Dark apprentice, p.3
Dark Apprentice, page 3
“I will.” Then, as an afterthought, “Thank you.”
The scorned woman turned to go, but the blonde stopped her. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Payment perhaps?”
“I . . . oh, yes, I’m so sorry.” She turned to Nikolai. “How much do I owe you?”
Nikolai recited the price for the locket, took the woman’s money, and watched her leave. It was only then he realized he was alone with the blonde.
“Looks like she scared off your friend,” he said.
“Who?” The blonde looked confused.
“The man you were with, I think that lady scared him off.” For someone who could cast complicated magic, she seemed a bit slow.
“Oh, him. We didn’t come here together. By the way, I saw him pocket a bracelet and sneak out while you were busy.”
Nikolai cursed. Petrov would no doubt blame him. Nothing was going right today. He had to get her out of the shop before anything else went wrong. “Thank you for what you did. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow. We’re closing at noon today, and it’s well past.”
“I see.” The woman remained where she was and gave Nikolai a calculating look. “Why close so early?”
“We have a . . . delivery. A special delivery that’s arriving today.”
“A delivery? Really?” She smirked. “Seeing as it has not yet arrived, I should be able to conduct my business. It won’t take long.”
Nikolai bridled. He didn’t need to be dealing with customers now. Medea would be arriving any moment, if she hadn’t already left. God, he hoped the crone hadn’t been her.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to ask that you come back another time. It really isn’t—”
“A delivery wouldn’t normally require that customers vacate the premises.”
Nikolai kept his voice professional. “Once it arrives, I need to catalog the contents. My master is out sick and there is no one else to man the counter.”
“Why not just catalog it later?”
“I need to make sure nothing is broken or missing. It’s a very important delivery,” he said with a tone of finality.
“I see.”
Thinking he had finally made her understand, Nikolai walked to the entrance, assuming she would follow. When he glanced back, he saw to his chagrin she hadn’t moved. One side of her mouth quirked up into an infuriating smile. Why did the weird ones always show up right at closing?
“You’re waiting for someone. Why not just say that? Why the lie?” She put a peculiar emphasis on the last word.
Helpful or not, she was being deliberately annoying, and her reference to him as “the boy” still rankled. Sure, she was pretty, but she was too skinny. Her unkempt hair fell lank about her shoulders and, he noticed with distaste, she wore no shoes. The more he looked at her smug face, the more he disliked her.
He abandoned all pretense. If Petrov lost a customer, so be it. “Because people want to feel important! If I said I was waiting for someone, they would feel slighted. Isn’t their time just as valuable? Isn’t their money just as good? A delivery is less personal.”
She didn’t speak for a moment, then ventured, “I suppose that makes sense.”
Nikolai relaxed. “I’m sorry, but I do have an important appointment and I need you to leave. Please.” He gestured once again to the door.
She sighed. “Very well then.” A flick of her hand and the curtains were drawn, the door locked. “Show me what Petrov wants identified.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked toward the storeroom, leaving Nikolai standing with his mouth slightly ajar.
He rushed to catch up. “You’re Medea?”
“Obviously.”
She didn’t look much older than his twenty-two years. On closer inspection, her red dress was rather dated, like something from the middle ages. He’d seen similar dresses in plays, often with a zigzag of ribbon across the bodice begging to be pulled, sadly absent here. Long sleeves extended to her wrists. The cuffs, neckline, and waist were trimmed with gold filigree, and she wore a thin leather belt. He could imagine his hands about her slender waist, among other places. A pretty picture, though likely an illusion. God, how he hated illusions.
“Are you using a glamor spell to look like that?” He tried to keep the acid from his voice and failed. Thankfully, Medea didn’t seem to notice.
“No. This is how I truly am.” She spun to face him with her arms spread wide, walked backward a few paces, then turned around again. The move nearly caused her to walk face-first into a stack of boxes, which she narrowly avoided by jerking her body awkwardly to the side.
Such grace.
“Everyone expects me to look older,” she continued. “I don’t really see the point in living forever if your body is so decrepit it can’t function. Is this the room?”
“Yes. It’s the box on top, the one made of metal. How do you stay young?”
“Sheer willpower and spite. I see it.”
“Here, I’ll have to open it. Petrov taught me the spell to—”
But the box was already unlocking itself. The lid opened, and a parade of objects flew into the air, where they hung suspended for a moment as a nearby table cleared itself. The motley collection of amulets, bracelets, weapons, and a few other items placed themselves neatly upon the table.
“How are you doing that!?”
Medea waved her hands theatrically and smiled. “Magic!” At his expression she amended, “I didn’t get to this age by being terrible at what I do.”
She touched her belt, which until now had looked purely decorative, and a small brown bag expanded into being. From it she withdrew several sheets of paper and sent them gliding to the table, where they aligned themselves neatly, one next to each object. She clapped her hands together.
“There we go! Nice and organized. I am going to identify each object in turn. A description will be written upon the sheet next to each item. If you wish you may stay, and I will give you a verbal summary as I go, but do not interrupt. Or you can go back up front and reopen the shop, though you seem disinclined to do so. Staying then?”
She’d rattled it off so fast he barely registered when she finished. “I . . . yes, I’m staying.” This was not going at all how he’d planned, but there was no way he was leaving now. In the thirty minutes since she’d arrived, he’d witnessed incredibly advanced magic.
Medea gestured to the first row of items. “Most of these are junk. Minor spells that have all but worn off over time. Petrov would do better to dispel their enchantments and start over.” She moved on to the second row. “This dagger imbues the holder with incredible speed. This one is cursed. When it inflicts a cut, the wound will bleed endlessly—very nice.”
Medea identified half a dozen more items. When she came to a Luck pendant, she offhandedly mentioned the spell was dead. He attempted to ask what she meant, but she sternly reminded him not to interrupt, and by the time she finished, he’d forgotten.
The last item was a tall but slender earthen pot sealed and stamped with wax. Medea placed a hand on it and said, “This is my payment.”
Petrov had told him she would choose an item—either from the shop wares or, more likely, from the unidentified items—as payment. It didn’t matter what she chose, and he wasn’t to question the selection, as it was usually odd or worthless.
“One time it was a pouch of seeds. Another, a book on flowers. She’s partial to books and scrolls. I’ve started including something eccentric and useless each time”—Petrov had laughed—“and she nearly always chooses it. Last time she took a shard of glass. Glass!”
And now she was choosing a pot.
“Can you tell what’s inside?” Nikolai asked.
“No. It is obscured with a magic I do not wish to disturb just yet. However, it is stamped with the Ouroboros.”
The name was familiar—probably mentioned in one of his classes—but he couldn’t recall what it meant. Nikolai moved closer. There was a circular impression in the wax, but age had blurred the details. “What is it?”
“A snake consuming its own tail. The symbol is Egyptian, though it can be found in many other cultures. It represents an endless cycle of death and rebirth.”
That was interesting. “Any thoughts on what it contains?”
She shrugged. “Pots such as this were usually storage for foodstuffs, so it could be nothing.”
“But it’s protected with magic. Whoever sealed it must have hidden something important inside.”
“Not necessarily. It could merely be an antitheft measure. What matters to one person may mean little to another. Look at Petrov—he attempts to placate me with what he considers junk so I won’t choose something more valuable. The Ouroboros means nothing to him, and so he passes over a potential treasure. It’s probably nothing, but it could be something. He cares not for books, unless they contain spells he can monetize—not that he could even translate most of what he’s offered me—and so he doesn’t see their value. All this”—she waved toward the items on the table—“I could easily replicate on my own, had I the need. What use is a dagger of speed to me?”
“I don’t know—what if it lets you cast spells faster?”
“Interesting hypothesis.” She grabbed the dagger. “Let’s test it.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” Medea glanced around and gestured to a wide wooden beam. “There. Pick a low-mana dueling spell. Something basic you’ve cast before.”
Nikolai tried to think of a spell. His dueling repertoire didn’t contain anything that basic. Bleed, Pummel, Lance, Amputate, Lightning—these were the kinds of spells he collected. Defensive spells like Gust and Flash didn’t have the same appeal, though he did know a few. What did he know that was small?
Ah, Puncture. The spell was a favorite among novices at the Academy, as it did little more than simulate being stuck with a pin. They loved to cast it on one another and unsuspecting instructors.
“Got it.” He drew his wand and moved into position.
Medea gave him a look of distaste.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Go ahead.”
Something had irked her, but he didn’t press the issue. “How will you measure?”
“With my mind. Cast it several times so I can get an average.”
He aimed his wand at the beam. “Punctum, Punctum, Punctum, Punctum, Punctum!” Tiny puncture marks pocked the wooden beam in rapid succession.
She shook her head. “I already know how this is going to end. No matter. Here is the dagger.”
He accepted the golden handle and aimed his wand once more.
“PunctumPunctumPunctumPunctumPunctum!”
He laughed. His hand flew like lightning. The words rattled from his mouth with no breath between. He’d have to figure out how to weasel the dagger away from Petrov. Perhaps he could forge a new document claiming it was worthless. “Definitely faster!” He turned a grin to Medea and was surprised to find the same look of distaste. She must be irate at having chosen the pot. Her loss.
“Yes, well, when you cast spells in the slowest manner possible, anything that increases your speed will improve your performance.”
He bristled. “I’ll have you know that I was the fastest dueler when I left the Academy.”
“That is truly disheartening.”
He stepped forward and loomed over her. It wasn’t difficult. The top of her head barely came up to his chin. He brandished the dagger in her face and spoke slowly, “You’re just upset you didn’t pick this.”
Her mouth curved into a smirk and she nodded toward the beam, which instantly became pocked with a hundred tiny holes. He’d felt no spell emanate from her. It was as if the spell began and ended at the wood itself. Petrov’s scrawled words rose to the forefront of his mind. Please don’t maim him.
He took a step back, but she closed the distance between them. Somehow she managed to look down on him from below.
“When you cast spells with word or wand, you only slow yourself.” Her voice was low. Not menacing, but careful and measured. “Tell Petrov I said you should keep the dagger. Clearly you could use the extra help.”
With that, Medea marched around him toward the door. She paused with her hand upon the knob, then rolled her eyes and stalked back to the table, where she snatched up the earthen pot and muttered, “Forgot this.” The bag on her hip expanded and she hastily crammed her prize inside, arm disappearing to the elbow. When she withdrew her hand, it clutched something small. “And this.”
She tossed it to Nikolai—one of the Virility bracelets the portly man had been examining.
“I removed it from his coat as soon as I realized he was stealing it,” she explained. “If you hadn’t been so keen on throwing me out, I would have returned it to you sooner.” With that, she marched back out, the door closing with finality behind her.
Nikolai stared at the wooden beam, as punctured as his ego.
3
THE HANGED MAN
What an oaf. A powerful, dangerous oaf at that.
Medea pushed through Petrov’s shop door and strengthened her invisible shields. Sound, smell, glare—all of it could be reduced to a tolerable level. All but the people. Haven was getting too crowded. She moved to the side of the street with fewer pedestrians. Thankfully, her reputation ensured most of them kept out of her way. Social interactions were exhausting. One or two a day was all she budgeted for, but the boy would seek her out soon enough. There was no way around it.
She should have known when Petrov wrote her about the letter. What kind of person opened another’s mail despite multiple warnings? An idiot, that’s who. Or someone who thought the rules didn’t apply to them. But no, she’d given him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’d been distracted and opened it by mistake.
The boy seemed normal enough while helping customers, but what struck her most was the magical power radiating within him. Magic had been slowly dwindling for centuries, and every generation was weaker than the last, if one was talking about averages. More witches, fewer Magi. His very existence was a pleasant surprise.
Apprentices were a good way to alleviate the boredom of immortality, and it had been so long since the last one. The urge to share her wealth of knowledge was overwhelming. She’d tried to stave it off by writing a massive compendium, but it wasn’t the same. If the boy had turned out to be decent, or interested in a variety of magics, she might have considered taking him on.
That hope was dashed. After so many apprentices, it had gotten easier to recognize an aspiring dark wizard. She wasn’t going through that again. Fool her once, shame on them. Fool her a dozen times, and a pattern emerged. Under that polite veneer was someone hungry for power. He probably didn’t even know why, but it meant he’d seek her out, and soon. They always did.
At least she had time to mentally prepare for the encounter. Pushing them away rarely worked. If she said “no” nicely, they took it as an opening. If she said “no” curtly, they tried harder. It made no damned sense. Avoiding him would only prolong the inevitable. She’d tried that before. Best get it over with quickly.
A collision against her shield threw her thoughts into disorder, and she almost tripped over a man sprawled on the cobblestones. He must’ve walked into her. It was a frequent occurrence in Mundane towns, where she’d taken to making her shield more convex so colliders neatly rolled off to the side, allowing her to continue without pause. Satisfied the man wasn’t an imminent threat, she stepped around him and attempted to collect her scattered thoughts. It was no good. They’d popped like bubbles.
She hated these excursions away from home. Everything was muted now. Even here in Haven, where most of the population were presumably casters, people barely registered against her senses. Dim, that’s what they were, wavering like candles about to go out. All except the boy.
That magic was dying was frightening enough by itself, but what was even more alarming was that no one seemed to notice. Age likely played a role. Who else but an immortal would notice the slow decline? She wasn’t even sure there were others left. Immortals were a notoriously solitary lot. The condition required a particular state of mind and strength of character. Boredom was a real problem, as was loneliness.
Those who required consistent company seldom made it beyond a few centuries—watching loved ones die took a toll. The obvious solutions were not to have loved ones in the first place, or to share immortality with them if you did. Sharing was risky. The more people you shared with, the more likely you were to become the target of those who sought such power for themselves.
The Baba Yaga sisters had each other for company, but that was a double-edged sword. Quarrels were frequent. At some point they had a falling out over a lover—a stupid thing to argue about—and one of them struck off on her own. After multiple attempts to mend the bridge, the remaining sister had taken her own life.
Still, very few people could live completely alone. They needed something. Pets were an option, but these died too, and with greater frequency than humans, unless you happened to like tortoises. Many immortals created a familiar, which could live indefinitely and had magical powers of its own. The spell sheared off a piece of the soul to create an animal companion and could only be cast once. After Thomas left, Medea had been desperate enough to try it and got nothing for her trouble. So much for that.
What she really missed was having a peer. There was no one to bounce ideas off of, no one to spar with. God, how she missed a good spar! Dueling had been her favorite pastime for centuries. But she’d gotten too good. She tried handicapping herself by using less common schools of magic or fighting multiple opponents. When that didn’t help, she fought without shields, without healing, or restricted herself to one school of magic. Nothing worked.
Apprentices were no help at all. Yes, they alleviated the boredom and gave her an outlet for her desire to share magical knowledge, but few of them lasted. One by one, they either dropped out, claiming her methods were too harsh, or else they turned on her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had one make it all the way to master rank. The good ones, those with real potential, rarely stayed on more than a year or two.
The scorned woman turned to go, but the blonde stopped her. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Payment perhaps?”
“I . . . oh, yes, I’m so sorry.” She turned to Nikolai. “How much do I owe you?”
Nikolai recited the price for the locket, took the woman’s money, and watched her leave. It was only then he realized he was alone with the blonde.
“Looks like she scared off your friend,” he said.
“Who?” The blonde looked confused.
“The man you were with, I think that lady scared him off.” For someone who could cast complicated magic, she seemed a bit slow.
“Oh, him. We didn’t come here together. By the way, I saw him pocket a bracelet and sneak out while you were busy.”
Nikolai cursed. Petrov would no doubt blame him. Nothing was going right today. He had to get her out of the shop before anything else went wrong. “Thank you for what you did. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow. We’re closing at noon today, and it’s well past.”
“I see.” The woman remained where she was and gave Nikolai a calculating look. “Why close so early?”
“We have a . . . delivery. A special delivery that’s arriving today.”
“A delivery? Really?” She smirked. “Seeing as it has not yet arrived, I should be able to conduct my business. It won’t take long.”
Nikolai bridled. He didn’t need to be dealing with customers now. Medea would be arriving any moment, if she hadn’t already left. God, he hoped the crone hadn’t been her.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to ask that you come back another time. It really isn’t—”
“A delivery wouldn’t normally require that customers vacate the premises.”
Nikolai kept his voice professional. “Once it arrives, I need to catalog the contents. My master is out sick and there is no one else to man the counter.”
“Why not just catalog it later?”
“I need to make sure nothing is broken or missing. It’s a very important delivery,” he said with a tone of finality.
“I see.”
Thinking he had finally made her understand, Nikolai walked to the entrance, assuming she would follow. When he glanced back, he saw to his chagrin she hadn’t moved. One side of her mouth quirked up into an infuriating smile. Why did the weird ones always show up right at closing?
“You’re waiting for someone. Why not just say that? Why the lie?” She put a peculiar emphasis on the last word.
Helpful or not, she was being deliberately annoying, and her reference to him as “the boy” still rankled. Sure, she was pretty, but she was too skinny. Her unkempt hair fell lank about her shoulders and, he noticed with distaste, she wore no shoes. The more he looked at her smug face, the more he disliked her.
He abandoned all pretense. If Petrov lost a customer, so be it. “Because people want to feel important! If I said I was waiting for someone, they would feel slighted. Isn’t their time just as valuable? Isn’t their money just as good? A delivery is less personal.”
She didn’t speak for a moment, then ventured, “I suppose that makes sense.”
Nikolai relaxed. “I’m sorry, but I do have an important appointment and I need you to leave. Please.” He gestured once again to the door.
She sighed. “Very well then.” A flick of her hand and the curtains were drawn, the door locked. “Show me what Petrov wants identified.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked toward the storeroom, leaving Nikolai standing with his mouth slightly ajar.
He rushed to catch up. “You’re Medea?”
“Obviously.”
She didn’t look much older than his twenty-two years. On closer inspection, her red dress was rather dated, like something from the middle ages. He’d seen similar dresses in plays, often with a zigzag of ribbon across the bodice begging to be pulled, sadly absent here. Long sleeves extended to her wrists. The cuffs, neckline, and waist were trimmed with gold filigree, and she wore a thin leather belt. He could imagine his hands about her slender waist, among other places. A pretty picture, though likely an illusion. God, how he hated illusions.
“Are you using a glamor spell to look like that?” He tried to keep the acid from his voice and failed. Thankfully, Medea didn’t seem to notice.
“No. This is how I truly am.” She spun to face him with her arms spread wide, walked backward a few paces, then turned around again. The move nearly caused her to walk face-first into a stack of boxes, which she narrowly avoided by jerking her body awkwardly to the side.
Such grace.
“Everyone expects me to look older,” she continued. “I don’t really see the point in living forever if your body is so decrepit it can’t function. Is this the room?”
“Yes. It’s the box on top, the one made of metal. How do you stay young?”
“Sheer willpower and spite. I see it.”
“Here, I’ll have to open it. Petrov taught me the spell to—”
But the box was already unlocking itself. The lid opened, and a parade of objects flew into the air, where they hung suspended for a moment as a nearby table cleared itself. The motley collection of amulets, bracelets, weapons, and a few other items placed themselves neatly upon the table.
“How are you doing that!?”
Medea waved her hands theatrically and smiled. “Magic!” At his expression she amended, “I didn’t get to this age by being terrible at what I do.”
She touched her belt, which until now had looked purely decorative, and a small brown bag expanded into being. From it she withdrew several sheets of paper and sent them gliding to the table, where they aligned themselves neatly, one next to each object. She clapped her hands together.
“There we go! Nice and organized. I am going to identify each object in turn. A description will be written upon the sheet next to each item. If you wish you may stay, and I will give you a verbal summary as I go, but do not interrupt. Or you can go back up front and reopen the shop, though you seem disinclined to do so. Staying then?”
She’d rattled it off so fast he barely registered when she finished. “I . . . yes, I’m staying.” This was not going at all how he’d planned, but there was no way he was leaving now. In the thirty minutes since she’d arrived, he’d witnessed incredibly advanced magic.
Medea gestured to the first row of items. “Most of these are junk. Minor spells that have all but worn off over time. Petrov would do better to dispel their enchantments and start over.” She moved on to the second row. “This dagger imbues the holder with incredible speed. This one is cursed. When it inflicts a cut, the wound will bleed endlessly—very nice.”
Medea identified half a dozen more items. When she came to a Luck pendant, she offhandedly mentioned the spell was dead. He attempted to ask what she meant, but she sternly reminded him not to interrupt, and by the time she finished, he’d forgotten.
The last item was a tall but slender earthen pot sealed and stamped with wax. Medea placed a hand on it and said, “This is my payment.”
Petrov had told him she would choose an item—either from the shop wares or, more likely, from the unidentified items—as payment. It didn’t matter what she chose, and he wasn’t to question the selection, as it was usually odd or worthless.
“One time it was a pouch of seeds. Another, a book on flowers. She’s partial to books and scrolls. I’ve started including something eccentric and useless each time”—Petrov had laughed—“and she nearly always chooses it. Last time she took a shard of glass. Glass!”
And now she was choosing a pot.
“Can you tell what’s inside?” Nikolai asked.
“No. It is obscured with a magic I do not wish to disturb just yet. However, it is stamped with the Ouroboros.”
The name was familiar—probably mentioned in one of his classes—but he couldn’t recall what it meant. Nikolai moved closer. There was a circular impression in the wax, but age had blurred the details. “What is it?”
“A snake consuming its own tail. The symbol is Egyptian, though it can be found in many other cultures. It represents an endless cycle of death and rebirth.”
That was interesting. “Any thoughts on what it contains?”
She shrugged. “Pots such as this were usually storage for foodstuffs, so it could be nothing.”
“But it’s protected with magic. Whoever sealed it must have hidden something important inside.”
“Not necessarily. It could merely be an antitheft measure. What matters to one person may mean little to another. Look at Petrov—he attempts to placate me with what he considers junk so I won’t choose something more valuable. The Ouroboros means nothing to him, and so he passes over a potential treasure. It’s probably nothing, but it could be something. He cares not for books, unless they contain spells he can monetize—not that he could even translate most of what he’s offered me—and so he doesn’t see their value. All this”—she waved toward the items on the table—“I could easily replicate on my own, had I the need. What use is a dagger of speed to me?”
“I don’t know—what if it lets you cast spells faster?”
“Interesting hypothesis.” She grabbed the dagger. “Let’s test it.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” Medea glanced around and gestured to a wide wooden beam. “There. Pick a low-mana dueling spell. Something basic you’ve cast before.”
Nikolai tried to think of a spell. His dueling repertoire didn’t contain anything that basic. Bleed, Pummel, Lance, Amputate, Lightning—these were the kinds of spells he collected. Defensive spells like Gust and Flash didn’t have the same appeal, though he did know a few. What did he know that was small?
Ah, Puncture. The spell was a favorite among novices at the Academy, as it did little more than simulate being stuck with a pin. They loved to cast it on one another and unsuspecting instructors.
“Got it.” He drew his wand and moved into position.
Medea gave him a look of distaste.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Go ahead.”
Something had irked her, but he didn’t press the issue. “How will you measure?”
“With my mind. Cast it several times so I can get an average.”
He aimed his wand at the beam. “Punctum, Punctum, Punctum, Punctum, Punctum!” Tiny puncture marks pocked the wooden beam in rapid succession.
She shook her head. “I already know how this is going to end. No matter. Here is the dagger.”
He accepted the golden handle and aimed his wand once more.
“PunctumPunctumPunctumPunctumPunctum!”
He laughed. His hand flew like lightning. The words rattled from his mouth with no breath between. He’d have to figure out how to weasel the dagger away from Petrov. Perhaps he could forge a new document claiming it was worthless. “Definitely faster!” He turned a grin to Medea and was surprised to find the same look of distaste. She must be irate at having chosen the pot. Her loss.
“Yes, well, when you cast spells in the slowest manner possible, anything that increases your speed will improve your performance.”
He bristled. “I’ll have you know that I was the fastest dueler when I left the Academy.”
“That is truly disheartening.”
He stepped forward and loomed over her. It wasn’t difficult. The top of her head barely came up to his chin. He brandished the dagger in her face and spoke slowly, “You’re just upset you didn’t pick this.”
Her mouth curved into a smirk and she nodded toward the beam, which instantly became pocked with a hundred tiny holes. He’d felt no spell emanate from her. It was as if the spell began and ended at the wood itself. Petrov’s scrawled words rose to the forefront of his mind. Please don’t maim him.
He took a step back, but she closed the distance between them. Somehow she managed to look down on him from below.
“When you cast spells with word or wand, you only slow yourself.” Her voice was low. Not menacing, but careful and measured. “Tell Petrov I said you should keep the dagger. Clearly you could use the extra help.”
With that, Medea marched around him toward the door. She paused with her hand upon the knob, then rolled her eyes and stalked back to the table, where she snatched up the earthen pot and muttered, “Forgot this.” The bag on her hip expanded and she hastily crammed her prize inside, arm disappearing to the elbow. When she withdrew her hand, it clutched something small. “And this.”
She tossed it to Nikolai—one of the Virility bracelets the portly man had been examining.
“I removed it from his coat as soon as I realized he was stealing it,” she explained. “If you hadn’t been so keen on throwing me out, I would have returned it to you sooner.” With that, she marched back out, the door closing with finality behind her.
Nikolai stared at the wooden beam, as punctured as his ego.
3
THE HANGED MAN
What an oaf. A powerful, dangerous oaf at that.
Medea pushed through Petrov’s shop door and strengthened her invisible shields. Sound, smell, glare—all of it could be reduced to a tolerable level. All but the people. Haven was getting too crowded. She moved to the side of the street with fewer pedestrians. Thankfully, her reputation ensured most of them kept out of her way. Social interactions were exhausting. One or two a day was all she budgeted for, but the boy would seek her out soon enough. There was no way around it.
She should have known when Petrov wrote her about the letter. What kind of person opened another’s mail despite multiple warnings? An idiot, that’s who. Or someone who thought the rules didn’t apply to them. But no, she’d given him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’d been distracted and opened it by mistake.
The boy seemed normal enough while helping customers, but what struck her most was the magical power radiating within him. Magic had been slowly dwindling for centuries, and every generation was weaker than the last, if one was talking about averages. More witches, fewer Magi. His very existence was a pleasant surprise.
Apprentices were a good way to alleviate the boredom of immortality, and it had been so long since the last one. The urge to share her wealth of knowledge was overwhelming. She’d tried to stave it off by writing a massive compendium, but it wasn’t the same. If the boy had turned out to be decent, or interested in a variety of magics, she might have considered taking him on.
That hope was dashed. After so many apprentices, it had gotten easier to recognize an aspiring dark wizard. She wasn’t going through that again. Fool her once, shame on them. Fool her a dozen times, and a pattern emerged. Under that polite veneer was someone hungry for power. He probably didn’t even know why, but it meant he’d seek her out, and soon. They always did.
At least she had time to mentally prepare for the encounter. Pushing them away rarely worked. If she said “no” nicely, they took it as an opening. If she said “no” curtly, they tried harder. It made no damned sense. Avoiding him would only prolong the inevitable. She’d tried that before. Best get it over with quickly.
A collision against her shield threw her thoughts into disorder, and she almost tripped over a man sprawled on the cobblestones. He must’ve walked into her. It was a frequent occurrence in Mundane towns, where she’d taken to making her shield more convex so colliders neatly rolled off to the side, allowing her to continue without pause. Satisfied the man wasn’t an imminent threat, she stepped around him and attempted to collect her scattered thoughts. It was no good. They’d popped like bubbles.
She hated these excursions away from home. Everything was muted now. Even here in Haven, where most of the population were presumably casters, people barely registered against her senses. Dim, that’s what they were, wavering like candles about to go out. All except the boy.
That magic was dying was frightening enough by itself, but what was even more alarming was that no one seemed to notice. Age likely played a role. Who else but an immortal would notice the slow decline? She wasn’t even sure there were others left. Immortals were a notoriously solitary lot. The condition required a particular state of mind and strength of character. Boredom was a real problem, as was loneliness.
Those who required consistent company seldom made it beyond a few centuries—watching loved ones die took a toll. The obvious solutions were not to have loved ones in the first place, or to share immortality with them if you did. Sharing was risky. The more people you shared with, the more likely you were to become the target of those who sought such power for themselves.
The Baba Yaga sisters had each other for company, but that was a double-edged sword. Quarrels were frequent. At some point they had a falling out over a lover—a stupid thing to argue about—and one of them struck off on her own. After multiple attempts to mend the bridge, the remaining sister had taken her own life.
Still, very few people could live completely alone. They needed something. Pets were an option, but these died too, and with greater frequency than humans, unless you happened to like tortoises. Many immortals created a familiar, which could live indefinitely and had magical powers of its own. The spell sheared off a piece of the soul to create an animal companion and could only be cast once. After Thomas left, Medea had been desperate enough to try it and got nothing for her trouble. So much for that.
What she really missed was having a peer. There was no one to bounce ideas off of, no one to spar with. God, how she missed a good spar! Dueling had been her favorite pastime for centuries. But she’d gotten too good. She tried handicapping herself by using less common schools of magic or fighting multiple opponents. When that didn’t help, she fought without shields, without healing, or restricted herself to one school of magic. Nothing worked.
Apprentices were no help at all. Yes, they alleviated the boredom and gave her an outlet for her desire to share magical knowledge, but few of them lasted. One by one, they either dropped out, claiming her methods were too harsh, or else they turned on her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had one make it all the way to master rank. The good ones, those with real potential, rarely stayed on more than a year or two.
