30 - Fifteen

  Garrick swore beneath his breath and retreated. Another damn curve.

  “Your majesty, you need to leave,” he said, gesturing for Lyndon and the other knights to take him.

  “Try and make me,” Fenric said, shrugging off Lyndon’s hand.

  “Stubborn bastard,” Garrick half growled.

  He nodded at Bran, who immediately dragged Maeve out of the cell. She barely protested, her face pale. He, Lyndon, and Halver immediately drew their swords, the heavy scrape of metal echoing on the stone. They leveled steel at the monster, forming a human barrier around the king.

  “Veylan,” Garrick warned.

  But the archmage held up a hand.

  “Wait,” he said, breathless.

  “Veylan!”

  “Just…wait a moment,” Veylan said, half bent as he took a cautious step towards the cot. “I don’t think this is an attack. Look at him!”

  Garrick’s brows furrowed. Not an attack? The one day they brought the king, archmage, and high commander together beneath the earth to stare at a feral beast and something went and changed. It didn’t sit right. His grip tightened on the hilt.

  And yet nothing happened. Luka remained still, frozen even as Veylan touched his wrist, then his arm. The veins on his forehead bulged with strain. His eye was wide, nostrils flared almost as if he feared Veylan’s touch. But nothing. Not even a twitch.

  “Stand,” Veylan commanded.

  He moved instantly. Garrick and his men jumped back, the high commander throwing an arm back to shield Fenric.

  “Look at me,” Veylan said.

  His eye turned to Veylan. Stiff. Mechanical.

  “I need to examine the magic,” the archmage muttered, his fingers reaching for the collar around the monster’s neck.

  “That’s reckless,” Garrick snapped.

  “It’s fine.”

  His hand waved. He threw up a barrier between himself and the knights. The shimmering wall of pure mana that had so many times protected the Adernian soldiers from bombardment now stood between the king, his knights, and certain death.

  “Veylan!” Fenric hissed.

  But the archmage was already reaching, already brushing the iron around the monster’s neck. He whispered a spell under his breath, drawing a trickle of energy. The collar lapped at it hungrily then snapped open with a sharp click.

  “Show me your magic,” Veylan commanded.

  A surge of chaotic power ignited over Luka’s body, like a dam bursting. Crimson and obsidian energy flared, raw, furious, directionless. A low growl slipped from the monster’s lips beneath the onslaught. His raw wounds looked ragged in the light of his mana. The knights staggered backward. Lyndon bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Garrick pushed Fenric back, shielding him with his body against the familiar pulse. Memories of fire, of the battlefield, the scent of blood and steel and corpses - too many familiar faces - leapt to the fore of Garrick’s mind. In it, the screams echoed - he knew their voices, their names, even now. But he could not allow himself to indulge in that while the king was still in danger. He braced.

  The archmage did none of that. A primal fascination lit his eyes as he shielded them from the glare.

  “God,” he said. “It’s wild. Untamed. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

  He stepped closer, other hand raised to test the waters.

  “That idiot!” Garrick snarled. “Get the king out of here right now before-”

  That was when Veylan yelped loudly and yanked himself backwards, covering one eye with a hand as he shouted.

  “Dammit!”

  Garrick surged through the barrier, catching Veylan’s arm.

  “Are you alright?” Garrick asked.

  “Fine. Just…get that collar back on now before it levels the tower,” Veylan breathed, face pale.

  “What do I-”

  “Just close it. It’s fine, you won’t get hurt. He’s got more control over it than I thought.”

  Garrick looked doubtful, but if the only other choice was to watch the tower implode, then that was no choice at all. Veylan offered him the collar, panting hard. Garrick stood and sheathed his sword.

  “Be careful,” Fenric called after him as he approached.

  But there was no need. How easy it was - too easy to slip it around Luka’s neck, too simple to close and snap it shut. The monster didn’t flinch. The magic collar gleamed a wicked crimson, matching the color of the monster’s magic as it consumed the chaos. Then, nothing. Dim light and silence. It echoed in his ears.

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  “Sit,” Veylan commanded softly, rising to his feet.

  Luka sat. Garrick took five steps back, hand on his sword still.

  “Out,” he commanded, grabbing Veylan by the arm. “You too.”

  For once, the archmage did not protest. He let Garrick propel him forward. Garrick did not relax until they were on the other side, until all heads were accounted for and the heavy iron door was shut behind them. He glanced at Fenric, tense but whole, then to Maeve, trembling still in Bran’s arms which wrapped tightly around her. Lyndon and the others panted, hands still wrapped around the hilts of their weapons, eyes trained on the door out of instinct. Safe. Good. He whirled on the archmage.

  “Are you out of your damn mind!” he shouted, making Maeve flinch.

  Veylan slumped against the left wall, head bowed between his knees.

  “That was reckless. Irresponsible. Foolhardy! What possessed you to-”

  “Garrick,” Fenric said quietly, settling a hand on his arm.

  Garrick flashed a glare at Fenric, but it faded when he saw the worry there. He looked back at Veylan, his fury faltering as he took in the pale face, the trembling hands, the hollow look in his eyes as Veylan stared at the floor. His throat worked as he swallowed bile. A shaky hand reached up to wipe his mouth.

  “Sorry,” Veylan whispered. “Sorry. You’re right. That was reckless.”

  His voice was hoarse. Garrick frowned. Fenric did as well. For a moment, Garrick didn’t know whether to shake sense into him or let him be. He was still angry, still frustrated that Veylan had allowed his obsession to put Fenric and the Second Order in danger. But something about the cocky-self-assured archmage slumped against that wall stopped him. He hesitated, then stepped forward, offering a hand. Veylan glanced up at him, gaze flickering to his hand. He reached up slowly and grasped it. Garrick pulled him to his feet.

  “We need to talk somewhere quiet,” Veylan said. “Bring the healer. Please.”

  Moments later, they sat in Garrick’s office - the king, the knight commander, the healer and the high commander, all facing the shaken archmage. Maeve handed him a mug of strong ale purloined from Garrick’s private store. Veylan started in surprise as the cup touched the back of his hand and looked up, smiling faintly.

  “Now I see why the old commander keeps you around,” he said. “You’re a treasure. Thank you.”

  Garrick rolled his eyes and shook his head, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. Maeve smiled down at him before retreating back to her chair. Fenric turned to him.

  “Alright, Veylan. We’re alone.”

  Veylan nodded, then raised the mug to his lips and drank deeply. He drained it in one go, then sighed.

  “I need you to know something first - what you saw in there was a technique called willbreaking,” he began.

  “Willbreaking?”

  Veylan nodded. “It’s a process of domination, it breaks down the subject and conditions them to another’s will. They probably did it when they grafted that damn magic to him.”

  A chill ran through Garrick.

  “Wait,” Maeve said. “Grafted?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Tissues of one plant are joined together with another to form a single plant. It’s usually for -”

  “I know what grafting is,” Maeve cut him off, frowning. “We do it all the time in our gardens to make the plants stronger and healthier.”

  Garrick frowned and said reproachfully, “Maeve.”

  She looked up, then blushed when she realized she had just interrupted one of the most powerful men in Adern.

  She stammered, “I-I mean…Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but it’s just that…well, I mean…does that mean you think he’s a victim?”

  A pained look came across Veylan’s face. He immediately clasped his hands before him and nodded slowly.

  “Yes. Victim. Human.”

  That dropped like a hammer. The silence that followed deafened. Garrick’s fists tightened at his side as he watched them all struggle with the news. He didn’t know how to react himself.

  “That’s a hard truth to swallow,” Garrick said, frowning deeply. “What makes you so certain someone didn’t volunteer for that kind of power?”

  “Because no one would willingly volunteer for that kind of power. Not for anything,” Veylan snapped.

  His mouth twitched downwards as he raised his hands. They gestured as he spoke, shaking.

  “Imagine you were told to lie on a table. They cut you open and someone stuffs you full of fire ants before sewing you back up and forcing you to fight a war. That’s what this kind of process is like. It’s excruciating. The body - it’s never meant to wield it. They fused it to him like a parasite. That kind of raw magic doesn’t sit naturally in a person. It doesn’t behave. Every nerve screams. The body tears itself apart from the inside. And the mind? Shattered, piece by piece. Those who manage to live through it - they don’t wield the magic. They survive it.”

  He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound.

  “What?” Garrick asks.

  “The secret to chaos magic - I guess I figured it out. Shove enough raw magic into someone and of course it would be unstable,” Veylan said.

  He put his hands in his head, taking in a deep shuddering breath.

  “That’s not even the worst of it,” he whispered. “This magic. It’s not easy. A mind like yours and mine - grown, rooted, set - would shatter in a moment. We’d die. Even if the subject was willing, that wouldn’t matter. It takes one who is…pliable. Still forming. Someone without a self to break.”

  “What are you talking about?” Fenric frowned.

  Veylan pulled his hands away and swallowed, face contorting in pain.

  “Someone young. Very young.”

  “God, a child. You’re talking about a child,” Lyndon breathed.

  Maeve gasped, a hand flying to her mouth.

  “You mean they took a boy and turned him into that? That kind of torment - how long could a body possibly last like that?” she asked.

  “Without stabilization? Not very long. Twenty years, maybe. But it’s more like fifteen. After a while your body starts to break down. You don’t…last.”

  Garrick frowned. “Wait…break down?”

  “A walking, decomposing corpse,” the archmage said, voice ringing with finality.

  “But Luka…” Garrick said.

  But he trailed off, arms dropping to his side.

  “Veylan,” Fenric whispered. “How old…”

  “Young,” Veylan said again. “Too young. You have to understand, only a child could possess the level of innocence and lack of self knowledge needed. Seven. That’s your limit. Any older and you begin to form your own ideas of yourself.”

  “But the timing. The war. He has to be older now,” Fenric protested.

  “But not by much.”

  “Veylan, enough riddles, please. Speak plainly,” Garrick demanded. “How old is he?”

  “Fourteen,” Veylan whispered. “Maybe fifteen. No older.”

  Meave gasped tearfully, clutching at Garrick’s arm. But Garrick couldn’t comfort her. His mind was reeling. Fifteen. A boy. A weapon.

  A child.