Dark apprentice, p.37
Dark Apprentice, page 37
But why train the apprentices first? Why train them at all? Was it merely to maintain the facade? Was that why she chose dark apprentices, so she could claim they’d attacked her and she’d killed them in self-defense?
He turned to Yoxtl. “You said souls get more powerful with age. What else increases their potency?”
“Casting magic. The more you use it, the more powerful you become. Why?”
“Just curious.”
That’s why she trained apprentices first, why she insisted they perform monotonous exercises like boiling water, and why she’d gotten so upset when he hadn’t complied. Everything she did was to increase the value of their souls before making the sacrifice. She couldn’t risk students fighting back, so she shunted them into Useless magical schools and cursed them to ensure they couldn’t learn too much on their own.
Not a bad bargain. After he killed her, he’d have to make the same deal with the spirits.
“Incoming,” said Yoxtl, before darting over the cliff edge and winking out of sight.
Nikolai turned to see Medea making her way toward him, her frown more pronounced than usual. He plastered a benevolent smile on his face.
“We need to talk,” Medea said when she reached him. “Walk with me.”
That didn’t bode well. Did she know what he’d been discussing with Yoxtl? Fuck. She probably had a ward for that too. He followed her back to the meadow where they usually sparred. Once there, she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“When you accepted this apprenticeship, you told me you wanted to be powerful, immortal, the best. I vowed I would do everything I could to make you stronger—”
And now he knew why. Did the spirits give her a deadline? Was that why she was perpetually frustrated?
“—and yet I have consistently failed in one regard.” Medea took a deep breath before continuing. “You still do not understand the necessity of healing magic. You continue to rely on potions for what you should be doing on your own. You will never become truly great if you do not learn this. It is no mistake that my best apprentice was a grand master in healing.”
Sneaky bitch. She played on his competitiveness toward Thomas, as if he wouldn’t see right through her.
“Oh?” he said with disinterest.
Her expression faltered. “Yes. He was—I mean . . .”
“You know what I think?” He stalked around her slight frame. Her sudden lack of confidence made her seem even shorter. “I think he’s only your ‘best’ because he toed the line and did whatever you said. That’s why he lasted so long. You couldn’t bear to part with an apprentice who was your best footstool.”
She spun to keep him in her sights. “I—what? No!” The frantic note in her voice was like blood in the water.
“You couldn’t stand to kill your favorite pet. Is that why he left? He found out what you’d done to the others?” Before he realized what he was doing, he dove into Medea’s mind, surprised to find it completely unguarded.
Compared to most memories he’d seen, Medea’s was strikingly devoid of detail. She gripped the back of a chair, but he couldn’t tell where she was or even what she was wearing, so focused was she on the texture of the wood beneath her fingers—and the emotion.
The emotion! A tidal wave of feelings undulated through the memory.
Behind her stood a man. Nikolai couldn’t see him, only feel his presence. The man’s warm breath on Medea’s neck sent a shiver down her spine.
“You lied to me.” The sultry voice made her feel too many things at once.
“Thomas, I . . .” Her grip on the chair tightened. She couldn’t fly apart, not now.
“You lied!”
“I didn’t!” There was a plea in her voice.
“A lie by omission is still a lie,” he spat.
Her words fled before a storm of emotions. Thomas had every right to be angry. She’d hoped he would get over it, move on, but even gifting him with immortality hadn’t curbed his desire. Blood welled in her mouth as she bit the inside of her lip. The pain of all these feelings had to be dulled somehow—
Nikolai slammed flat on his back. Medea loomed above, face a mask of pure loathing.
“How dare you!”
The grass rose and curved toward him, blades hardening into tiny wooden spikes. Her fury was the least of his concerns. What he’d seen—what she’d felt . . . Her emotions were muddled, but he could pick them apart clinically, as he’d done with so many others, and one particular emotion was clear—love. She was in love with the bastard.
Nikolai pierced her with his gaze. “You fucked Thomas.”
Her eyes widened and she shrank from the words.
He necrotized the grass and stood. “A little biased of you to call your lover your ‘best apprentice.’ And here I thought you didn’t like men.” He tsked. “But it’s about control, isn’t it? He was the model apprentice, doing everything you said.”
She blanched. “I would never . . . with a student. It’s—it’s a conflict of interest.”
He laughed. “So that’s why he was with you for seventeen years. If I show you how good I am in bed, will you make me immortal too?”
She slapped him. “You forget yourself!”
“What did you lie to him about? He wanted something from you. What was it?” She’d given him immortality. What else could he want? What else was there?
“None of your damn business!”
“It’s my business if it affects my health. You think I don’t know what happens to your other apprentices?”
Her body trembled. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? Why did you really come out here, Medea, because it sure as hell wasn’t to teach me healing spells.”
“As a matter of fact, it was!” Some of the fight came back into her eyes. “And if you ever attempt to read my mind again, I will kill you. Do you understand?” She glared up at him.
“You’re the one who left your mind unguarded.” He laughed. “I thought you’d at least have some protection.”
“I do! I just . . . forgot to recast the spell after I teleported to save you, you ungrateful shit.”
“You think I can’t understand when you insult me in Latin?”
“Shut up. Just shut up! We are going to spar. I am going to use healing spells. You can use anything you like. Even your wand—don’t think I don’t know you have it up your sleeve.”
The bitch had just doomed herself and didn’t realize it. “Anything I like?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re only going to use healing spells? No shields? What do I get if I win?”
Medea stepped the standard dueling distance away and spun to face him. “No shields, and you won’t win.”
“Then you won’t mind placing a wager. If I win, you teach me immortality.”
“Wagers are stupid, but fine. I accept. If I win, you commit to becoming a master healer.”
“Done.” This was going to be easy. What was she going to do, lob bandages at him? And besides, he’d rattled the hell out of her. She’d be unfocused and sloppy. He called forth his wand, then grinned maliciously and withdrew the speed dagger from his pouch, wagging it to be sure she saw it. Let her try to block spells now.
“You did say I could use anything,” he crooned.
“I did. It won’t help. In fact, it will illustrate my point better, so thank you.”
Yeah, right. “Ready whenever you are, Master.” He made an overly theatrical bow.
“Begin.”
“LanceaLanceaLanceaLancea.”
The lancing spells fired from his wand like a Gatling gun, so fast he scarcely made out the ripples in the air before they rammed into Medea with a gong.
“You shielded!” he accused her.
“I didn’t.”
“I heard it!”
“I blocked.”
“Bullshit!” he spat.
“What did I tell you, the first day we met? It’s been what? Nearly a year, and still you cast in the slowest way possible.” She crossed her arms and leaned forward. “Stop using incantations.”
He clenched his jaw and aimed his wand again. He didn’t speak but sent a litany of spells winging toward her—Lance, Bleed, Fear, Lightning, Fireball. He soon realized that although the spells cast instantaneously, they didn’t move through the air with any greater speed. Medea easily redirected Lightning and deflected Fireball with a gust of wind. Bleed and Fear were caught in hand but seemed to have no effect.
Lance though, Lance she couldn’t block completely in time. A red welt bloomed on her arm before it healed.
He began his onslaught anew, casting Lance only. Her body reddened as the spells were blocked, but only just in time. One broke through, punching out a section of flesh from her arm. Medea casually made a motion around the limb and a blueish, water-like substance enveloped it. The arm steamed and the flesh started to heal.
He aimed for her torso. Not head—not yet. Another Lance took her in the abdomen. The bleeding stopped almost immediately as the flesh knitted itself closed. How did she have the raw materials for such rapid repairs?
He cast Amputate at her neck and foot. She blocked the first, but the second sliced her foot clean off. Blood gushed from the stump. A moment later it stopped. The severed foot flew to the stump and reattached itself.
“Do you see it yet, dear apprentice? The value of this?”
Nothing Nikolai did seemed to have a permanent effect. Soon he felt the strain of mana fatigue. He took a potion and renewed his assault through gritted teeth.
“I’ll concede that healing is Useful,” he said. “I don’t want to specialize in it. If you’d bothered to teach me any dark magic, you’d be dead by now.”
“You are mistaken, and it will be to your detriment.”
Belatedly, he saw the change that had taken place in her since the start of the duel. The uncertainty, the fragility, the desperation—all had vanished, as though a switch had flipped. He’d been hoping to catch her off balance, but only the master duelist stood before him now.
Lance, Bleed, Amputate, Fear. Nothing worked. He wasn’t losing, but he wasn’t winning either.
“Healing magic may keep you alive, but waiting for someone to run out of mana is no way to fight. I want to kill. It’s not like you can use healing to defeat anyone!”
“I was waiting for you to say that.” Her voice was resigned, but a hint of a smile twisted the corner of her mouth. “I am sorry, but if you don’t learn this, I have failed as your instructor.”
Three spells winged toward him. They bypassed his shield with a whisper and lightly touched his chest. There was no pain, only warmth, like a lover’s caress. His limbs began to swell.
“You said you’d only cast healing spells.”
“Those were healing spells.”
His skin stretched painfully tight and his head filled with cotton. Agony radiated from his chest as the buttons on his shirt popped off and the wand slipped from his fingers, now swollen sausages.
“I am sorry it came to this.” Medea’s voice was close, but he couldn’t make her out, only shadows. Had she blinded him too? “I hope that in time you will see the necessity of it.”
A spell tickled his face and it became hard to breathe. He tried to gasp and felt his lips suck against his teeth without relief. Nikolai clawed uselessly at his mouth, only to discover it was no longer there.
He lashed out with his magic. The world darkened and he couldn’t think beyond the burning in his lungs. He collapsed to the ground, thrashing.
Medea’s voice, right next to his ear. “In the hands of a master, any spell can be dangerous.”
Pain stabbed his neck, then all was black.
34
CONSEQUENCES
Nikolai jerked upright to the familiar trappings of his room. His hand moved instinctively to the puncture wound on his neck but encountered smooth skin. Medea had healed him. Nevertheless, something felt off. He glanced at his body—no longer swollen. Nikolai touched his face and bumped into something foreign. He tugged at it. A straw? He rubbed his hand over his mouth and jerked back from the wrongness.
No no no. He rushed to the mirror and stared in horror. NO. NO NO NO NO FUCK NO.
A mockery of scar tissue marred his once-handsome face. Instead of a nose, he had a bulbous protrusion without nostrils. His mouth was simply gone, as if someone had smeared clay over the area and left it to dry. A tiny incision had been made in the center for the straw.
His breath quickened, whistling in and out. Spots appeared before his eyes and he gripped the desk when lightheadedness threatened to topple him.
Relax. He had to relax. It would be fine. Medea was just trying to make a point, that was all. She’d always healed his scars before. He might be ugly for a week or two, but she would fix it. Breathe. Nice and steady. Okay, good.
He brought the straw back to his mouth, trembling hands defying every attempt to reinsert it into the hole. The hole. God, he had a hole for a mouth. Don’t think about it. Breathe. Relax. It wouldn’t do to hyperventilate now.
When he finally got the straw back into place, he noticed the desk contents—his wand, a letter, and about twenty bottles. He picked up the letter.
Dear apprentice,
* * *
As per our sparring wager, I would like you to familiarize yourself with the healing section of the library. I expect a full summary of the spells I used to heal myself, as well as the two I used against you. With this knowledge, you should be able to return your face to a reasonable state of normalcy.
* * *
Best wishes,
Medea
* * *
P.S. Please enjoy the meals I’ve prepared for you. They can be found in bottles on your desk. Wash them and return them to the kitchen when you are done.
He punched the wall beside the mirror. Three quick jabs until his fists came away bloody. Reasonable state of normalcy? What the fuck did that mean? Did she think this was some kind of joke? That his face was inconsequential? He’d show her. Lips and nose were simple compared to a finger. He’d fix his face, then he’d fix her.
He stormed through the common area and flung open the library door. If he hadn’t needed the contents of the healing section, he’d have been tempted to torch them. The master grimoire, once so stingy with its answers, filled pages upon pages when he asked it for facial reconstruction texts.
Ignoring Medea’s rule about keeping books in the library, he brought the most promising book back to his room and propped it up below the mirror. From his desk he withdrew a bottle of vodka and a dagger. Not the speed dagger—for this, precision was required.
The scar tissue had to be removed before he could do anything, but where did it end and his true countenance begin? He lifted the vodka to his face, irritably shifting the straw into position, and took a drink. The straw flew from his mouth as he began to sputter and cough. His cough pushed painfully at his cheeks, unable to escape through the tiny slit she’d left him. He leaned hard against the chair until the coughing fit ceased.
His mouth obviously needed to be dealt with first. He tried to part his lips, stretching them as far as the scar tissue would allow. Here went nothing.
He inserted the blade of the dagger into the hole in his face and drew it to the right. Blood spewed down his chin and chest. Without pausing, he cut again in the opposite direction until there was a crooked, gaping slash.
He took a swig of vodka and cursed as it dribbled from his makeshift mouth. He spat out blood, heedless of where it landed, and looked into the mirror. Before his eyes, the tissue began to knit itself together at the cut.
“No no no omf!”
His mouth sealed over, only this time there was no slit for breathing. He stabbed a new hole in his face and inserted his finger to keep the hole open. The skin grew back, but it didn’t stop at his finger. Instead it fused, binding finger and face together.
Cut cut cut and his finger was free. Even as his mouth knit itself shut again, he stared in horror at his finger, which spawned more tissue of its own. This shit spread?
He slammed his palm onto the desk and hacked at his finger, but the dagger wasn’t meant to slice through bone. He bolted through the common room, lungs screaming for air, and grabbed a cleaver in the kitchen. One good hack and his finger was off. The wound hurt like hell, but it stayed open, which meant he could regrow it. Another stab to his face allowed him to breathe, but it wouldn’t last long. What the fucking hell kind of spell was this?
The straw had worked, but his finger hadn’t. Maybe the spell only interacted with skin. He grabbed a wooden spoon. No—wood used to be living, and the last thing he needed was a fucking plant fused and growing from his face. He tossed the wooden spoon and grabbed a metal one, inserting the handle into the hole.
There was no mirror in the kitchen, but the back of a metal pot served well enough. The skin regrew until it had closed around the spoon handle, then stopped. Tentatively, he removed the spoon, and this time the hole remained open. Okay, so cuts caused rapid regrowth that could only be stopped by an inorganic barrier.
He tried again, this time cutting a wide slit and then inserting a saucer. When the process looked complete, he carefully tugged the saucer free and scrutinized his work. It wasn’t a proper mouth. There were no lips, no clear delineation of anything, but at least it remained open. He repeated the process to create makeshift nostrils, and he could finally breathe easily.
The rest of the day was slow and painful. Piece by agonizing piece, he sliced off bits of tissue and attempted to block the regrowth. He was able to get his nose back to a reasonable size, but there was no definition to it, nor to his chin, or anywhere else. If anything, his clumsy attempts to fix things only spread the spell further across his face. Taking a healing potion made the regrowth faster. No matter what he did, he could not call back his handsome face.
