Chapter 4 Out of Magic
Out of Magic
Chyr
M
y head pounds like war drums, and my chest is on fire. I blink against the sunlight. The wind lifts the scent of pine mixed with blood and resinous smoke.
I’m sitting, and my back is propped against a narrow, lichen-crusted birch. The sun is high, so I must have drifted in and out of consciousness for hours.
Disjointed images shift through my mind: a beautiful face outlined in flame and moonlight, a voice commanding me to drink. Before that, or maybe after, the same voice is coaxing Tuirse’s mare to drink.
And Oran’s body…
Shivering, I remember his boot heels cutting through leaf-strewn moss as the woman dragged him up the hill and out of sight.
My mouth is as dry as ash and tastes of human whisky, which explains the pounding head. Was it the flame-haired woman who gave me that? But why? At least I couldn’t have drunk much of it, or as miserable as I am at the moment, I’d be feeling worse.
I can smell her on me: bog myrtle and rosemary, with an undertone of earth. The scent clings to my skin and to a clean bandage that gleams white against the filthy tatters of my bloody shirt and unbuttoned coat.
Earlier, when she was holding the sword illusion, she looked at me as though she hoped the blade was real so she could gut me with it. Yet when she had an opportunity, she tended to my wound instead. I warned her to leave, and she helped me anyway.
There’s no sign of her now, and the woods are hushed, save for the scrape of leaves in the wind. A murder of crows argues somewhere in their raucous voices. And now that the woman is gone, perversely, I wish she hadn’t left. I’d have liked a chance to thank her.
My stomach heaves, and I twist to the side as a wash of bile escapes me. I spit and wipe my mouth, but the taste of iron and acid remains. Sweat glazes my skin.
I set my hand on the ground to steady myself, and it’s only then that I feel the absence of the familiar thrum of power at my side.
After four centuries as a Rider, the Sword of the Anvar’thaine is an extension of myself.
I know its resonance and the feel of the magic it gives off even when it’s dormant.
Spongy lichen sticks to my palm as I force myself to my knees. I’m shaking harder now, teeth clicking like deathwatch beetles. My heart gallops unevenly as I search the moss and ground around me. Every movement sends fresh fire through the wound, but that’s the least of my troubles.
Despite the fever that grips me, the cold emptiness inside tells me I’m dangerously out of magic. My body won’t stop trying to heal the wound, so I’ll deplete myself back into unconsciousness if I don’t get ahead of it.
I reach for the Veilstone to draw more magic, but nothing comes: no threads of Tirnaeve’s golden power, no strength, no warmth to counter this freezing void. Shocked, I look down at my hand and see only a pale line on an empty finger.
The flame-haired witch must have taken the Veilstone, too. The sword’s absence might have been innocent enough—she could have set that aside somewhere as she dressed my wound. But there’s no reason for her to have taken the ring. None apart from greed.
A low rasp of panic clogs my throat. Shivering, I fumble with the fabric of my coat as I reach into the left pocket.
It’s empty.
Father of Curses, the woman has taken everything from me—my sword, my magic, my purpose. If that letter falls into Vheara’s hands, I’ll fail the king and break the oaths carved into my skin and soul.
My hands curl into fists at the thought of all the lives Vheara has shattered already. That will be nothing compared to the carnage if she’s allowed to keep the throne of Alba Scoria. A wash of red blurs my vision.
I will bloody kill the flame-haired witch.
Then I’ll get back everything she took from me.
Using the birch as leverage, I force myself to my feet. Darkness rushes in from every side, and I pitch back to the ground.