Chapter 17 Uneducated Guesswork and Magical Tomfoolery #3
From the flickering light of the candles, he could see the walls were stone.
But not the polished stone of the Tylock mansion, but something made by a lesser craftsman.
Light seeped through where the plaster was unevenly mixed, stones threatening to fall out.
Through those gaps Corric could hear the whistling of wind.
But where was Schok? Were these not supposed to be his memories?
A small sniffle caught his attention, and he whipped around in time to see someone shifting in the shadows of a cage. The light from the desk didn’t quite reach this side of the room, but he didn’t need it to discern wings.
Buzzard was curled up inside the cage, hugging his knees with his back bowed. He was the same, but younger. Wings freshly maimed. They were swollen and hanging off his back uselessly. It was clear every move he made caused him considerable pain.
But Buzzard wasn’t looking at himself or fussing with his wings. He was looking into the adjoining one.
“Rest,” he urged, his voice sounding so much more insecure than the Buzzard he was used to. “You know what will happen when he comes back.”
Schok was plastered against the bars closest to Buzzard, his eyes half lidded.
Drool pooled from what looked like a swollen lip.
His skin didn’t have the runes that the older Schok back at the clan had.
But his skin was in various stages of healing—bruises, cuts, burns.
Some so dark it looked like the skin was nearly ready to slough off.
His hair was dingy and growing in patches, so uneven it looked like it had been ripped rather than cut.
“Can’t,” he mumbled through thick lips. “Dreams.”
Buzzard reached a hand between the bars, his talons achingly gentle as they stroked the bits of Schok he could reach. “Dreams can’t hurt you like he can.”
Schok chuckled, his lips pulling back to reveal bloodied gums. “Mine can.” His eyes opened, unfocused, as they landed on Buzzard. “He wants me to see. And I do. More than he could ever know.”
“Have you been hiding things?”
“I have to,” Schok slurred, bloodied scabs cracking as he smiled.
Buzzard didn’t have time to ask more. The thick slab of a door creaked open, revealing the man in the coat.
He looked different this time. His hat balled in one hand and the coat dusty from work.
With his foot he slammed the door, clattering over to the desk to begin pouring over whatever notes littered the surface.
Schok and Buzzard watched him warily, trying to duck out of sight every time his attention flickered just a little too close.
The beta was ageless. His features indefinable.
Short brown hair was cropped close to his scalp, leaving his thick lashes to frame small eyes.
Corric thought he might be handsome in his own unusual way, but there was something about the way he moved.
The way his thin hands hovered over pages as if he needed them to read, that left a pit of worry in his stomach.
This must be the magic user, Cyrill.
Eventually, he shrugged the coat from his shoulders and hung it up over the chair. He stalked across the room toward the cages. Deftly, he began unhooking the latch on Schok’s.
“No, he’s too weak!” Buzzard protested, his voice chirping with panic. “I’ll do it. Take me instead.”
“Shut up, bird.” Cyrill smacked Buzzard’s cage. He ignored the harpy’s protests, pulling a limp Schok from the depths of his cage. Schok was so thin he only had to carry him with one hand, dropping him on the only clear spot in the entire room.
Schok was wearing the same clothes, but they were ragged and filthy. The pants were too short and the shirt nearly threadbare. He didn’t protest, just laid in a heap where he’d been dropped.
Cyrill barely looked at him as he summoned the magic. Corric tracked the tingling iridescence coming from all over the room—Buzzard, crates, even a little from Schok himself. An especially big strand came from a jagged crystal perched on a shelf over the desk.
Schok was taking deep breaths, trying to brace himself.
It wasn’t enough. Soon he was screaming, body convulsing as more and more magic was pushed into him.
His hands spasmed as flames shot from them, roaring up his arms and burning away what was left of his sleeves and the pinkest of his skin.
Buzzard was screaming, but his voice was lost under the crackling of skin and Schok’s wails of agony.
The fire coming from Schok grew hotter and hotter until it turned near white, swirling over his entire body. With the colorful magic as an accelerant, the fire only grew stronger until Schok’s screams abruptly cut off.
He lay motionless, the flames licking across his skin the only sign he was still alive. Slowly, he sat up and looked straight ahead with his eyes closed.
Cyrill was sweating, thin shirt clinging to his hollow chest. Excitedly, he circled Schok.
Head lolling to the side, as if the effort of holding it up were too much, he parted his lips and began to speak in a voice that was not his own.
“Free me,” The voice said, sounding off. Like someone speaking without moving their tongue or articulating their lips.
“Yes, yes, my lord!” Cyrill cried, clasping his hands in front of him. “How? How can I free you?”
The flames snapped over Schok’s head. “Find the boy.”
“This is the boy, my lord. The one you said—”
“Only the boy with the untouched magic can break that which binds me.” Schok lifted his head, letting it loll so that his unseeing face was looking right at Corric.
Cyrill tried asking more questions, but Schok began shaking. He collapsed to the floor as the flames finally snuffed out, leaving nothing but smoking skin and wheezing breaths behind.
Roaring in anger, Cyrill kicked Schok and raked his fingers through his hair. “He said the boy, the Tylock boy, was supposed to be the one! You were supposed to be strong enough!”
He began pacing around the room, muttering to himself. After several minutes, he paused, back stiffening as a thought occurred to him.
“The…Tylock boy…” his words were slurred against his fingers as he tapped his lips.
Quickly he collected his coat, pulling it on as he grabbed at Schok.
Carelessly, he shoved him towards the cage.
Schok, half conscious, fell onto Buzzard's cage, catching himself on the bars. From Corric’s vantage point, he could see his brother’s fingers slipping the latch before Cyrill tossed him into his own, locking it.
Before the door had properly slammed, Buzzard was reaching for Schok. He was curled in on himself, breath rattling from between bloodied lips. His cage door was ajar, but Buzzard didn’t look at it.
“I’m not leaving you,” he said adamantly.
“You don’t belong here,” Schok rasped.
“Neither do you!” Buzzard chirped, tears filling his pretty eyes. “We’ll go together. I’ll pick your lock and we can—”
“They’ll never stop hunting us if I go. Without me you have a chance to be free, pretty bird.” Schok opened his eyes, wincing at the pain but looking at Buzzard. “Birds don’t belong in cages.”
Buzzard shook his head stubbornly, but Schok just huffed. Ashes fell from his mouth as he pushed himself up on a shaky arm.
“I want you to go. That way...I can close my eyes and picture you free. With the sun on your wings and the wind in your hair.” Schok leaned his head against the bar. “Find the sky, Buzzard. Find it for me.”
Tears falling down his face, Buzzard looked like he was going to argue, but one look at Schok silenced him. Instead, he plucked a small feather from his mangled wing and slipped it into Schok’s hand.
“This feather will always bring you back to me.”
The teenager clenched his hand around the feather, holding it against his chest. “Fly. Fly away from here.”
Biting down on a wobbling lip, Buzzard did just that. He crept from his cage and limped from the room. Schok collapsed in a sooty heap, pressing the feather to his chest as he let unconsciousness take him.
Corric’s feet sunk into sand as his surroundings changed once again. Unlike the fetid heat in the room before, he was cold. His breath fogged up in front of his face as he got his bearings.
He was alone, standing in the dark beside a massive body of water. Grains of sand trickled across his boots as he shifted, looking for any sort of landmark or anything that could help him orient himself.
The water itself was near black. It leisurely lapped at the shore. It must be a lake. But the biggest lake he’d ever seen. It stretched so far that he couldn’t see the other side. Its glassy surface was eerily calm, like the vats of black dye he’d seen at the tanners shop back home.
Even the grains of sand beneath his feet were dark and pebbly. Heart hammering in his chest, he licked his lips and took several steps down the beach towards the water’s edge.
The only light was from the far horizon. It bled across the lake in a watery light, like the sun itself was trapped beneath the waters and struggling to pierce its dark surface.
As he scanned the waters, he felt eyes on him. Corric spent years hiding in the bush, trying to outwit Jonen and outrun Ridan. He knew when he was being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and, in a swift motion, he spun, crouching defensively.
Adult Schok was standing just a few feet away from him. Arms by his side, fingers spread, he stared down at Corric with an unseeing gaze. He was wearing the battered clothes he’d attacked the festival in, and his hair was black with soot.
Thrall.
Hands shaking, Corric took a step back. “Schok?”