Dark apprentice, p.20
Dark Apprentice, page 20
“Every light you see is a gateway I’ve made. Teleportation, though possible, is rife with problems. Gateways are a far more effective means of transportation.”
He approached the map of Russia. It contained few lights, many of which were red. Closer examination of the lights revealed them to be small, luminescent holes.
“What do the colors mean?”
“Red is hazardous. Unfortunately, the world changes over time. I tried to make my gateways where they might last, but it’s difficult to predict how the world around them will change.”
“Like the Hanged Man going bankrupt?” He grinned. No wonder she’d bought the place and insisted they keep her room clear of other guests.
“Yes, like that. At least there I could do something. It would have been awkward if they’d demolished the place.”
“Would that destroy the gateway? Or could you move it by prying off the doorframe?”
“Most people tie the spell to a particular object like that. I don’t. The last thing I need is someone stealing a gateway. Mine are tied to a specific relative location. Trickier to accomplish because if you don’t get it right, the gateway will open up into space as soon as the planet rotates.”
Now there was a thought. “Is that purely theoretical or has it actually happened to someone?”
“Oh it’s happened, though I’m not sure people understood what they were seeing. I found old accounts of apprentices watching their masters walk into what they thought was some sort of ethereal paradise, only to fly off into oblivion, never to be seen again.
“My gateways are anchored to their location in relation to Earth, so no matter how the world moves, the gateway moves with it. Some of my older portals have shifted by a few inches or so, but nothing severe.”
“So if the Hanged Man was torn down, the gateway would just float in the air where the inn used to be?”
“Yes. So be careful with red. It means the exit has been compromised. In that annoying war a few years ago, many of my gateways became obstructed with rubble, or the buildings housing them were destroyed.” Her tone was that of someone who’d planned a nice evening out, only to find their chosen venue closed.
He scanned the maps of Europe. Sure enough, cities that had been the target of Nazi bombings contained more red lights. The war that had shaped his childhood was no more than a minor inconvenience to her. It spoke to her ability that massive world events meant so little.
He shelved the thought. The faster he got through this lesson, the sooner he could get out of here.
“And the other colors?”
“White is functional, with no known threats. Green is gardens. Flashing yellow means the wards have caught an intruder.”
“How do you keep people from getting in? They get dumped on the beach?”
“The gateways are warded. They won’t open unless they recognize the person entering or hear the password.”
“And the password is . . . ?”
“None of your business.” She gave him a look. “If someone tries repeatedly to get through, or if they threaten the gateway itself, the wards will neutralize them.”
“Kill them?”
“No. They’re frozen in midair and paralyzed. That way I can ask why they’re trying to break into my home. Of course, sometimes I forget to check and they’re dead by the time I arrive.”
“Uh, wouldn’t a dead body attract attention?”
She crossed her arms. “I have been doing this for a while, you know. The wards detect death and dissolve the body. I am not an amateur.”
“Of course. I meant no offense. So how do I make a selection?”
Medea took out a small peg from the ornate box on the table and held it up. “With this.” She moved to the map of Ireland and stuck the peg in a white hole marked Haven, then moved to the runed door and placed a flat palm on the surface. “Make a habit of checking your surroundings before opening the door. Specto.”
Oh sure, she got to use an incantation, but when he did it, it was wrong.
A rectangular area surrounding her palm became translucent. He approached and peered through. Beyond the gateway was the bedroom at the Hanged Man.
“Clear enough.” Medea opened the door and passed through. He didn’t follow. Would the gateway seal if he moved the peg? Could he lock her out? It hadn’t sounded like it. Probably best not to tempt fate until he understood more, but the idea was heartening.
“Now that you’ve been identified to the wards, you’ll be taken back to the Gateway Room when you cross the threshold. You may use the gateways at your leisure. Don’t let anyone see you pass through. If someone manages to cross with you, you’ll both be deposited onto the beach. If possible, leave them alive for questioning, unless of course you already know why you were being followed. In that case, just kill them.”
The offhand way she said this made his heart leap. A mentor that understood the necessity of killing! It was too bad she was withholding magic and making him sick.
“Did you want Haven, or someplace else?”
It was tempting to bolt before he lost his chance, but Haven was too small for all the things he needed to do. He needed a large city where he spoke the language. Turkey was a mess last he’d heard, and he had no desire to ever return to Russia. That left Dublin, Glasgow, and London. Dublin was familiar, but London was larger and had better clubs.
“London, please.”
Medea stepped through the gateway, closing the door behind her. Would it open again? She moved to place the peg.
“No, wait!” He was an idiot, trapped in the mind-set that he had to stay in Europe. The gateways could go anywhere.
“Can I go to New York?”
“You can go anywhere you see a gateway, but it’s the middle of the night there. If you’re unsure, check the sun strip.” She pointed to the row of tiles over the maps, where someone might normally stick clocks of varying time zones. Above the East Coast of America they were dark blue, almost black. As they crossed over the Atlantic they grew lighter, until at last they were yellow.
New York was tempting. The city probably had quite the night life, and he’d always wanted to see America. Unfortunately, he had things to do that required normal business hours.
“What’s wrong with you?” Medea gestured at him with the peg. “I’ve never seen you so indecisive. It’s not like you can’t go someplace else next week.”
“I didn’t expect to have so many choices.”
“You’re picking a destination, not naming your firstborn! Here.”
She slapped the peg against his abdomen, and he fumbled to grab it before it fell.
“When you’re ready to return, simply walk through the gateway. The wards will recognize you and do the rest.”
The door snapped closed behind her. Nikolai turned the peg in his hands. Being allowed to leave at all seemed wrong. What was she playing at?
Only one way to find out. He inserted the peg into London and opened the gateway door.
18
GOLDILOCKS
Nikolai peered through the door but didn’t step across the threshold yet. The dim alley beyond wasn’t exactly inviting, but then Medea probably hid her gateways in less-trafficked areas. He cast Magic Sight to check for any additional enchantments she might have layered on, confident that this time he could cancel the effect if the world started spinning. Sharp crystal lines framed the door, just like the beach portal—he didn’t sense any other magic at play. Nikolai stepped through the gateway.
Immediately, his body was drenched with an overwhelming sense of wrongness. His palm slapped against the brick side of the building. He heaved, adding to the bouquet of fetid aromas already present in the alley. Canceling Magic Sight wouldn’t work, but he did it anyway.
This was different from the spinning he’d felt at the archway. Whatever caused the giddiness the first day he’d set foot on the island, this was the opposite. He was a fish pulled from the depths of the ocean into the world above, suffering the double shock of pressure change and lack of water. Medea’s island was a rushing river teeming with life; the real world was a dried creek bed, cracked and dead.
Empty. This world was empty.
He leaned against the brick wall and slid to the ground. NO. The real world was fine. Medea was fucking with him. She’d already admitted to trying to pair pain with lies. This was no different. There was probably some spell embedded into all her gateways. That’s why he hadn’t noticed anything out of place with Magic Sight. It made you feel wonderful when heading in the direction of the island, and terrible when leaving. No doubt when he returned, he’d have another sweeping sense of euphoria.
Like the Fear spell, it was something to ignore. Physical sensations, uncomfortable as they might be, could be overcome with a strong enough will. He stood, fighting the desire to retch again, and buttoned his coat. Time to get shit done.
The alley opened to a busy street. Noise struck him like an anvil. Voices, cars thrumming by, and people, so many people! Odd that he could miss such a thing. He drank it all in, a sailor finally come home to port, then set off to get directions.
There were several things he wished to accomplish. First and foremost, he needed to find out if the malaise plaguing him would strike while he was away from the island. One day might not be long enough to tell—there were rare stretches where he went for days without incident, lulling him into a false sense of security.
Second, he wanted to better furnish his room. His trunk, bag, and pouch all had volume-expanding enchantments, but none of them had an opening wide enough to get a mattress through. He’d stayed up late ripping apart old clothes and cobbling together a new bag with a comically large drawstring mouth. With luck, he’d be able to get bedding and a clock in there too.
Last but not least, he wanted to get laid. Taking care of himself hadn’t improved his mood. It didn’t help that Medea was attractive, in a scrawny sort of way. As she was the only woman for miles around, he’d taken to staring longingly at her ass whenever her back was turned, and she fueled most of his fantasies these days, with the occasional ménage à trois with Shailyn. Hell, he chuckled, maybe that was the source of the malaise.
He stopped short. Blue balls might not be the cause of his issues, but it would be just like Medea to make a curse like that. She had blinded him just for reading a letter. He’d tried to avoid risqué thoughts in her presence, but as a telepath with unknown abilities, she probably knew. It would certainly explain why she was so damned irritable every time the affliction hit.
He searched his memory of the malaise, trying to see if it coincided with any of the times he’d pleasured himself with Medea in mind. It was no good. There were too many times.
It was her own damn fault for keeping him on a deserted island! What did she expect? He was only human. What went on inside his head was his business. His brain helpfully supplied a vision of Medea on her knees begging for forgiveness while tugging insistently at his belt. NO! Not helpful! He shoved the thought aside and tried to focus on something else.
Ah, here was a store where he could find a bed. A clean bed for a clean mind. He spent an inordinate amount of time picking out a mattress and several blankets, which would help conceal the bed from casual glance should Medea decide to enter his room. No doubt she would be irritated at him for redecorating, given how particular she was about her possessions.
When the clerk was occupied with other customers, Nikolai pulled out his wide-mouthed bag and slipped it over the corners of the mattress. Slowly, he edged the bag up the sides until the mattress disappeared. Even with the drawstring, the mouth of the bag was a bit snug and the process took longer than he liked, but as no one expected a mattress to be shoplifted, the clerk paid no mind to what was happening in the far corner.
At another shop, Nikolai picked out a clock and a pocket watch, setting both to London time. A rug and a few wall coverings would give the place a bit more color. Next trip, he’d have to grab a wardrobe.
On a whim, he ducked into a bookstore and searched for anything that might upset Medea. Nothing jumped out, but he overheard a conversation between two women about a novel in which book burning was a central theme. Good enough. He asked them the name of the book and stole a copy.
By midday he’d finished collecting essentials, along with wallets from a few passersby who seemed particularly distracted. Nikolai strolled down the street looking for anything else that might come in handy. His sparring clothes were rapidly wearing out. Haven sold replacements, but Mundane clothing might do as a temporary fix if he could magically reinforce them somehow. Medea probably had a spell for that, given her unchanging outfit. A tailor across the street looked promising.
An energetic man with tousled blond hair bumped into Nikolai on his way out of the shop. “Pardon me, sir,” said the man, looking up briefly to reveal a familiar face that held not a trace of recognition.
Nikolai stared after Harper. If he lived to be a hundred, he would be content never to set eyes on his former classmates again, but Harper had always been an exception. When he first arrived at the Academy at age twelve, Nikolai managed to get off on the wrong foot immediately. Mundanes never noticed his casual telepathic probes; he had no reason to suspect it would be otherwise among Magi. To his chagrin, virtually everyone could feel his clumsy attempts and became hostile. Students were suspicious; staff were firm in their stance that that kind of magic was not tolerated.
He had always credited his persuasiveness to charm and good looks. It wasn’t until he was denied use of telepathy that he realized how often he used it to supplement conversations. How else was he supposed to gather information, skirt troublesome topics, and know exactly how to respond? Suddenly nothing he said was right, and he went from endearing to pariah.
Companionship he could live without, but it was intolerable being socially ostracized. Life was measurably better when you were popular. Girls showed you their breasts. People did favors for you. They shared information and possessions. They looked the other way and were more willing to do things that ran counter to their own interests. Despite his attractive exterior, he became no more than “that rude Russian kid.” No friends, no allies.
Harper changed everything. A year ahead of Nikolai, he was well loved by faculty and students alike for being affable, good natured, and eager to dazzle. He was forever conjuring illusions to entertain or simply to liven up the drab decor.
At first Nikolai had observed Harper from afar, trying to puzzle out what made him so endearing. If he could replicate it, he might regain some of the ground he’d lost. When he was alone, he practiced mimicking Harper’s expressions in front of a mirror.
One day he was discovered by another student. The boy laughed and ran straight to tell Harper. Nikolai followed with blood on his mind. He caught up shortly after the boy reached Harper. To Nikolai’s surprise, Harper did not find it at all funny and scolded the boy, making him swear not to tell anyone else.
From that day on, Harper spent an hour before breakfast every morning helping Nikolai crack the code to winning friends, which involved silly things such as being interested in others, smiling, praising instead of criticizing, and listening without constantly trying to interject your own ideas.
Harper’s motivations made little sense, but his methods worked—and gave Nikolai significantly more advanced tools for his repertoire. He considered these lessons as important as his lessons in magic, if not more so, and was able to climb the social ladder despite his inner animosity toward just about everyone else at the Academy.
Every day he expected Harper to turn around and insist on recompense of some kind. Why else would he be helping? Unable to stand the suspense, one night he crept into Harper’s dorm and attempted to access his unguarded mind.
Harper awoke and asked what Nikolai was doing. There was an awkward misunderstanding about the nature of his visit, and Nikolai demanded to know why Harper was helping him. The boy gave him a pitying look and then offered up his mind, just like that.
He dove into Harper’s mind greedily, searching for evidence of betrayal. What he found shocked him. Harper had no ulterior motives. As bizarre as it seemed, Harper’s interest in others was genuine. Helping people was something he enjoyed, and he could think of no greater accomplishment than making others happy.
Nikolai occasionally glimpsed Mundane minds such as this but couldn’t fathom why a skilled Magi had such lowly ambitions. When he asked, Harper said, “I saw enough atrocities during the war. Things no one should ever have to see. Why wouldn’t I want to bring light and happiness into the world?”
“Because the world eats itself, and if you’re not careful, it will eat you too.”
Harper shook his head and chuckled sadly. “You’re lucky. You got to ride out the war in Turkey with your mother’s family. You didn’t have to see the horrible things the rest of us saw. If you had . . .” He shrugged lamely. “It gives you a new perspective on life and what matters most.”
That was as close as Nikolai ever came to telling the truth about his time during the war, not out of a desire to share his experience but to prove Harper wrong. The boy had learned exactly the wrong lesson from his tribulations. One didn’t face up to predators by becoming prey.
From that night on, Nikolai had observed Harper like a naturalist studying some rare creature. It would have been easy to manipulate Harper. Something always held Nikolai back—a nagging thread of loyalty. Harper had helped him when he’d needed it and asked nothing in return. He was Useful, yes, but in a subcategory Nikolai had yet to decipher, which he dubbed Friend for lack of a better word.
What surprised Nikolai even more than his own reluctance to control Harper was his determination to protect the boy from his own idiotic ideals. That Harper always saw the best in people, Nikolai included, was a clear sign he lacked proper judgment. Nikolai kept Harper’s inner circle free of other predators. Bad luck befell those who interfered with his friend, the worst being a broken arm in exchange for a broken heart.
