Roryce: 14 Years Old

  Home was not a refuge. He was glad he was leaving it.

  His parents hadn’t slept in the same room since he was six, and the fights, in private and openly, were a daily occurrence. He thought it might’ve been bearable if they’d put on a front and at least pretended everything was alright when others were around.

  But his mother didn’t do things quietly.

  Sometimes she even stood at the top of the grand staircase, shouting loud enough to disturb dust in the rafters, while his father stalked out the front door. Often as a child, he’d crouch somewhere nearby, silently watching through the banisters with Leticia leaning on his shoulder.

  Things had started getting better closer to his ninth birthday. Not because they’d stopped hating each other, but because they no longer spoke to each other. Mother pretended his father didn’t exist, even while he sat at her elbow at the dinner table and they worked their way through a stomach-churning meal.

  Then something happened that changed things forever.

  It was when Father brought home Alvis.

  Maybe the other boy would’ve turned out better had Mother not taken her anger out on him. Not directly, but everyone sensed her fury at having a bastard in the home. She couldn’t turn him away because Father was her lawful husband and had a claim on the House that was nearly unshakeable, but she didn’t welcome the child either.

  She put him in a small guest room, making it clear he was temporary, and barely acknowledged him while still fulfilling her role as his House guardian.

  That meant he got an education and ate well, but the servants regarded him with scorn and often neglected him.

  Roryce himself didn’t like Alvis. But he was honest enough to admit it was because of the renewed shouting matches, not because the boy deserved his scorn. And even Father, the person who’d created the problem in the first place, did little more than nod to Alvis when they passed in the hallway.

  Leticia, Roryce’s twin and de facto little mother, was the only one who pulled Alvis under her wing.

  As long as he didn't have to deal with the boy himself, that was fine with Roryce.

  …It wasn’t until much later that he came to regret his actions.

  For now, he directed the packing of his bags to go to the Academy, intending to leave this hell forever.

  Leticia came in and stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, while servants passed her laden with bundles. She surveyed the packing with a grim look.

  “So, you’re leaving,” she said flatly. “A whole year early, too.”

  “Yes.”

  There wasn’t anything else to say. Satisfied with the current trunk, he closed it. Two more to go.

  “They say the rooms are smaller now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you need to bring so many things?”

  Roryce sighed and turned around, arms crossed. “If you have something to say, then just say it. It’s not like you to beat around.”

  Leticia pressed her lips together briefly, her eyes flashing as she raised her chin. He almost cowered to her, but, darn it! He was the older sibling. “Alvis will be there in a couple of years, but I won’t be. You need to take care of him for me.”

  He blinked at her, bewildered. “As you said, it’s a few years away. Why are you bringing it up now?”

  “Because I know you,” she said coolly. “You’ll need that long to get that spillbrain of yours in check. You’ve been treating Alvis like a disease.”

  “Why is he my responsibility?”

  She took several steps closer, close enough that when she leaned forward, she nearly pressed her nose to his. “Roryce, listen well because I’m only going to say it once. You’ll get what you created. If you don’t do something to make up with him before he gets there, there will be no one to get between you.”

  He couldn’t know how true her prophecies would be.

  ***

  Present: 25 Years Old

  “So? You see that it’s been done. Can you see how?”

  Roryce put down the recordings and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Here’s a basic rule about spells,” he told Eblin, settling into the desk chair. “The only way to make a spell perform the same way consistently is to understand what makes it work.”

  “I know that. What does that have to do with this?”

  If Eblin couldn’t see the answer to his question, then he really didn’t understand the concept.

  Roryce sighed and began rubbing his forehead, his thoughts racing as he observed his friend through narrowed eyes.

  Eblin stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, using the doorframe to prop himself. Roryce was tempted to ask his friend how his day went—but considering how much Eblin wouldn’t shut up about the girl, Roryce decided against it.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Besides, it would be over soon. Roryce didn’t need to hear every detail just to arrive at the inevitable, Who? Oh, her. I think she’s fine.

  “Let’s take healing, for example.”

  Roryce reached over and wiggled one of his books free of a nearby pile. He flinched when the top half of the pile toppled over, but ignored it. He could pick it up later. With Eblin’s eyes glazing over, he didn’t want to be stuck here until the other man understood.

  He opened the book.

  “This is a healing spell. It’s about fifty years out of date, so don’t use it. The warning here says the wound will heal cleanly, but the patient may experience tingling or loss of feeling.”

  “Roryce,” said Eblin flatly, “please get to the point.”

  Roryce snapped the book closed and pointed a corner at Eblin. “We didn’t understand how nerves functioned within the healing system,” he said. “So the spell worked in theory, but not in practice. The body looked healed, but it wasn’t.”

  He set the book on his lap.

  “There are still things we don’t understand about signatures. They’re like an open wound. We can interfere with them, but we can’t produce consistent results.”

  “That’s not how spellcasting works,” Eblin pointed out. “Couldn’t it be done that way?”

  Roryce sighed. “You can make a broom sweep because you know what the motion feels like. You can even close a wound that way. But vague intent only gets vague results.”

  Eblin frowned. “I’m still not following.”

  Roryce grunted. As fond as he was of Eblin, and as sharp as the man could be under other circumstances, sometimes he was still a spillbrain.

  “Whether by spellmaking or spellcasting,” Roryce said, “anyone trying to completely remove a signature would need to know why it exists in the first place. And to do it consistently, without leaving another signature behind or fragments of the original signature, they’d need a written spell.”

  He gestured at the recording device and its narrow viewing frame.

  “This isn’t a signature erasure.”

  Eblin snorted, sounding more exasperated than amused as he leaned his head to pout at the ceiling. “Then what is it?”

  “It has to be masking.” Roryce shrugged, like it should be obvious. “Or something close to.”

  Eblin rolled his eyes and pushed off the doorway. “There are mana analysts in three different cities looking at this. There’s nothing to suggest a separate spell. Especially one that would need masking of its own.”

  “Give me five days.” Roryce held out an open hand, digits spread. “I’ll find something.”

  Eblin shook his head, half smiling with obvious doubt. Roryce bristled.

  “Fine. Five days. I’ve got one more appointment before I turn in. Need anything while I’m out?”

  Roryce let out a breath and put the book aside, back on the pile it originally came from, but now on top. “Are you buying?”

  Eblin grinned. “I was hoping you would.”

  Roryce rolled his eyes, a gesture that looked remarkably like the one Eblin performed only a minute ago, and shook his head as he reached for a drawer in his writing desk. He tossed Eblin one of the several bags of coins from within.

  “Bring me something strong.”

  “You got it.”

  Before he could leave, Roryce stopped him one more time. Gut twisting, he asked cautiously, “Have you heard from Master Calder lately?”

  “No? Should I have?”

  “He missed our last meeting.” Roryce resisted the urge to clench his fists. “And, if you’ll remember, he wasn’t feeling well the time before that.”

  Eblin stiffened, then let out a slow breath. “Do you want me to check on him? I think he’s still at one of our greenhouses.”

  Roryce hesitated.

  “I’ll check,” his friend said, not waiting for an answer. Guiltily, he bounced the coin purse in one hand. “I shouldn’t have missed the last meeting. I could’ve stopped over there any time— I’ll do it, just give me a day or two. I have to look into a few things first.”

  Eblin turned, and Roryce grimaced at his back. “Wait. Wait. I’ll do it.”

  “It’s fine—”

  Roryce stood up and stretched. “Better to know sooner rather than later. And I need to contact my middleman anyway. I’ll just drop by tomorrow.”

  His friend hesitated, clenching and unclenching his jaw. Roryce knew what was going through Eblin’s head. The last place Eblin wanted to go was somewhere in his father’s territory. Finally, the other man relaxed and sighed.

  “Fine. Let me know what happened.”

  Roryce nodded.

  He was still standing in the middle of his office when he heard the front door scrape open, pushing aside whatever mess had fallen in front of it while they were talking, then close. Still, he didn’t sit or move for a long, long moment.

  Finally, he collapsed in his chair and covered his eyes with an arm.

  ***

  Amicus: 15 Years Old

  The cells were not made with comfort in mind. However, because the slaves and creatures kept here were valuable assets, there were concessions. The space was kept passably warm, the blankets were often itchy and uncomfortable but adequate, and the individual enclosures were in some way big enough to stretch out and stand in.

  Because she was so small, Nark’s cell—one of a row of similar cells—was big for her. Most of the other slaves could only stretch out in one direction. She could almost stretch out in the other direction, which had been made to accommodate the arm span of a normal-sized man.

  Almost.

  She lay on her back with her legs propped straight up on the wall, stretching her hamstrings. It felt good to do this while still stretching her arms wide out on either side.

  “Break her. Make her bow.”

  She gritted her teeth and clenched both fists.

  The tears blasted man didn’t even look her in the eye until the end. Did that mean she gained a victory? Forced the cuss to look straight at her as he gave his orders?

  She smiled bitterly at the thought.

  Small victory. It felt as meaningless as the places on her cheek and jaw that still stung. Every victory in the ring gave her a new trophy—a bump, forced on her by people who held her down and made her feel every minute of the deliberate scarring.

  She rubbed the newest stings gently.

  Pointless. It was all pointless.

  If she ever got out, she’d… Well, she didn’t know. Get revenge? That seemed useless. Even if she destroyed her master and the trainers she’d personally dealt with, there would be more. Every bout she’d ever been in had been surrounded by thousands of people shouting, cheering, and jeering at her.

  If she removed one person, they’d only be replaced.

  She dropped her hand to her stomach and stared at the ceiling for a long time.

  What would she do if she got out?

  First, she’d pay homage to the people who died to give her that chance. She clenched her fists and pressed her lips together. Of course, she was aware they didn’t die on purpose for her. They would’ve killed her if it meant they could live.

  But that didn’t change the fact that their deaths meant her life. She’d thank them in any way she could.

  Then what?