Chapter Thirty-Four
The rhythmic crack of the whip was so steady that when it faltered, even for a second, Valerian was pulled out of his daze.
He’d long since allowed himself to slump against the bindings holding him to the posts, head dangling, eyes closed, exhausted and hollowed out into an empty shell.
That single hesitation made him lift his head again.
The lashes continued, but now there was a hitch to the pattern, like a bent wheel thumping over an uneven road.
Dedicated bastard. If you’re that tired, just give up.
Knowledge of himself returned to Valerian slowly.
For that first flash of irritation, he’d been speaking to Maksim, who had spent the last hour—night—year?
—whipping him. The burn of rage that followed was directed at the blue-eyed villain who had trapped Val in his own mind, changing the scenario to take away his own memories of rebellion, triumph.
Escape.
Freedom.
Valerian gritted his teeth and tested the ropes.
They still bound him to the post, stretching his arms until they threatened to dislocate from their sockets.
He tried folding his fingers over, to see if he could work at the knot while the memory infinitely played out the same ten seconds in time.
His fingertips barely touched the rope, just enough to feel his own blood soaking it.
If the memory had continued, Valerian could simply see it through to the end. Even if he had to start over again, it would give him one more opportunity to outwit Alistair and slip through the cracks.
But Maksim never stopped the whip. Never picked up an axe and casually threatened to dismember Valerian to prevent him from running away. Never untied the rope to give Val the brief opening he’d had in the real world.
So Valerian would have to find another way out of this fucking mess.
Frustrated, he dropped his head again, glaring at the ground as he mentally worked through the problem. Something shifted in his vision, and he blinked until it came into focus.
Use all five senses to familiarize yourself with the material, until you understand each individual aspect.
The handwriting was familiar, with uncertain strokes, small and rushed as the writer crammed in as much information as possible.
It’d be decades before confidence smoothed the penmanship.
When the writer could take their time to record their thoughts rather than trying to keep pace with someone else’s.
My old grimoire. Valerian’s first, to be precise. From when he was still studying under Master Imus. Although it’d been almost fifty years, seeing the words in front of him brought forth the memory of sitting in his master’s classroom, learning magic that excited and bored him in equal measures.
Can I shift into a different memory? Valerian wasn’t a mental mage, so he didn’t know how the mindscape worked beyond his own experiences. He knew touching one of the trees would drag him into a memory, but could he call a memory forth on his own? Force his consciousness into new surroundings?
Even if he was still trapped afterwards, sitting through an endless lesson on fixing agricultural equipment would be better than remaining at Maksim’s mercy.
But as Valerian watched, more handwriting joined the first—clean, precise notes written in the margins.
Sometimes understanding the process is more important than understanding the materials.
The other writer seemed to be conversing with the text. Commenting and correcting different sections. Master Imus used to do something similar, though only on the papers Valerian turned in—never directly in his own journals. The books that would eventually become his grimoires.
This whole mess had started because Valerian had stolen one of Alistair’s grimoires, experimenting with magic he didn’t understand, pitting himself against a master. Now Alistair had stolen one of Valerian’s. Why though? What did he want to learn from them?
A dry laugh escaped Valerian. Maksim didn’t react, as if he hadn’t heard anything at all.
The memories Valerian had relived were fresher in his mind than almost anything. His own thoughts rang in his head as he escaped Maksim the first time: it’s easier to break something than to fix it.
Alistair’s notes seemed to agree. The text had stopped forming for now, the writer taking a break, but it remained carved into the ground before Valerian.
Connect with the material.
With his blood soaking into the ropes, Valerian had a rather firm connection.
Understand how it was shaped. By nature? By someone’s hand?
The hemp would have been harvested first, then woven into the ropes.
Picture the process in reverse. The knot untying. The fibers untwisting.
Followed by a spell to help guide the process.
The gag muffled Valerian’s words, but the spell twisted around his tongue with the bitter taste of magic.
The ropes biting into skin loosened, then … snapped, their braids breaking into dozens of individual strands.
Valerian lurched to his feet and grabbed the whip from the air, allowing it to coil around his injured arm. The harsh sting of the impact made his arm tremble, but he grasped the whip firmly, refusing to let it go.
Maksim stared at him, his face frozen in brutal triumph. The memories were static, unchangeable. Maksim couldn’t react to something that never happened.
Valerian concentrated on the whip, the way it dug into his hand. The leather braid unwound itself, losing its structure and power. He yanked it out of Maksim’s hand and tossed it to the side.
“Axe,” Valerian snarled. Because the axe belonged in this scene, even if he was skipping a few steps, it quickly appeared in his hand. He threw it, and it lodged itself in Maksim’s chest.
Maksim unfroze as the memory began to play out as it should. “You—” blood sprayed from his lips as he stumbled to the side, catching himself on one of the posts he had bound Valerian to.
Valerian grabbed the axe with both hands and wrenched it out, releasing another spray of blood that painted his face. He grinned at his tormenter. The first time he’d done this, he’d been exhausted, desperate. This time, Valerian could finally enjoy it.
The axe came down a second time, lodging in Maksim’s upper arm.
“Sorry,” Valerian said. Crazed laughter filled his voice, which only energized him more. “Let me try that again.” A bloody scream accompanied the sound of tearing flesh as Valerian ripped the axe out. Then he brought it down again, this time severing the limb. “That’s better!”
He chopped and chopped and chopped long after Maksim’s screaming cut off. The only sounds now were the wet thump-squelch-splatter of the axe and Valerian’s own laughter.
Eventually, he stopped, the axe stuck in the ground underneath the mutilated corpse. “You know, Alistair,” he panted. “I might have to thank you for this one. That was much more satisfying than the first time around.”
It could have only been better if Alistair had still been possessing Maksim. Then Valerian could have killed two birds with one axe.
Though he’d killed Maksim, Valerian wasn’t spit back out into the forest. The memory didn’t end there. His gaze slowly turned to the manor a short distance away.
The home he’d grown up in.
The prison he’d escaped.
This time, he allowed himself to slip back into the old Valerian.
The one who had entered the house, covered in blood, and told the servants to run.
The one who had knocked over lamps as he walked, setting small fires everywhere.
They weren’t enough, they weren’t what he wanted, but they were a start.
He found the storeroom, filled with barrels of oil to refill the lamps.
Dragged a barrel out and rolled it down the hall.
Watched as it crashed and burst, spilling its contents everywhere.
Grabbed two more, making sure there was enough to go around.
He was tempted to put one in Lord Endre’s study but knew that the second floor would fall on its own, as long as the flames were high enough.
The fires he’d already started found the slick oil and devoured it, growing larger, brighter. Heat licked his back as he finished the job and slowly strolled out of the manor, still holding one barrel.
His next step brought him into a familiar forest. He almost missed the place after being trapped in the same damn memory for so long.
Flames reflected in the mirror bark, the last vestiges of the burning memory.
Valerian popped the seal on the barrel, tipped it at an angle, and slowly walked around the tree. The oil spilled from the barrel in a slow, steady glug-glug that echoed through the empty forest. The spiders crawling through his mind were distracted elsewhere.
“Sloppy work, Alistair,” he said, a hint of the wild laughter still in his voice.
“You should have left a guard.” He hefted the barrel higher, dribbling oil onto the tree’s trunk.
The memory in the reflection warped and wobbled under the slick sheen, the flickering flames blurring into an orange haze.
Once the flow of oil dribbled to a stop, Valerian cast the barrel aside. It thumped heavily on the ground and the forest flinched away from it. Leaves scattered, roots retracted, even a branch rolled off into the distance.
The forest, once so eager to drag Valerian into its depths, now trembled in fear of him.
He laughed, the sound harsh in the empty space. What does it say about me that my own mind fears me?
Probably that he was smart.
Because it should be afraid. He should be afraid of what he had to do next.
Valerian had no idea what the consequences would be. But it wasn’t fear thrumming through his veins. It was a raw, savage need for destruction. To show the mage prowling through his mind once and for all who he was fucking deal with.
Valerian held his hand out, palm up, toward the tree. Pictured the heat of the fire, the feel of it on his skin. He’d burned Alistair once before. The tree should be an easier target.
A tiny flame flickered to life on the center of his palm, barely the size of a candle flame. It would need fuel to grow much brighter. Well, Valerian had plenty. He offered the tiny fire up to the tree, to the oil coating the trunk.
In seconds, the whole thing went up in flames.
Valerian tossed his head back and laughed again, firelight dancing in his eyes. “Burn, fucker, burn,” he whispered, watching in awe as the flames devoured the memory—
Pain seared through his mind. Stumbling, he grabbed his head. His breath stalled in his lungs and the world shifted underfoot. Fuck, if I faint now, the whole place will burn.
At least then I might take Alistair with me.
Valerian shook the thoughts away. He would not lay down to die just to take one sorry bastard with him.
He was a survivor. He’d survived a childhood taking someone else’s punishments.
Decades as a mercenary. And he’d survived Maksim.
Though when he tried to think of how, all Valerian remembered was a dark scorch mark.
He remembered living on the run. Remembered the relief of knowing Maksim could never hurt him again.
The how, the why, the everything between, was now only a black, sooty stain in his mind.
“So that’s what happens,” he said, staring at the burning tree in awe. Without ever moving, Valerian stood fifty feet away from it, safe from the fire.
In fact, everything had moved away from it. Every tree, every plant, every bit of visual space.
The burning tree stood alone in a black clearing.
The fire wouldn’t spread beyond that clearing. The rest of the forest—and Valerian’s own mind—was safe for now.
Valerian was glad for that. He had no intention of haphazardly destroying himself.
He’d always preferred calculated destruction.
Which was why he would choose his next memory carefully. Something he didn’t need. Something he was willing to give up to draw the enemy out.