The Sorcery Code (22 page)

The thief sobbed with relief. “I am forever in your debt, my lord—”

“Guard, take her to the execution stone.” The overseer issued the order to the black-clothed man. Looking up at the crowd, he announced, “Because I am merciful, her life will be spared. As punishment, she will simply lose her right hand, so she remembers never to steal again.”

And before Gala could register the full meaning of the man’s words, the guard took action. Holding the girl by her arm, he dragged her, kicking and screaming, toward a slab in the center of the square. Ignoring her struggles, he pressed her forearm against the stone surface, causing her to release the small loaf of bread that she had been clutching in her fist. The evidence of her crime fell to the ground, rolling in the dirt.

Gala instinctively started forward, trying to get through the crowd, but the people around her were packed so tightly that she could hardly move. Her anxiety spiking, Gala squeezed her eyes shut and tried to recall how she had teleported that one time. Nothing came to mind; she simply couldn’t make it work.

Opening her eyes, she stared in helpless horror at the scene unfolding in front of her.

The girl was still screaming, her voice hoarse with terror, and Gala could see Davish unsheathing his sword and approaching the girl.

No
, Gala thought in desperation,
this could not be happening
.

Making one last heroic attempt, she started shoving her way through the crowd, elbowing and kicking to make her way to the front. People were pushing back at her, yelling, but she didn’t care. She needed to get to this girl before it was too late. Up ahead, Davish lifted the sword into the air.

Gala doubled her efforts, heedless of any injury to herself.

The sword swung down with deadly force, and the thief’s agonized scream pierced the air. Bright red blood sprayed everywhere, covering the stone platform and splattering on the overseer’s elaborate clothing. The guard released his hold on the girl’s arm, taking a step back.

Stunned, Gala saw the girl’s severed hand fall to the ground next to the bread—and felt something inside her snap again.

“No!” Every bit of her outrage poured out of Gala in an ear-splitting shout. All around her, the crowd seemed to stumble, most spectators falling to their knees and clutching their heads. All of a sudden, Gala found herself free to move, and she ran toward the bloody slab of rock where the girl was huddled, moaning and crying.

It seemed like there was blood everywhere, the metallic scent permeating the air.
How could there be so much blood?
Then Gala saw that the girl was not the only one bleeding. Everyone around them was holding their ears, trying to contain the red liquid trickling out.

And Gala realized with sick horror it was her fault—that her shout had somehow caused this awful occurrence.

Dazed, she approached the thief, who was practically bathing in blood at this point and clutching desperately at her stump of a wrist. Driven by some unknown instinct, Gala put her arms around the girl, hugging her gently. And in that moment, it was as though their bodies became one.

With every fiber of her being, Gala reached out with love and kindness to the victim of this unspeakable injustice. She could feel warm energy slowly flowing from her body into the girl’s. Everything inside Gala was focused on one goal and one goal only—to undo the damage that the executioner had caused. She could feel the girl’s pain, and she took it into herself, freeing the young woman of that burden. The feeling was agonizing and illuminating at the same time; until then, Gala had had only a rudimentary, book-learned understanding of pain and suffering. Now, however, it was real to her, and she vowed silently to make it so that there would be less of it in the world.

What was happening now was being done by the part of Gala’s mind that she had no control over; she was vaguely aware of that. But it didn’t matter, because Gala could sense that it was working, that the girl’s pain was slowly dissolving and ebbing away. When there was no more pain left, Gala let go of the girl and stepped back.

The young woman stood there, her dirt-streaked face serene and joyful, showing no trace of pain or fear. The bloody stump of her arm was no longer gushing; instead, as Gala watched, the hand slowly re-grew itself, each bone, muscle, and tendon gradually lengthening and thickening. Soon, the fingers appeared, and the hand was as it had been before, slim and feminine—and very much alive.

When Gala looked back at the crowd, she saw that everybody was kneeling, the expressions on their faces strangely blissful. There was blood on their clothing, but nobody seemed to be bleeding or in pain anymore. She had done this too, Gala realized with relief. She had not only taken away the girl’s pain, but also that of others in the vicinity, undoing the harm she herself had inadvertently caused.

In the distance, she could see Esther and Maya approaching the edge of the crowd, but Gala knew she was not done yet. The guard and the overseer were next to the girl, kneeling in the same position as the rest of the crowd and rapturously staring at Gala. She came up to them, knowing what she had to do.

She started with the overseer, putting her hands on his temples. She needed to understand why he had done something so horrible. “How could you?” she thought, letting the question reverberate in her head, over and over, as she lost herself in what felt like a series of Life Captures.

He was a small child of rich parents—a child who looked nothing like his father, a child who wished daily that he had been born to a different family. The child relived the many cruelties he had suffered, the endless beatings and demeaning words. Time sped forward, and the child was a young man who acted more like his father with every passing day—a young man who needed to lash out at others to cope with the pain left inside. As the young man matured, he found himself becoming someone who craved power, someone who needed to control others so nobody could hurt him again.

Now Gala understood. The cruel man was as damaged in his own way as the unfortunate girl he’d tried to hurt. The warm, sharing feeling from before came over Gala again, and she reached out to the man’s broken mind, trying to mend it as she had healed the girl’s hand. The mind resisted, and Gala understood that by doing this, she would be changing the man fundamentally, making him become someone else. Deep inside, she knew she might not have the right to do this, but the instinct to heal was too strong. She needed to do this so he would not hurt anyone else in the future. Gathering her strength, she pushed harder into the overseer’s mind and felt it finally letting her in.

“Gala! Gala, are you listening to me?” Maya’s voice penetrated the haze surrounding her, bringing Gala out of her mindless state.

Blinking, she stared at Maya and Esther, becoming aware for the first time of the deep exhaustion overtaking her body.

“Come,” Esther said, reaching for Gala. She looked anxious, and Gala let her guide her away, too weary to resist as the two women led her out of the square. All around them, she could see the spectators slowly coming out of their strange bliss-like state and starting to look around with confusion. Maya quickly wrapped the shawl around Gala’s head again, covering her with the thick scratchy material.

When they got back to the inn, Gala collapsed on her bed and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Chapter 32: Blaise

Blaise was analyzing his last spell when he heard knocking at the door. His heart jumped, and a tendril of fury snaked down his spine. Was this the Council making their move?

Rushing down to the storage room, he swiftly grabbed a bunch of cards he had written for just such a confrontation after his brother’s death. It was a mixture of offensive and defensive spells, each optimized for the particular strengths and weaknesses of the Council members.

In the meantime, the knocking continued.

Thinking furiously, Blaise took a generic defense spell and fed it into the Interpreter Stone. It would afford him some protection against both mental and physical attacks, hopefully buying him some time. Approaching the entryway, he called out, “Who is it?”

“Blaise, it’s me, Ganir.”

Blaise’s anger doubled. How dare the old man show his face here after what he’d done to Louie? Ganir’s betrayal was in some way worse than Augusta’s; the old sorcerer had always treated Louie as a son, and nobody had been more shocked than Blaise to learn of Ganir’s vote in favor of his brother’s punishment.

Filled with fury, Blaise began to speak, instinctively resorting to a spell designed to paralyze his opponent. He didn’t think; he just acted. If the spell succeeded, he had no idea what he would do with the unmoving body of the Council Leader, but he didn’t care at the moment, too consumed with anger to be fully rational.

After he was done, Blaise took a deep breath, trying to regain control of his emotions. He didn’t know if the spell had been successful, but there was a chance that he had surprised Ganir. When it came to battle, unanticipated moves were the best, and it was unlikely the old sorcerer would’ve expected him to use such a simple spell.

He felt himself getting calm and clear-headed. Very calm.

Too
calm, Blaise realized. Ganir was using a pacifying spell against him—a spell that had partially penetrated Blaise’s mental defenses.

The thought of being manipulated infuriated Blaise again, and he felt the unnatural calm dissipate, bringing back some of the volatile emotions he’d experienced earlier. However, Ganir’s spell must’ve been at least somewhat effective, since he was no longer feeling quite so murderous toward the Council Leader—something that Blaise bitterly, but calmly, resented.

At that moment, he heard Ganir’s sorcery-enhanced voice. It was loud and clear, as if the old man was standing right next to him and shouting. “Blaise, I am extremely disappointed,” the voice said. “I know you hold a grudge, but I thought you were better than this. Attacking me without even looking me in the eye? That’s not the Blaise I remember.”

Blaise felt his fury returning. The old man was a master of mental games, and Blaise hated being manipulated.

“I will give you a second to walk away,” Blaise shouted back, speaking to Ganir for the first time. Tauntingly, he added, “And you’re right—I’m not the Blaise you remember. That Blaise died along with Louie. You remember Louie, don’t you?”

As he was speaking, Blaise scribbled the rough coordinates of where Ganir was standing on a card and added some code before loading the card into the Interpreter Stone. Then he jumped back a few feet, making sure that he wouldn’t be in the radius of the spell.

The spell he unleashed was designed to paralyze his victim mentally—to blast the mind with indecision, fear, shock, and various effects of sleep deprivation. It was far worse than the physical paralysis spell Blaise had used earlier, since this one was an amalgamation of multiple attacks on the mind all rolled into one.

Then he waited.

All seemed quiet. To check if the mental attack worked, Blaise prepared another spell and directed it at the entryway wall, making it as transparent as glass.

Now Blaise could see outside, and he saw Ganir standing there, looking directly at Blaise through the now-see-through wall. It was obvious the old man was unaffected by the spell, but he appeared to be alone. His dark brown chaise stood next to him.

Despite his disappointment, Blaise felt a wave of relief. It didn’t seem like this was a Council ambush; they wouldn’t have sent the Council Leader just by himself.

“You insult me if you think your spells had any chance of success,” Ganir said calmly, his voice still penetrating the walls of the house with ease. In his hands was an Interpreter Stone. He could’ve struck at Blaise with a deadly spell of his own at any time, but he had apparently chosen not to.

Some of his anger fading, Blaise opened the door. “What do you want, Ganir?” he asked wearily, beginning to tire of this confrontation.

“I spoke to Augusta,” Ganir said, looking at him. “The Council does not know of your creation.”

“Why not?” Blaise was genuinely surprised.

“Because I convinced her not to tell them for now. There is still a window of opportunity to untangle this mess. Augusta will go to them eventually. I made sure she did not do so yet, but she is scared of what you have done, scared beyond reason.”

Blaise felt like he could breathe again. The Council didn’t know about Gala. It was only Ganir and Augusta—which was bad enough, but not nearly the disaster it would’ve been if the entire Council got involved. Still, that didn’t mean he had any intention of being civil to Ganir.

“How exactly are you planning to untangle this mess?” he asked, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “The same way you did with Louie?”

He could see that his words stung. Ganir flinched, his hand instinctively reaching for the pouch hanging at his waist before dropping to his side. Blaise made a mental note of that pouch—it was likely where the old sorcerer kept his spell cards. Letting the door frame block Ganir’s line of sight, he surreptitiously scribbled a quick spell on one of his own cards and prepared to use it at an opportune moment.

In the meantime, Ganir took a step forward. “Blaise,” he said softly, “your brother was quite open about his crime. Even I could not hide what he had done from the Council. I tried my best to guide the Council toward a lenient resolution, but they would not listen—and your brother’s stubbornness and refusal to even pretend at remorse did not help matters.”