Chapter 24 Sam
Sam
Tamsin Blackwood is absolutely kicking my ass.
My lungs are on fire. My mind flashes back to all those times I ragged on Rook for his improbably perfect cardio—or, more accurately, all his attempts to destroy his improbably perfect cardio.
I think, uncharitably, of Rook’s cigarettes and lazy nutrition and every excuse under the sun to avoid strapping on a pair of running shoes.
I’ve never smoked in my life, train supplementary cardio at least twice a week, and track my macros. Yet here I am, gasping for air as Tamsin advances on me with magic crackling between her fingers.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a champion. Maybe I should have remained a second.
“Circle, Sam!” pipes up a timid voice from my corner. “R-remember your footwork. Um, don’t let her drive you back that w-way!”
My own second is a kid Master Silverstein found at the last minute: a quiet and frequently terrified boy named Pierre, who puts up a surprisingly decent fight in training but develops a nervous stammer every time we actually have to talk outside of a dueling arena.
It’s thanks to sparring with Pierre that I have the reflexes to avoid significant damage from any of Tamsin’s spells—but I do wish he had the nerve to yell at me the same way I used to yell at Rook about quitting smokes and spending more time on the assault bike or the rowing machine.
No two seconds are the same, though. And I can’t blame Pierre for my shortcomings right now. I can’t blame anyone except myself.
Also, nervous or not, Pierre’s right about my footwork. I cut an angle on Tamsin, trying to rally. Trying to do anything, honestly, besides cower and run.
Tamsin’s too smart for that, though—too smart and too quick. She intercepts me with a blast of arcane energy that knocks me on my ass. I force myself up on one knee and cast a shield before her second blast can knock me back down.
“Come on, Sam,” calls Tamsin. “Is this really all you’re made of?”
“Careful!” I yell from behind the shield. “You really think you should be wasting oxygen on trash talk at the midway mark of a duel?”
While I’m talking, I throw together a quick spell of my own. Praying that it finds its mark, I toss it over the edge of my shield right before it dissolves.
Whiplike, my little thread of arcane power strings itself around Tamsin’s ankle.
Tamsin looks down at her foot and grins. “That’s more like it.”
I yank on the thread. Tamsin accepts the takedown, but even as she falls, she’s already casting again. A net of magic, like woven starlight, speeds toward me.
I did wonder when she’d cast that particular trick. I’m just surprised that it took her this long. I’m ready with another shield—barely. The magic I cast buckles under the force of Tamsin’s netting spell, but at least it keeps me from harm’s way. For now.
I close my eyes, remembering Rook’s words: Tamsin’s magic is ruled by fear. She doesn’t play to win. She plays not to lose.
Except that right now, I’m the one ruled by fear. And I’m the one playing defensively—doing everything possible to avoid losing to Tamsin Blackwood the same way Rook did.
And that’s really it, isn’t it? I want to prove that I’m more than Rook’s second. That I can do more than stand in the shadows of a better magician.
That my magic is my own.
I open my eyes, grimacing as the net tightens around my shielding spell. I can’t hold my defenses forever. Which means that I need to take a risk.
I need to do what Tamsin isn’t willing to.
For a moment, it’s like every spell I’ve ever cast—hell, every time I’ve ever practiced magic—flashes through the forefront of my mind.
Learning from Jamie, week after week, until the night Jamie didn’t come home.
Training with Rook almost every day of our lives.
Fighting with Rook near the end. Standing across from Tamsin in a duelists’ arena, months ago, and wondering how her magic would taste.
Well, I’m finally finding out. Only to squander the experience by cowering under my shielding spell.
“To hell with that,” I whisper.
My shield finally crumbles beneath the power of Tamsin’s net. But as the net closes around me, I cast one last spell.
Tamsin’s net is suffocating. It pins me in place, dampens my magic, my ability to cast. I have to hand it to Tamsin—she’s made improvements in her spell-craft since she defeated Rook.
But I can still see the rest of the arena. I can still see Tamsin. And my little spell—that final piece of magic I cast before her net closed in around me—has found its mark.
I watch as my dainty little thread of arcane energy locks itself around her throat. For a moment, all I see is Rook’s face, mottling with rage and helplessness, as I cut off the flow of blood in his carotid arteries.
Tamsin’s hands go to her throat. Surprise, then genuine disbelief, colors her pretty features. She tugs at my thread, but the spell holds.
I’m exhausted. Every inch of my body hurts. It’s all I can do to keep that little thread of magic intact. But I hold the spell. I hold on like my life depends on it.
Tamsin sinks to her knees, wheezing. The net weakens, flickering. Slowly but surely, its weight lightens on me. My fingers move of their own accord, then my hands. A sluggish sort of life begins to creep back into my limbs.
After what feels like an eternity, I struggle to my feet. They feel like lead. I’m almost gassed, almost past my capacity to cast magic, but so is Tamsin.
She’s also almost out of oxygen. She gurgles as her face goes purple.
I shake off the remnants of Tamsin’s net. I drag my leaden feet toward her as she struggles to keep my spell from strangling her.
What if she doesn’t yield? What if the referee doesn’t stop the duel in time?
What if I become just like Alexei that night in the underground club with Jamie?
What if I’m just like Blackwood?
I look at Tamsin as she claws at her throat.
Fear has no place in my magic.
I close my eyes and release the spell. But I don’t let go of the magic keeping it alive.
Tamsin sucks in a great gasp of air. As she struggles to her feet, I cast my thread right back at her, altering its shape, improvising as I go.
I always told Rook never to cast anything in a duel that he hadn’t tested in training. The day of a duel isn’t the time to screw around with unfamiliar magic. Better to use what’s tried and true.
But I’m not Rook. And this is my duel. If I lose, I’m losing on my terms.
I finish weaving my new spell. Lucky for me, thread is malleable, so far as arcane energy goes.
The netting I’ve woven from my thread isn’t nearly as bright and strong as the netting spell Tamsin cast earlier.
The binds that close in around a still-struggling Tamsin aren’t half as potent as the ones she used to lock me in place.
They might not even be as potent as the netting spell she used to defeat Rook.
What separates my netting spell from hers is what it’s made from: heat roars from every inch of this net. The final sequence of the Four Elements: my brother’s favorite. The one I always struggled with.
As it turns out, all I needed to do was make it my own instead of copying Jamie.
I’ve finally woven the Spell of Fire into a form that suits me.
As magically generated heat makes contact with Tamsin’s skin, she winces.
It’s not hot enough to scald—I’ve ensured that much in my casting—but it’s hot enough to make her sweat, sapping energy from her as she sinks slowly back down to the arena floor.
Heat envelops her. The harder she struggles, the more she sweats.
Hydration—and energy—drain slowly but surely from her muscles.
Tamsin is an expert at counter-casting. She simply never expected me to use her own specialty against her.
She struggles, trying to cast something, anything, but her magic is spent. When you run out of energy, you run out of magic, and she’s got no juice left in her body.
I keep walking toward her. I have next to no energy left either. I’m slower than I’ve ever been. But I keep up my plod, until I’m just inches from her.
She looks up at last as my shadow covers her form beneath those bright stage lights. There’s a knowing sort of acceptance in her eyes.
We both understand what that means. It’s what binds us as magicians—what binds everyone who steps into an arena.
She stops struggling. And her magic winks out.
I stretch out a hand. Tamsin clasps it. The smile she offers me is feral and incandescent. Her teeth are stained with blood—hers or mine, I couldn’t say. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“I yield,” Tamsin Blackwood whispers through those bloodstained teeth. “I yield this duel to you, Samantha Chan.”