apprentices like to do that, though I can’t imagine why. Really, who has time for that nonsense?”
Her speech had become as rapid as a bird darting through bushes. Before he could swallow his food and say that he concurred, she moved on.
“Do you know any cooling spells?”
He shook his head.
“Then you’ll have to use the larder. Don’t leave things in there so long they rot. Clean up after yourself. What else? I think that’s everything. We start early. An hour past sunrise. Don’t be late. Do you have any questions before I retire?”
She stood to leave. He slurped his last noodle quickly and pulled out a handkerchief to dab his face.
“I don’t believe so. What time is it here?” He made to pull out his pocket watch and realized it was in the coat he’d worn to work, now packed with all his other things.
“Sundown, I think.”
Well, that was helpful . . .
“Anything else?” Despite the question, Medea was already walking toward the door. He had to twist in his seat to look at her.
“I guess not.”
“Ah, there it is!” She’d spotted a trash can near the door. “Of course I find it now. Rubbish goes in there.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Really? Rubbish goes in the rubbish bin?”
She continued as if he’d asked a legitimate question. “Yes, it’s emptied once a day.”
“By who?”
“By a spell.” Again the condescending tone. She left without another word, closing the door neatly behind her. He shook his head and turned back to the table. Odd woman.
Nikolai pushed the tepid soup aside. Shchi was boring and he could do better. He aimed his wand at the plate, now clear aside from a single beef strip on the rim, and envisioned kolbasa.
His first sausage was raw, as was the second. The third showed evidence of chewing. He discarded it in the trash along with the beef and retrieved a clean plate. Raw. Burned. Spoiled. Why was this so difficult?
Medea said memories and emotions helped. He tried to recall the first time he had the sausage, before the war, back when they’d had food. It was no good—he couldn’t remember the first time. Instead, he closed his eyes and focused on the times he’d eaten it after the war, on the smell and the savory flavor in his mouth.
When he looked at his plate he found not a sausage, but a fat severed finger. Fresh blood welled from the end. Had it come from a sausage-making facility? Did someone lose it there? Into the trash it went, and a new plate was retrieved.
Twenty minutes later he slumped in his seat and stared at a perfect kolbasa. Or so it seemed. For all he knew, the inside could be filled with maggots. He picked up a knife with shaking hands that betrayed mana exhaustion and cut into the center. Slice by careful slice he examined the sausage. When it was clear the food wasn’t contaminated, he pushed aside a single piece to be discarded and ate the rest.
After cleaning the dishes in a makeshift sink made from a metal trough, he collected his things and made his way to the bedroom, located directly below the upstairs balcony. The door above had to be Medea’s. It placed her literally above him—the message couldn’t have been more clear. He opened his door and stared in dismay.
While not exactly what he’d envisioned when he first saw the hovel, it was close. What little furniture the small, windowless room contained was old and worn. A backless chair, more like a tall stool, was pushed against a small desk bearing an inkwell and an oil lamp. The bed, little more than a pallet stuffed with straw, squatted in the corner closest the door. On top lay a crumpled bundle of fabric, which turned out to be a single sheet and a thin blanket. At least it lacked the cobwebs and dust of the kitchen. Medea probably had it on her list. “Clean apprentice’s room.”
He dragged his trunk to the bed and opened it. Where was he supposed to keep his clothes? There were a couple hooks on the wall, but no wardrobe, dresser, or closet. Keeping with the decor of the rest of the house, there were, however, several bookshelves.
As he set out his clothes neatly on the shelves, he vowed to smuggle in a new mattress. He would not spend the next years living in squalor, no matter how good the instruction. When he finished unpacking, he lay down on the mattress, cursing and punching it several times. Damned thing probably had bugs.
Despite the disappointing accommodations, there was no denying he had the opportunity of a lifetime. Who knew what artifacts and books Medea had collected over the centuries? Tomorrow he would ask for a tour, taking note of off-limit areas. He would not permit another master to hold out on him. Willing or not, he would extract every shred of knowledge from Medea and turn it against her. He would surpass her ability. His ego could not conceive of a world in which it was otherwise.
He reached under the mattress and pulled out the golden dagger, idly unsheathing and sheathing it. That Medea had to die was without question. He still owed her for the blinding, after all, and it was important to keep promises made to oneself.
More than that, Medea was the ultimate Competition. The notoriety of killing the world’s most powerful Magi was too tempting to pass up. He wouldn’t even get in trouble for it. Hell, the Collective would probably give him a medal. Besides, allowing her to live meant allowing her to train future Competition, and he couldn’t have that. Her unique and powerful magic would be his and his alone. Killing her ensured no one followed in his footsteps.
Countless others had attempted to kill Medea and failed. He needed to find out how so as not to make the same mistakes. Immortality was not the same as invulnerability, and Medea’s caution implied vulnerability on some level. As he studied magic, so would he study her. Everyone had a weakness to exploit. Nikolai smiled as he drifted off to sleep, dagger clutched in his hand.
11
MALAISE
Nikolai awoke to straw jabbing him in the back, but made no effort to roll over or rise. Why bother? What was the point? Why had he even come here? He recalled fighting so hard to win the apprenticeship, and yet those memories felt like they belonged to a different person, someone capable and cunning. He was neither.
Useless, conniving boy. Why had he ever thought himself talented? Absurd that Medea even consented to teach him. She’d only done so out of pity, or to be rid of his incessant prattling. He was incapable of learning. Worse, he was a backstabbing, lying fraud. He lay motionless on the bed, staring at the wall. A collection of knots in the wood formed a drooping face that mirrored his mood.
Sometime later, a rap sounded on his door. “Get up! How can you be so late to rise, and on your first day?”
He couldn’t find the will to respond.
The knocking came again, louder this time, and Medea’s voice shouted, “On your head be it. I give you one hour to rise and report or consider us done.”
Probably for the best. He struggled to sit up. It wasn’t that his body was unresponsive, but that he lacked the mental wherewithal to even try. Eventually he managed to get upright, shivering as the cold stone floor sucked the warmth from his feet. Pulling the blanket over his shoulders was like moving through molasses, and when it slipped off he couldn’t find the will to try again. His robe hung on a hook a few paces away; it might as well have been across an infinite chasm. Even the urgency of his bladder wasn’t enough to force him into motion.
His eyes roved the room. He had wanted to redecorate—a rug here, a new bed with a soft mattress, a mahogany desk, gilded mirror, wardrobe . . . pointless now. He should be packing, but all he could do was stare at his bags. Everything was too much.
An hour must have passed because the banging came again. “You had better be dead in there!” Before he could respond, or perhaps because he hadn’t, Medea swung the door open with a force that sent it crashing against the wall. She stood framed in the doorway, hands on her hips. “What are you doing?”
He simply looked at her.
“Well?” she demanded.
“I should be going. I don’t know why I ever came here.”
With the effort of a snail climbing Mount Everest, he stood and crossed to the bookshelves. Something clattered from the bed to the floor. It didn’t matter what it was. None of it mattered. He gazed at his neatly folded clothes. It would be simplest to swipe everything into his trunk, yet he stood staring at the shelf without taking action.
“Wait,” said Medea. She approached and grabbed him by the chin, yanking his face down to her level, and peered into his eyes. No, past his eyes. He felt the faint touch of her mind against his. “I see.” She released his chin and left without a backward glance.
He kept expecting her to come back and berate him, but she did not. Eventually he moved to lie back down, not to sleep but because standing was too difficult. His foot kicked something on the way back to the bed; the gold dagger skidded across the floor. Something tugged at his subconscious. This didn’t feel right. He had really wanted to be here. He’d literally killed for the opportunity to train with Medea. Why was he so desperate to give it all up now? What the hell was he doing?
A fog lifted from his mind. He jerked the door open and yelled into the common area. “Medea!” The empty room offered no response.
He cursed and dressed hurriedly, checking his watch—past noon Haven time. Two horrible first impressions, and now this. What kind of student sleeps in on the first day? What on earth had come over him?
The door closest to his room was a bathroom, thankfully more modern. He relieved himself. No time to shower or shave. His hair was probably a mess, but there wasn’t a mirror in which to check. He cupped his hands under the faucet and combed his hair with his wet fingers.
He checked the kitchen, not really expecting to find Medea given the layer of dust he’d seen yesterday, and found it empty. The doors on the opposite side of the common room were locked, but one had a note attached. It read simply, “Outside.” He wrenched open the antechamber door, narrowly avoided tripping over stray boots, and smacked his head on the low doorframe again.
Medea levitated over the gravel pit adjacent to the garden beds, legs crossed and eyes closed.
“I’m sorry I’m la—”
“This is for you.” Eyes still closed, she gestured to the stone bench abutting the pit wall. On it was a small belt pouch similar to her own. “Keep it well-stocked with potions and whatever else you require. One of your daily duties is to create mana and healing potions. I made your allotment for today, as we are already behind schedule, but I will not do so again.” Her voice carried a note of warning.
“Thank you. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I seriously doubt that. When it does, I expect you to get up and do your duties regardless.” She drifted over the low border and landed next to him.
He bit his tongue and nodded. Anything he said would be seen as an excuse. Earning the apprenticeship was one thing; today he had to show he deserved it.
Medea led him along the path away from the hovel. The day was bright and clear, drastically different from Ireland and its frequent rain. A gentle breeze, pleasantly scented by the ocean, set the meadow grass swaying. When Medea was dead and the island his, he could use it to stage seductive romantic picnics.
About halfway to the forest, she paused and flattened a swath of grass with a single gesture.
“I want you to try to kill me,” she said. “You may use your wand this time.”
“Pardon?”
“I said you could use your wand.” The wind tugged at her blonde hair. She absently tucked it behind her ears.
“Not that—you told me never to try to kill you.”
“Sparring is different. I need to see how good you are, which I can only do if you don’t hold back. My only caveat is that you stop if I call a time out to explain something. I dislike being interrupted.”
“What if I hurt you?” He knew some rather nasty spells.
“You won’t.”
“But—”
“Tell me, do you ever worry that one of your ‘Dueling Club’ members will hurt you?”
“No, but they don’t know what they’re doing.”
Her smile turned his own comment against him.
“I know what I’m doing!”
“Compared to them, yes. You and I both suffer a lack of adequate sparring partners. I have not been remotely challenged since the seventeenth century. Fear not. I could pass out drunk on the grass and you could not kill me.”
He grinned. “I have some vodka in my room if you care to test that theory.”
“Hypothesis, not theory, and I’m not Baldur.”
“Who’s Baldur?”
“You know, Baldur.”
He stared at her blankly.
“The Norse god? Killed by mistletoe?” She made an exasperated noise and walked several meters away, the standard dueling distance. “Never mind. The point is, even if something seems safe, putting yourself at risk for the amusement of others is stupid.”
“No need to get testy because I didn’t recognize your obscure reference.”
“It’s not obscure! You just need to read more.”
“I read plenty. Useful things like dueling spells. Who was it, this ‘adequate’ sparring partner who challenged you back in the seventeenth century? Another immortal?” Nikolai rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms.
“A particularly capable apprentice of mine.”
“This apprentice have a name?”
She crossed her arms. “Why do you care?”
“I like to know who I’m competing against.”
“Competing? How would you be competing with someone from two hundred years ago?”
He shrugged and withdrew his wand, twirling it between his fingers. “I like to be the best. So, who was he? No, wait—who was your best apprentice?” No point in worrying about mister “particularly capable.”
“They are one and the same. He was with me for seventeen years.”
Seventeen years! Most apprenticeships lasted four, perhaps six, but seventeen? He’d be thirty-nine if she kept him that long—practically an old man. No wonder she didn’t want apprentices asking how long they had left.
“Thomas was a witch from the Massachusetts colony.”
“A witch?” Nikolai scoffed. No wonder the guy took seventeen years. Half of that was probably bringing him up to Magi level.
“Religious beliefs aside, he was a talented caster.”
“He can’t have been that good if he’s dead.”
“Not everyone desires immortality. In any case, I’ve not spoken to him since 1686. For all I know, he’s still alive.”
Not bloody likely. “The parting gift you give your apprentices—the one you said returns to you if they die—did Thomas’ return?”
Her jaw momentarily clenched. “Yes, but—”
Nikolai laughed. “Give me enough time and I’ll surpass him.”
“With the amount of time you waste asking inane questions, I doubt it.”
“You could at least pretend to have some confidence in my abilities.”
“It is not my job to bolster your ego. Overconfidence can get you killed.”
“It doesn’t seem to have hurt you.”
“I merely have a realistic idea of my own abilities. Now, enough nattering, let’s—”
“Lancea!” He launched the lance spell toward her chest. Was it cheating? A little, but she said she was in no danger. It was her own fault if she got hurt.
“Increbesco! Sanguino!” He grinned as his spells winged toward her. The second would spread the injury; the third would cause her to bleed out. He’d been dying to use them in conjunction. Damn the Collective and their stupid rules. Testing on sheep wasn’t the same as dueling someone who could fight back. Medea might get a shield up in time to block the third spell, but he was confident at least the first two would hit.
She casually flicked the spells aside, where they thumped harmlessly into the dirt. Nikolai found himself momentarily suspended in the air like a rag doll. He slammed into the ground, knocking the air from his lungs and the wand from his hand.
