Unbound (48 page)

As though he were a particularly naughty child.

He resisted the urge to hurl the same gesture at her and instead hurried to catch up.

* * * * *

 “So, the problem, as I see it, is that he doesn’t
really
think I’m a wizard. Like, he looks at me and he sees the coat and the boots and the fire that I can shoot out—when it works; I was having an off-day that one time when it didn’t, it wasn’t my fault—but he doesn’t see a wizard.

“But that’s
his
fault. They shouldn’t even let him be a Lector if he can’t see the possibilities. I learned everything I needed to, I can recite the oaths backward and forward, and I know every stance, but I can’t
work
when he’s always
yelling
at me and if he could just
see
that, we’d have no problem.”

Dreadaeleon took in a long, slow breath. Dreadaeleon let out a long, slow sigh.

“I just . . . he must be wrong about me. He
must.
”

He opened his eyes and looked up the slope of the hill.

“Right?”

From atop the hill, Cesta looked back blankly.

“I, uh, just asked if you got that thing you stepped in off your boot.”

“Oh!” He stomped his feet on the grass. “Yeah, it fell off a little ways back. Thanks.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “Good.”

“Right, good.” He scratched an itch that wasn’t there at the corner of his eye. “That other stuff was just on my mind a little lately and, you know, the timing . . .”

“Yeah, no, I got that.”

“Okay, just so you . . .” He cleared his throat, made a lengthy show of looking at his feet. When the earth, unmercifully, refused to open up beneath him and end this particular moment, he spoke once more. “So, uh, do you see—I mean,
detect
—anything?”

Cesta closed her eyes. She drew in a breath. She raised her hands up above her shoulders, and the sleeves of her coat fell back to reveal the tone of her arms. When she opened her eyes again, a faint red light glowed behind her pupils. Slowly, like some particularly purposeful top, she rotated in place.

Dreadaeleon knew what she was seeking: the fluctuation in temperature that would reveal the use of fire or ice, the atmospheric tingle that followed an expulsion of lightning, the subtle increase of pressure that followed levitation and use of force. And because he knew what she was seeking, he knew she couldn’t find it, even before the light faded from her eyes and a frown creased her face.

“Nothing,” she muttered. A short, haggard breath. Then the light flared back to her eyes. She stomped her foot and a wave of invisible force roiled out, bending the grass and nearly knocking Dreadaeleon to his rear. “
DAMN IT.
”

“It’s not your fault!” He hurried on unsteady feet to join her at the top of the ridge. “It’s . . . interference or . . . or . . .” He looked out over their surroundings, his frown matching hers. “Or something.”

Between the city of Redgate to the west and the encroaching Silesrian forest to the east, the area in which Venarium Tower Fifteen—alias “Defiant”—operated resembled less a landscape and more a particularly low-key battle between two decidedly unenthused forces of nature. Here, the rolling hills of the west met the ever-reaching forest of the east, clashing in the center in a haphazard series of dense copses broken occasionally by hills rising up with lazy defiance.

The earth was still damp from recent rains, and gray clouds still mumbled thunderous complaints overhead, suggesting they weren’t quite done. The scent of sodden earth and plant cloyed his nostrils, made it hard to focus. That, combined with the many hills to hide behind and trees to hide within, meant that Dreadaeleon found it increasingly hard to fault Cesta’s frustration.

“It’s not your fault,” he offered. He looked overhead. “It’s the rain, I bet. All the lightning from the rains is interfering, somehow.”

“Really?” She looked at him flatly. “Lightning from the sky, completely distinct from the latent electricity we generate and amplify through Venarie, is interfering. How on earth would that even work, Dread?”

“Well, see, that’s the thing, it’s not
on
earth, it’s up in the sky and it’s . . . it’s somehow . . .”

Her stare might have been an ax lodged in his skull for how keenly he felt it. He looked away, rubbed absently at his arm. And she merely sighed.

Well done, old man,
he chided himself.
What are you thinking? That she’ll become so infatuated with your desire to explain away her failure that she’ll pull your trousers off here and now?

He coughed.

Well, he certainly wasn’t thinking that
anymore.

“Forget it,” Cesta sighed. “I’m sorry, Dread. I’m just stressed.” She took off down the hill at a decisive stalk, leaving him to hurry after her. “There’s got to be a reason we can’t find him. He’s . . . he’s
cheating,
somehow.”

“Cheating?” Dreadaeleon asked.

“I don’t know. Masking his magic. Using some kind of device. It’s not unheard of, right?”

“I guess.” He stumbled on a rock that she had strode over. “I mean, I’ve read about that in some . . .”

Don’t say “children’s books.”

“. . . some kind of . . . something . . . somewhere.”

Nice.

“Maybe he’s using some kind of meditation technique, then,” Cesta muttered. “Hiding his power that way, containing his expulsions.”

“Really? How would that even—”

“
Well, then, what do you think it is?
”

She whirled on him with a snarl. He cringed away, rubbed at the back of his head.

“I . . . I don’t know, I guess. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Hadn’t really thought about it,” she repeated.

“Well, I mean, we’re just apprentices. No one really expects us to find him.” He dared a glance up at her. “Right?”

If her stare had been like an ax lodged in his skull, her scowl was more like a vise tightening about his neck. He averted his gaze as if he were looking upon a profane idol and not merely a pretty, angry girl. But it did him no good. He could feel her—the tension in her jaw, the tremble of her fists—as she leveled her ire at him.

“
That,
” she hissed, “is why the Lector doesn’t take you seriously, Dreadaeleon. You don’t understand what it is you have.”

Ah, look alive, old man. She’s about to recognize your skill!

“You were given a gift, a power that elevates you above the rest of humanity. Flame comes to you with a thought, lightning with a flick of your fingers. You possess
tremendous
power.”

He puffed up a little.

Here it comes.

“All of which is wasted because you also possess the mind of a child.”

He paused.

Does . . . does she mean you’re carefree or . . .

“Do you not grasp what we’re doing here? Did you hear
nothing
Lector Vemire said?”

Ah, no, she just thinks you’re stupid. Bad luck.

“You didn’t. If you did, you would realize that there are no expectations. Your common barkneck farmer expects lightning to stay in the sky and rocks to stay on the ground, and
we’re
the ones that shoot it out of our fingers and hurl boulders with a thought.” She stomped the earth. “We’re not children with chores, Dreadaeleon. We are
wizards.
We make the rules. It’s up to us to enforce them.”

Her eyes were not burning with the magical light. She didn’t exude so much as a bit of Venarie. She didn’t need to. Dreadaeleon’s legs felt weak and his breath felt heavy, just as surely as they would if she were using her power to crush him into the earth.

Vemire’s disapproval had always been something easier to contend with, if not outright ignore. The Lector’s perpetual glowers, frequent sighs, and occasional chastisements were a constant in Dreadaeleon’s life, a weight he had learned to shoulder. But Cesta—Cesta who never was at a loss for an answer, Cesta who never assumed the wrong stance for a spell, Cesta who was already taller than him and looked down on him—had words that made him feel like he was bleeding: a bright red warmth that washed over him, permeated him.

And it did not go away when she stopped looking at him.

“We’ll do it the barkneck way, then.” She pointed down the hill to a nearby copse of trees. “It was raining, so he’s probably seeking shelter. We can look for likely sites within our designated search radius and go from there.”

A moment. She cast a glance over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were no longer quite so hard, her voice no longer quite so sharp.

“All right?” she asked softly.

He nodded at her weakly. “Yeah. All right.”

And together, they set off down the hill.

* * * * *

Overhead, the sky had a one-sided conversation with them. Heedless of their ignoring it, the gray clouds muttered with distant thunder, loosed the occasional chuckle of rain, let the wind sigh. And though he was cold and wet, Dreadaeleon did not mind the noise.

Largely because he couldn’t hear it over his own thoughts.

Well done, old man. She dressed you down like a six-copper prostitute, and you simply stood there and took it. What were you thinking, doing that? That she’d be impressed with your ability to look at your feet and whimper? This’ll get back to Vemire, you know. She’ll tell him you were too cowardly to even stand up for yourself. Should have said something to her then.

He looked up, glared at the back of her head. He felt his fists tighten, his jaw clench.

Should say something to her
now
.

And within him, something began to boil. Something deep and solid and red-hot. Not a fire—too thick, too real for that. Nor blood—too bright and wild for it to be blood. This flowed into him like smoke, filled every vein down to the tips of his fingers and clouded his mind.

You should show her, old man. Show her you’re not afraid of her or of Vemire or of anyone else. Show her that you’re made for greater things, that she’s as blind as Vemire is. Show them all, every last stuffed coat in the Venarium, what you’re made of and—

“Look.”

He blinked.

He looked.

And he wasn’t quite sure when they had arrived here.

The trees crowded closer together here, their eaves helpfully leaning out to block the worst of the rain, permitting only a few determined drizzles in to sodden the needle-and-leaf-strewn earth. Trees long-fallen leaned against hillsides, forming a number of natural shelters.

One of which had the remains of a campfire lingering under it.

“He was here!” Cesta’s gait had a decidedly enthusiastic spring in it as she rushed to the fire. “The heretic! Lathrim!” She looked to Dreadaeleon, her eyes wide and smile wider. “He was
here!
”

“Well, maybe,” Dreadaeleon replied, scratching his head. “It’s not like he’s the only traveler. Someone else could have been by.” At her blank stare, he forced a weak smile onto his face. “But it’s . . .
probably
him? Most likely?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Look here.” She pointed to a tiny plume of smoke rising from the blackened remains of the fire. “The embers are still a little warm. Whoever was here couldn’t have been here more than a day ago.”

What, she’s an outdoorsman now too? Outdoorswoman. Sorry.

“The other heretics were discovered last night,” she said, grinning ear-to-ear. “He
had
to have been here, Dreadaeleon. It
had
to have been him.”

“Okay, we can send for Vemire, then.” He reached into his coat pocket, felt the corner of a sheet of paper prick his finger. “I’ve got the parchment he gave us to—”

“Before we do that,” Cesta interjected, “let’s make sure our situational knowledge is complete.” She shook her head. “We can’t summon the Lector out here and just point to a few embers, right?”

“Well, yes. I mean, no. That’s why I said that it only
might
be—”

“Good!” She shot him an enthusiastic nod. “Fan out. Find evidence of his passing and we’ll see if we can’t figure out which way he went.”

Whatever other objections he might have had—such as the fact that heretics were presumably more advanced in power than a pair of apprentices and, thus, assumedly quite dangerous—went unspoken. Cesta, who threw herself to the earth in a search for tracks with a rabbit-like enthusiasm, was clearly not listening.

Not that it matters,
he thought as he turned around and began his own search.
When has she ever listened to you, old man? She’s never once shown an interest in you, has she?
He paused, blinked.
But then, when was the last time you asked anything about her? Do you even know anything about her? She’s got a birthmark right above her left asscheek, but you can’t let her know you know that. No one must know you know that. What else? She’s driven, determined, focused—

Focus, old man. That’s what you’re here for, remember. You’re an agent of the Venarium, hunting heretics for the order. It’s important that you study everything, every log, every tree, every . . .

“Rock.”

It was, indeed, a rock that loomed before him. A tall, malformed cylinder, nothing particularly spectacular about it.

Except for the scorch mark that blackened its gray face.

He reached out, felt soot come off on his fingers. He sniffed at it curiously. Warm, recent, and accompanied by a very familiar odor. Flame of a magical nature, born of a person’s body heat, always had a very thick, heady aroma, not quite as clean as natural flames.

He glanced around, saw other traces: a sheen of frost upon the bark of a nearby tree, a branch hanging half-severed, the new wood beneath blackened at the edges by electricity.

Someone had been expelling magic here. Clearly, not enough to do any real damage beyond a few alterations to the landscape. But it was evidence enough, just as Cesta had been hoping for.

But why?
He scratched his chin.
Heretics reject the law of the Venarium, but not the laws of magic. Using magic just to damage a few trees and rocks would serve no purpose but to expend energy and exhaust the wizard. There’s literally no reason to do it.