Dark apprentice, p.41
Dark Apprentice, page 41
Nikolai nodded and the door snapped shut. Yoxtl leapt from the counter to the table, buzzing with enthusiasm.
“What did she cast on you?” Nikolai asked.
“A nice bit of soul magic. Wizards can lend mana to one another, but as a spirit, I require a different currency.” Yoxtl cackled. “She carved off a tiny fragment of her soul just to avoid touching your manhood.”
“She did what?”
“Let’s see what I’m working with.” Off flew the towel.
Nikolai let out a string of curses. His rod was blotchy and red, misshapen as a melted candle.
“Please tell me you can fix that.”
“Are you sure you want me to? It looks ready to fall off. I think your chances with Medea might be better if it did.”
“Yoxtl . . .”
The spirit grinned, savoring his discomfort. Nikolai refused to be goaded.
Yoxtl sighed. “You’re no fun.” A silver light suffused Nikolai’s flesh and it began to heal.
“No, it was bigger than that.”
“Sure it was.”
Despite the jests, Yoxtl’s healing appeared sound. Nikolai turned his thoughts to Medea. Why hadn’t she left him disfigured? She could’ve used healing as a bargaining chip, doling it out a little at a time to keep him in line. Instead, she flatly refused to heal his face but restored the rest of his body, even offering a bit of herself so Yoxtl could fix something she inexplicably wouldn’t. It didn’t make any sense. She didn’t make any sense.
“Yoxtl, what do you think of Medea?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’d like another perspective.”
“First time for everything, I guess.” It shot him a grin. “Look, you have ulterior motives, therefore so must she. Lying is as natural to you as breathing. You can’t fathom someone with power defaulting to truth, because in your mind, truth is for the weak.”
“I suppose . . .”
When the curse first hit, he thought she’d been poisoning him, as he poisoned Petrov. She definitely hid things, as Petrov had, but the curse made him suspect she wanted him drained or dead. That had proven to be false, yet he still had difficulty disentangling it from his perception of Medea. Why else would she be hiding things? Why refuse to train him in telepathy?
Yoxtl rolled its eyes. “I’ll never understand the mental loops you mortals go through to justify your beliefs. Did it ever occur to you that she might have your best interests at heart? That she might be up-front about everything?”
“But she’s not! She hid the curse from me—”
“A secret she felt was not hers to tell. But more than that, you killed an acquaintance of hers. Why shouldn’t she keep silent, when she feels your punishment is justified?”
He’d assumed she was like him. Why? Because she was a master duelist who used black magic, murdered countless people, and had a dungeon. Yet her memory of Thomas had overflowed with emotion, which meant she couldn’t be like him. Aside from anger and irritation, emotions were something he faked. She felt them.
That didn’t mean anything, though. Most people weren’t like him, not in that way.
“She likes hurting people, and me in particular. She has a dungeon.”
“Hurting you is part of the training. As for the prisoners, she grew up in a time when criminals were severely punished. Crucifixion, branding, quartering, stoning, amputation—these would be the rule, not the exception. Is it that odd for Medea to keep prisoners of crimes she considers abhorrent?”
What had she said about immortality? She knew her morals were different due to her age, and so she didn’t seek to impose her values on others. Maybe she wasn’t as bloodthirsty as he’d thought.
“She still hides things from me, just like Petrov did. The cave, most of the library. She hides in her room half the day. What does she do up there?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”
“Why would I? She’d only lie and oh my god you’re right.”
Asking had never occurred to him because he assumed she would lie. For all he knew, she was knitting up there. Or napping—though probably reading.
The past year replayed itself in a different light. Had Medea ever been overtly dishonest? No. Failed to answer a question? Yes, but only about immortality, and she’d been transparent about why.
It was like peering into Harper’s mind all over again. He’d allowed the lens of his own worldview to color his interactions with Medea, prescribing motivations that weren’t there. If anything, she was honest to a fault. Truth was her self-imposed geas.
Something Petrov said came floating back. That woman and her damned integrity. In Medea’s memory, Thomas was angry with her for hiding the truth about something. What had he flung at her? A lie by omission is still a lie. The accusation had landed because truth was something she valued, and being accused of lying struck down to her core. His accusation that she’d used telepathy had done the same. No wonder she’d been so upset. Only one thing didn’t fit. Why would someone who valued truth and knowledge to that extent block access to books and restrict lessons?
“Done!” said Yoxtl brightly.
He looked down. Everything had been returned to normal. “Thank you, Yoxtl. And for talking to me.”
“No problem. Don’t forget to cover that before she comes back in.” The spirit laughed as it went to fetch Medea. Nikolai rose and snatched the towel, sitting back on the table just as a knock sounded at the door.
Medea cracked the door but didn’t enter. “Are you covered?”
“Yes.”
She peeked cautiously into the lab as though expecting to catch him in a lie. Her body relaxed at the sight of the towel in place.
“You really know how to boost a man’s confidence, you know that?” he said, laying back down.
She ignored the quip and bustled in with an armful of clothes, which she dumped next to him.
“I’m going to activate your pain receptors. Tell me if anything hurts.”
His whole body ached, but here and there, something screamed. He identified the trouble spots and Medea tackled each in turn.
Here she was, helping someone who’d killed an acquaintance, simply because she’d given her word. The newfound theory demanded testing.
When all his pains had been resolved, he invented one on his arm. Medea leaned over the limb, probing with her mind, unable to locate the problem. He insisted it was there, right there, didn’t she sense it?
If she didn’t care how he felt or enjoyed causing him pain for the sake of it, she would give up easily. Thirty minutes later, after attempting multiple spells, opening his flesh and sealing it back up again, Medea still persisted in trying to locate the problem.
“Thank you,” said Nikolai. “I think it’s feeling better now. Whatever you did just then helped.”
She slumped on a stool and rubbed her eyes. “Good. I was starting to worry I’d have to amputate your arm and start fresh.”
“Uh, no. It’s definitely feeling better now.” He sat up, careful to keep himself covered.
“Well, then, I’m off to bed. Make sure you eat. Oh, and Nikolai—”
“Yes?”
“Your healing assignment still stands.”
When the door shut, he reached up to feel his face. The scar tissue around his mouth and nose remained. He slid off the counter and began to dress.
Yoxtl raised its head from where it was curled up like a cat on the laboratory counter. “‘Oh, just a little to the right, Medea. You almost got it there,’” it mocked. “I would’ve laughed if she had decided to chop off your arm.”
“I had to be sure.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
The spirit placed its head back down, tucking nose under bushy ringed tail. Nikolai was struck with the strong desire to buy it a pillow.
“Thank you, Yoxtl. For pulling me out of the water. I’m assuming you put a blood link on me.”
“I did. You’re welcome.”
Nikolai moved to the door and paused with his hand upon the knob. “I don’t suppose you could fix my face?”
“No. That would go against the geas.”
Figures. No time like the present to find answers. Nikolai headed to the library.
38
TRUTH AND TRUST
Nikolai pored over healing texts to no avail. Medea had tasked him with determining which spells she’d used in their last sparring match. One spell, cast three times, had caused him to swell. The other had scarred his face, causing the tissue to regrow excessively when damaged.
Two weeks after his foray into the trench, he was no closer to discovering what she’d used. He’d begun with the most advanced books. There were spells for reattaching limbs, repairing dead tissue, and treating burns. It was, he grudgingly admitted, Useful to know such things. But he could find no offensive spells, nor any spells that could be used offensively.
One night, in a sleepy stupor, he accidentally grabbed a healing book for novices. He almost put it back when he realized his error—laughable to think Medea would use beginner magic in combat, but he sat down with it anyway, flipping through for anything Useful.
And there it was—Blood Rejuvenation. Designed for victims suffering from blood loss, it stimulated the body to produce blood faster. Medea had cast it on him three times, tripling the volume of blood being produced. With no outlet, his body had swollen, causing lightheadedness and a faint heart. She’d stabbed his jugular before he’d passed out to release the pressure.
When the book didn’t yield the second spell, he yanked down several more introductory tomes. At last he found the spell she’d used to scar his face.
In a manual for beginning healers.
In a footnote.
As a cautionary tale on bad spellwork.
On the surface, it was a standard healing spell. When cast upon an open wound, it told the body to build up tissue. The problem was that whoever designed the spell—apparently one of the author’s apprentices—did such a bad job that the spell didn’t take into account whether there was a wound to heal.
Cast upon healthy skin, the tissue multiplied for several minutes. Anything caught in the affected area would overgrow. The author cautioned that the spell could only be used if one were to magically draw out an area of effect first, ensuring the spell stayed within the boundaries and well away from undamaged tissue.
Nikolai leaned back in his chair. Basic spells. He had been laid low by two basic spells. Not only that, one of them was bad. Medea’s words came back to him, “In the hands of a master, any spell can be dangerous.” Would he have considered using such spells offensively? Not in a million years. Yet Medea had, and to great effect.
His eyes roved the library. How many spells were contained in these books? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? How many had Medea committed to memory, on the off chance they might be Useful one day? He could read all day every day for decades and not scratch the surface. No wonder she was insulted when an apprentice thought they could kill her.
As he had.
No—he could still kill her, just not using magic. There was more than one way to break a person. He could—
Nikolai slammed his fist on the table. Damnit! He was doing it again. He needed to be smarter, consider his options. Revenge was sweet, but he needed to think long-term.
Medea was a neutral party. Unlike himself, she had no greater aspirations. She was perfectly content to sit alone on her little island, researching new spells and reading. Her knowledge of magic was second to none, and she loved to talk about it. Maybe the best course wasn’t to kill her. She could be a powerful ally—maybe more. Thomas had gotten there. It wasn’t impossible.
What about after his apprenticeship? Masters were allowed unrestricted access to the island. He would be allowed to use her laboratory, dungeons, and library, so long as he kept them in good order and replaced any ingredients used. Continued access to the library alone would be worth it.
Still, she could train others. He drummed his fingers on the table. He’d have to do something about that. It’s not like she was jumping at the chance to take on new people. He’d have to deal with what, one person a decade? He could tackle the problem as it arose.
For the first time since his scarring, he was optimistic. He closed the book and returned it to the shelf, then sat down to finish Medea’s assignment, along with a carefully crafted apology.
Medea willed the nails out of the board and pulled it off the wall, stacking it neatly with the others. The gap behind wasn’t large enough for the tank she had propped against the bathtub, but she could fix that. The annoying part would be running a second set of pipes to the house.
“What are you doing to my bathroom?” Nikolai leaned against the doorframe. His scalp sported a regrowth of dark fuzz.
“I’m putting a water tank back here. You continually run out of mana because you refuse to do the boiling exercise. From now on, if you want hot showers, you’ll have to heat your own water. I’ll no longer do it for you.”
He grinned. “That’s not much incentive. I grew up in the Soviet Union in the middle of a war. Hot water is a luxury. But for you I’ll make the effort.”
What the hell did that mean? And why was he smiling so much lately? It put her on edge. Some people were overly nice to disguise when they were up to something.
He approached and peered at the wall. “What do you mean you do it for me? If there’s no tank back there now . . .”
She pointed to the pipes. “See these? They run to the ocean. There’s not much fresh water on the island, so I draw up water from my boil site, desalinate it with a spell, and run it through pipes all the way to the house.”
He said nothing. When she looked over, he wore an odd expression. Maybe he was constipated.
“Do you need to use the toilet?” she asked. “I can come back later.”
“Your boil site. Where is it?”
“Under the cave. How else would it get hot water?”
“You boil . . . the ocean?” He stared at her with uncomfortable intensity.
She avoided his gaze and focused on removing more boards. “Yes. The more often you do the boiling exercise, the larger your mana pool grows, which means you can heat more water before running out of mana. I told you when you get better we’d increase the size of the pot.”
The board came loose and she set it aside. “I’ve been doing this for centuries. Small pot, large pot, tub, uh . . . I can’t remember what I used after that. At some point I started heating a nearby lake. That worked well at first, but when I was finally able to heat the whole thing, everything died—the fish, the plants—all rotten. It was disgusting. The ocean is perfect. There’s always cooler water moving in so I never run out, and apprentices seem to enjoy the hot springs above the area.” She looked at him pointedly. “When they’re not drowning in them.”
Nikolai slumped against the doorframe. Was he ill? One hand ran errantly over the fuzz on his head. It looked to be a pleasant sensation and she wanted to touch it, but one didn’t just touch other people’s hair, and anyhow he seemed to be having a moment, though she couldn’t for the life of her understand why.
“You boil the ocean?” he muttered. “From here? Nonstop?”
“You make it sound like a difficult thing, but the process was incremental. Do you look at a master work of art and think the artist learned their skills overnight? No. I timed the boil with my heartbeat, and now I don’t think about it any more than I do breathing. It’s important to build good habits, especially if you plan to become immortal. Because one day you’ll wake up and five hundred years will have passed, and if you’re not going to be judicious with your time, why have it?”
“Medea, I—” His hand clenched into a fist, and for a moment she thought he would hit something, then he sat on the toilet and shook his head, laughing softly. “Why did you accept me as an apprentice? I mean, I know I manipulated you into it, but there had to be some other reason.”
He didn’t sound at all like himself. Was the curse active? No. The insidious thing encircled his soul as tightly as ever but wasn’t currently permeating his brain.
She made to lean against the tub, only the narrow rim was uncomfortable, and the water tank was in the way. She gave up and levitated in a sitting position. Where to start?
“Because I’m bored. Immortality is . . . long. It gets lonely. I’m used to being alone, but when you get to my level, well, there’s no one to talk to. Every Magi I meet—it’s like trying to make conversation with an infant. Their grasp of magic is immature to the point where we might as well be speaking different languages.
“And sparring—I love sparring! But no one even comes close. You know what I think when another apprentice tries to kill me? Well, two things. One, ‘Not again.’ Two, ‘I hope this lasts more than a minute.’ Five minutes would be a miracle. I handicap myself, you know. I’ll pick a magical school and say, ‘Today I’ll only fight with this.’ I tell my students it’s for their benefit, and they do benefit from it, but in truth it’s more for me. But now even that’s not challenging.
“And it doesn’t matter anymore because magic is dying out, and I’m the only one who seems to notice. You’re an anomaly in that you were born with a bit more magic, but in a few generations, I doubt I’ll see anyone with a quarter as much. I’ll be the only true Magi left. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll kill myself when the loneliness gets too great, but I probably won’t. There are always more books to read, things to learn. But it gets so hard . . .”
“What?” Nikolai stared at her, aghast.
Oh, no. He probably hadn’t wanted a detailed answer. Like when people asked, “How are you?” but it was only a greeting. And now she’d gone overboard and shared too many things.
She dropped to her feet and made for the door. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave you—”
He grabbed her wrist as she passed. She glared at the touch and he relinquished her.
“Sorry. Don’t leave. You said magic is dying?”
