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Thom leaned against the cool stone of the crypt, examining the sigil he’d drawn on the floor in front of it. He balanced a bronze bust in the sigil’s center – a likeness of the great mage Arvel, who’d stood by the side of King Jonathan I for all of his reign.
The bust, which until recently had sat in the royal portrait gallery, had been a bear to obtain, but it was absolutely necessary to his work. In order to achieve his goal, he needed something that had been as close to the man himself as possible, and any relics that Arvel had actually owned were long gone. Thom wasn’t even sure the royal crypt truly held his bones. But the bust had been the focus of generation upon generation’s thoughts of the great mage, and as such it held the energy he would need. Thom couldn’t just ask for it, of course, lest he be forced to explain to his king or, gods forbid, Roger what he needed it for. He’d finally settled on an intricately crafted illusion to hide the bust’s absence from anyone walking through the portrait hall.
He brushed a finger across the bust’s brow and began to chant, steeling himself for a long day of magic.
Alanna, observing from afar the year’s crop of new pages, felt a strange tickle just under her sternum. It soon grew to a horrific pain, leaving her doubled over and gasping for breath. Her knees gave way, and as a curtain of black spread across her vision, she saw a flock of people running toward her.
The shake began subtly. Most in the capital would not have noticed. Roger, however, heard the sing of power that accompanied it. A very familiar power, no less, with a distinctive purple hue he’d begun to dread. In these tempestuous times, roger had kept a close eye on his cousin and his associates, and he’d only known Alanna to work magic like this in defense of king or country. This would have to be Thom. Roger sighed and took up his staff, following the waves of power to their source.
It shouldn’t have felt like this. Thom had worked great magic before, and he knew the rush of power and the tug at his chest like a magical sore muscle very well. By his calculations, this shouldn’t have been any more difficult or power-intensive than the mass healing he’d worked last fever season, especially with Alanna’s Gift to draw on as well as his own. Thom tried to pull his Gift away from the spell, but it was caught in the whirlwind created around the bust, a swirling, sparkling funnel of power. He would be empty soon, and then the spell would draw on his muscles, his bones, his very life force. Alanna’s too, he realized as tumbled forward into the sigil, no longer able to hold himself upright. As his cheekbone met the stone of the floor, he felt someone grab hold of his shoulder. Then he knew nothing more.
When Thom came to, he was in his own bed, blankets heaped high on top of him, and no matter how he tried, he couldn’t so much as move a finger. Alanna was sitting at his bedside, in a chair dragged in from who knew where. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Thom had so rarely seen her cry.
“How long?” he croaked, his throat bone-dry.
She sat up with a start, her eyes narrowing. “Nearly a week, Thom! You nearly killed yourself! We weren’t at all sure that you would even wake, or that you’d be able to speak if you did. You’re skin and bones. Roger carried you up here. Roger! The man can barely lift a shield, which should tell you how much weight you burned off in this damned fool pursuit. And for what? A séance?”
“A resurrection.” Despite her anger, Alanna still noticed his voice. She held a glass of water to his lips, and he swallowed gratefully before continuing. “Of a sort. Just the spirit, not the body.”
Alanna clenched her jaw. “And what in the Lady’s name possessed you to do that?”
“None of those old bores who have been hassling Jonathan would dare oppose him if he had the great Arvel on his side. And it would help you, too!” he added, seeing Alanna’s frown. “He could assure them that the first King Jonathan had no objections whatsoever to lady knights.”
Alanna slammed her hands onto the headboard, framing Thom’s head. “Don’t pretend you did this for me,” she snarled. “Or for Jon. You wanted to show what a clever clogs you were, and you didn’t care if you died in the process.”
She either hadn’t realized or didn’t care to mention the danger that Thom’s magic had put her in, and that stirred up a sickly sense of guilt in Thom’s gut. He wasn’t used to the feeling, and he didn’t care for it. “I am sorry. I’ll be more careful about overexerting myself.” He couldn’t promise more than that, and Alanna seemed to understand. They turned to discussing less fraught matters, until Thom grew too weary and Alanna excused herself.
A few days later, when Thom had begun to recover his strength and grown thoroughly sick of broth, he had another caller. Duke Roger of Conté strolled into the room as if he owned the place and took a seat. “Quite the adventure you had in the crypts,” he said, an eyebrow raised.
“I hear I have you to thank for saving me, your Grace.” Thom sat up, trying to hide the effort it took.
“I could feel your spell like a sinkhole, reaching out for anything more to fuel it.” Roger’s sardonic tone wasn’t as piercing as Alanna’s anger, but it still wounded Thom. “Were you my apprentice, I would have boxed your ears for the risk you took. What made you think you could manage it?”
Thom glared at him, guilt drowned out by irritation. “I did my research. The bust and the crypt should have provided enough of a link to draw up Arvel’s spirit.”
“The bust, which Arvel himself never touched, and the crypt, which like as not doesn’t even contain his bones.”
“It’s the memory that matters.” Thom didn’t like the petulance his protests were taking on, but neither could he suppress it. “All those years of belief soaking into the stone, the metal. It should have been enough.”
“Not to bring back a man who’s been dead for centuries.” The sarcastic tone was gone, and however much it had rankled, Thom found he preferred it to Roger’s cold disapproval. “And what did you plan to do with him if you’d managed to dredge him up? You have no idea if he’d even support the king’s positions.”
“If he didn’t, we could simply have kept him hidden.” Thom fought the childish urge to pull his blanket over his head and pretend Roger wasn’t there. “I’ve already been thoroughly lectured, thank you. I don’t plan to try it again.”
“You’ll have a hard time managing it in any case – drawing on another’s power like that requires either consent or ignorance on the other party’s part, and I daresay your sister won’t let you anywhere near her Gift in the future.” Roger leaned forward. “Gods all help me, but for some unfathomable reason, my cousin has become fond of you, and I begin to find myself swayed by his position that a mage of your abilities could serve us well. I am invested in your continued survival, and stunts like this put that survival in jeopardy. Next time, before you rush into whatever fool thing has crossed your mind, bring it to me and I’ll tell you true about the risks.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but I was given to understand that you had little use for nurturing younger mages.” The words were out before he could bite them back.
Roger sighed. “As my dear cousin recently reminded me, we have not yet discovered a way to indefinitely prolong a man’s lifespan, and crushing anyone who might one day rival me is a good way to cripple Tortall once I die. You seem a tolerable enough successor, if prone to recklessness.”
Duke Roger was a conniving man, but his respect for King Jonathan had always seemed sincere. “I’ll come to you. Once I can manage more than lighting a candle again, that is.”
Roger laughed. “This should make you think twice about trying something so overly ambitious again.”
It would, as loath as Thom was to admit it. Before this, wanting something had always been enough to bring a spell to completion. This failure had brought him far too close to death to forget the consequences. Perhaps he would even accept Roger’s offer to supervise any further grand ideas, if Alanna agreed that he didn’t mean it as a subtle way to eliminate a rival.