Chapter I. Domenic #3
In the next row was Praxis, a low-grade corporeal wand.
Domenic had tried and failed to bond with it last term.
Only two years had passed since its previous wielder had died, and already its unique signs of neglect had begun to show; its normally beige cedar wood had yellowed, and a single leaf had sprouted from its dagger-sharp tip.
Practical and reliable, it favored magicians with a proclivity toward discipline, so Domenic wasn’t surprised it thought little of him, even if the rejection had stung.
“What are you thinking?” Hanna whispered.
That this isn’t helping, he thought. It hurts.
“I’m rehearsing my testimony for when we get caught.”
She sighed and dropped his hand. “How about I give you a few minutes to yourself? Would that help?”
“Sure.”
While she slipped off, Domenic roamed the aisles. The warmth he’d noticed earlier had strengthened into a smothering heat, and he forced down slow, deep breaths. He wasn’t in danger, even if his body swore otherwise. And if he had a breakdown here, Hanna would blame herself.
He passed more wands: Firaxi, nicknamed the “Daughter of Sunshine”; Lorth, another nature wand, which was the third and final class of magic; Guinvallah, a defensive asset on a battlefield.
Then Domenic began to slow. Deeper within the Vault were the most powerful Living Wands, many of which had gone years, even decades, without a magician to wield them.
Ulthrax, which could fell a monster from a hundred yards away.
Iberiad, the wand that had single-handedly constructed a town.
And in the farthest depths of the chamber, Valmordion.
During its last historical appearance, it had dispelled a winterscurge that would’ve annihilated Alderland’s entire eastern coast, sacrificing the life of its magician in the process.
After three more paces, Domenic froze altogether, staring at the few remaining candles that shined ahead.
He’d been wrong—this didn’t hurt. This was agony.
This, this was the life he was supposed to have.
If he could only get over what had happened, he could stop playing this senseless game of waiting for a wand strong enough to satisfy him but weak enough not to terrify him.
He could stop disappointing everyone he cared about.
He could, maybe, go back to the person he used to be.
But he couldn’t. He could only stare at the wands and want, want so badly he ached.
“Dom?” He jolted, Hanna’s call rousing him as if from a trance. “Come here.”
He wiped his eyes and followed her voice into the bowels of the Vault.
With irritation, Domenic realized she stood in front of Ravfiri, the very wand she’d suggested to him outside. The famous enchantment wand was curved like a crescent moon, its rowan wood coated in amber, its magic radiating an immense, ardent warmth. Ravfiri was a wand of spectacle, of heroes.
In its forty-seven years of slumber, tendrils of ivy had woven over it in a stranglehold.
Domenic squeezed his eyes shut. “I already told you no.”
Drip.
Drip.
“You’re too good for Octorion. Or Welk, or Dyad, or any of the other wands near it.”
“I mean, I already knew I was better than Welk. I’ve got some standards, you know.”
“Don’t be an ass. You want Ravfiri. You want it so badly you can’t even look at it.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
Because it didn’t matter what he used to want—what part of him would always want.
He’d already proven he was no hero.
She groaned. “I know how strong Ravfiri is—its wielders were some of the best enchantment magicians the Order ever had. And sure, it’s a stubborn wand.
It’s picky. And it has its dangers, just like all Living Wands.
But I looked through Syarthis’s memories about it.
It’s never had an unbonding, and each of its old wielders, they were so …
bright. When they held Ravfiri, its amber lit up, and it was like once you saw them, you couldn’t look away.
And you … I’m not going to give you some bullshit about duty, and I know you hate that everyone knows what happened.
But if you just let people look at you, really look at you… ”
Drip.
Drip.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, opening his eyes.
“Seriously? I’m begging you to listen to me, and you’re not even—”
“No, I mean it. I hear something. It sounds like … water.”
Domenic couldn’t explain why he turned away.
Maybe he wasn’t brave enough to face her desperation.
Or maybe it was the sudden, insistent pain in his chest, like roots squeezing his rib cage.
Ignoring Hanna’s gawking, he treaded deeper into the Vault.
Here, so few lights shined that he couldn’t even see where his steps fell.
Drip.
Drip.
When Domenic’s pace finally slowed, he wasn’t sure if he was breathing, if his heart was beating. For once, his panic was absent. He felt nothing but the heat, as hot as a wildfire.
On the final cabinet against the farthest wall, a puddle pooled. The twin set of torches burning above it rendered Domenic’s lanky reflection in a halo of gold.
His gaze dragged up the case to the wand within.
Vines twisted around the gnarled white shaft and bristled with thorns, a weapon designed to harm even those who wielded it.
At the base of its handle, those vines splayed out as if freshly ripped from the earth, and at its other end, blackness singed its tip.
The faint lines that patterned it first appeared like the natural grain of the alban wood, but upon closer inspection, they were fingerprints, documentation of every great magician the wand had ever Chosen.
Encasing it was a hazy sheath of ice.
Melting ice.
Domenic’s heartbeat returned painful and all at once.
Valmordion was awakening.