Chapter 15
The library was completely abandoned save for Mal and Maeve, who were spread out across a table in the back corner. Madam Florence, the Librarian, went to bed an hour ago and allowed them to stay past hours. This was primarily due to the dazzling smile Mal flashed her.
The Paper folded on the table between them had a giant headline plastered across the page:
THE DREAD DESCENDANT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DEATHS OF FOUR MORE MAGICAL MILITIA.
Maeve ignored the implications of the report and focused on Mal’s explanation of Vexkari. The text read:
VEXKARI-scarred with Magic.
Magic sealed in something other than it’s original host.
“It seems like incredibly advanced magic,” said Maeve as they were in a deep discussion about his recent discovery. “This book doesn’t mention anything about how the process will feel. I can’t imagine it’s pleasant to rip a piece of your magic out.”
“It’s more than just my magic. And I don’t think whoever wrote this even knows how it feels.”
“True. I can’t imagine this spell is often used,” said Maeve, reading over the very brief entry on Vexkari. “Though, I have no doubt you can do it.”
They read and discussed Mal’s plan for immortality for a majority of the night before Mal deemed it time to review their assignments for final exams.
“I need to get some sleep, actually.”
“You still need to know this,” he tapped his pointer finger on the parchment in front of her.
“We spent the entire night discussing other things,” she snapped.
Mal’s eyebrow raised. He frowned.
“I’m sorry,” said Maeve, resting her chin on her hand. “I’m just tired.”
“And ungrateful.”
“Oh please,” she narrowed her eyes at him. “You love having something to hold over me.”
“Admittedly.”
Mal leaned back in his chair and stretched. She took a moment to scan his long torso. Something in her stomach flipped over as his button down slid up, exposing his skin. She shook it off and closed her book, which landed her a stern face from Mal.
She ignored him. “I have to get some sleep. I have a Charms exam in the morning.”
“Seriously, Sinclair? You could take that exam in your sleep.”
Maeve smiled. She stood and began gathering her things. He followed suit, and they walked silently down the corridor. They reached the staircase, and Mal started ascending with her instead of making his way down to the Serpentine Dorm.
She stopped walking. “What are you doing?”
Mal continued up the stairs and spoke plainly. “Walking you to your common room. I worry that idiot Grisham still holds a grudge over you.”
“Even so,” said Maeve. “I could take him.”
“I don’t doubt that. I would, however, love to sink my claws into him as well.”
He looked down at her with an eager dominance.
Maeve laughed. Admittedly she’d like to see that.
“Miss Sinclair,” came a voice behind them.
They turned quickly and saw Headmaster Rowan standing in midnight blue robes. His expression stern.
“Sir, we were just finishing studying-” started Mal.
Rowan held up a hand, signaling they weren’t in any trouble for being out at such a late hour. “Only a moment of your time, Maeve, if you’ll allow it.”
“Of course, sir.” Maeve strode off towards Rowan quickly, bidding goodnight to Mal over her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of Mal’s face as he turned away. He was irritated by Rowan’s interruption, but he hid it well.
She walked silently alongside Rowan until they reached The Headmaster’s office. The door was password protected behind an ancient and glorious mural of a knight from King Primus’ reign.
“Good Evening, Headmaster Rowan,” said the knight sleepily. “Miss Sinclair.”
“Hello, Sir Kale,” said Maeve sweetly.
The Knight’s eyes widened as though he hadn’t expected her to know his name. He yanked his sword from its sheath and kneeled before her.
Maeve smiled.
Rowan flicked his wrist in the air, and Sir Kale moved to the side. A ways behind him was a door. As she and Rowan walked forward into Sir Kale’s painting, the door came closer and closer until Rowan pulled its handle and held open the door to the Headmaster’s Office and Suites.
Elgin stood in the dark tinted glass window. She looked over his shoulder at Maeve. Maeve anticipated her smile. But it didn’t come.
Rowan gestured for Maeve to have a seat. She sat in an oversized, squishy armchair, eyeing the Headmasters curiously.
“I hope I won’t keep you long, Miss Sinclair.” Elgin’s smile was forced, “though since I know how well you’ll do on your Charms exam in the morning, I don’t feel too guilty.”
Maeve welcomed the compliment. Elgin continued.
“I am, however, sorry for what I, what we, need to ask of you.”
She stared her down from behind her half-moon spectacles. “And ask that it stay between us.”
“What is it? Am I in trouble?” Asked Maeve.
Elgin took a seat behind the large mahogany desk and folded her hands neatly in her lap.
Rowan turned towards them and spoke. “It is we who need a favor from you this time, Miss Sinclair.”
“Of course, sir,” said Maeve politely.
“I am sorry to keep you from a good night’s sleep, for this may take some time.”
Rowan pulled a vial swirling with silver and black fog from the pocket of his robes. Maeve knew instantly what it contained. She leaned forward in the armchair as her eyes grew large. He moved away from the large stained glass window and crossed to her.
“What am I looking for?” She asked. “You think it’s a lie?”
Elgin spoke now after a quick glance to Rowan. “The memory is truthful.”
They were silent for a moment. Rowan wouldn’t meet Elgin’s gaze.
“Who’s memory is this?” Asked Maeve.
They remained silent.
Maeve tensed. “Whose is it?”
Rowan started. “It belongs to-”
“Rowan,” snapped Elgin, “I think we’re making a mistake.”
“She has a right to know whose mind she is about to enter.”
He stepped towards her, but Maeve threw up her hand. “Stop.” She sunk back into her seat. She wasn’t there to verify a memory.
“You want me to jump.”
It wasn’t a question.
Elgin sucked in air. Rowan stared at her tersely.
Rowan lowered the vial and set it on the oversized desk.
He didn’t look at his counterpart as he spoke. “It seems it is time for me to confront the past, which I have long ignored.”
Maeve stayed silent.
“If I am to be a part in the war on our doorstep, I need some answers.”
Maeve looked to Elgin. Her face pulled taunt.
“This is to do with Kietel?” Asked Maeve.
“Yes,” said Rowan. “I’ll admit Maeve it is purely for personal and selfish reasons that you are here.”
Maeve hesitated. “I owe you,” she said finally.
From the corner of Maeve’s eye she saw Elgin shake her head.
Maeve swallowed and looked at Rowan. “Into whose mind?”
“This memory is mine,” he said. “From the summer. There will be a man with dark black hair sitting across from me playing chess. I need you to get into his mind. I need to know where he is.”
Maeve took a deep breath. “It would be better if I just used the memory straight from your mind.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed, a silent rejection of that idea.
She pushed back from the edge of her seat and leaned into the soft back of the chair. “I’m ready.”
Rowan picked up the vial of swirling substance, pulled the topper off and stepped towards her.
She and Mal had practiced this dozens of times now. She anticipated the falling sensation that was about to drift through her as Rowan poured the silvery black mist onto his fingertips.
Maeve closed her eyes.
He moved before her and braced her face with his unused hand, tilting her head to the side. The memory was warm as it trickled into her temple.
Slowly the feeling of the chair beneath her vanished. The hues of the headmaster’s office though her eye lids turned to black light. She straightened her legs as she fell in a slowed motion. She heard her feet touch down before she felt it. The sound echoed across the void.
Light flickered in the distance, like a single burning candle flame.
She pushed towards that light, and it flew at her in one blink.
Rowan and the black-haired man came into vision.
They were blurred and muffled at first. Then in another blink they were fully formed, and a tense voice filled the space.
“Damn, Ezekiel,” said the dark-haired man. “I forgot how well you played.”
Each of them was staring at the chessboard between them.
Rowan didn’t laugh or smile. He moved to touch a piece and then didn’t. The dark-haired man leaned back in his chair.
Rowan then reached forward and moved a piece with confidence. The dark-haired man looked across the board, realized what Rowan had done, and frowned.
They stared silently at the chessboard.
Maeve circled around them.
They continued to play until Rowan won. The dark-haired man shook his head. “Another game?”
“No,” he said curtly. “I prefer to leave on a high note.”
The pair stood and shook hands and then they dissolved into darkness. As quickly as they disappeared, they reappeared, and the scene replayed itself.
Again.
And again.
And again.
No doorway opened for her to slip into. Nothing happened at all.
She paced around the small space, yawning occasionally and stretching.
On the tenth replay of the memory, something snagged her attention.
During one of their moves the dark-haired man had two pieces disappear, as though Rowan had taken two.
“Oh no,” said Maeve as she realized why no doorway was opening, why there was no option for her to slip into the dark-haired man’s mind.
This memory was, in fact, a lie. It was not entirely truthful like the Headmaster claimed. Maeve brushed it off as Rowan’s memory of this chess game not being sharp.
The scene began a final time, and Maeve prepared herself to break through the “crack” in the memory. Rowan moved his piece, knocking the dark-haired man’s knight aside. Maeve reached for it at once.
“Concurred,” she whispered.
The memory around her silently exploded. Rowan, the dark-haired man, the chessboard, the table, everything blasted into the darkness and began collapsing around her, trying to suck her down with it.
Maeve held her footing as Rowan’s false memory disintegrated. She slipped, faltering slightly as she too began to fall and pulled back out of the memory.
She planted her mind in the darkness, refusing to fall, and the air beneath her became hard once more. The darkness beneath her barreled up, air whipping through her.
She closed her eyes and calmed her quick heart.
When she opened them, Rowan and the black-haired man sat before her, playing the same game of chess.
“Damn, Ezekiel,” said the dark-haired man. “I forgot how well you played.”
Rowan moved with certainty, no hesitation, and took one of the dark-haired man’s pawns.
She looked at the man-
And slipped into his memory of their chess game.
“How could you?” Said Rowan. “Or do those German radicals you associate with not play?”
The dark-haired man laughed. “They play. But we are busy with more important things.”
“Like genocide?” Asked Rowan plainly.
The dark-haired man moved his piece. “Like fixing this world we are forced to inhabit.”
Rowan didn’t respond to that. Maeve looked at the board. He was two moves away from winning.
“When is your next meeting?” Asked Rowan.
“You considering joining us? You aren’t in the Militia. You weren’t even a Bellator.”
“No,” said Rowan lazily. “But I have other skills.”
“Like being a spy?”
Rowan looked across the table at him.
The dark-haired man scowled now. “Yeah, mate. People talk.”
“They say I’m a spy for the Double O?”
The man nodded. “For Ambrose himself. No one trusts a spy. Not even the man who’s got him doing the spying.”
Rowan laughed. Maeve had never heard him laugh. He moved his final move. The game was over.
The dark-haired man shook his head. “Another game?”
“No,” Rowan answered curtly. “I prefer to leave on a high note.”
The pair stood and shook hands. Maeve let go of the memory and held onto what she could of the dark-haired man’s mind. The memory misted into a void and a man’s voice rang out across the darkness.
“Death before dishonor,” said the voice. It bore a thick German accent.
Bright red light pulsed around her.
There was a scuffle around them. Many voices.
“Rolf,” said the German.
So that was his name.
“Chancellor,” replied the dark-haired man, Rolf.
Maeve felt the dark-haired man’s fear. She felt his insides quiver under this German man’s gaze.
And suddenly he appeared. Yellow blonde hair and pale blue eyes. A large nose with a bluntly trimmed golden mustache. A red and grey uniform with that black human symbol. The one like a distorted cross.
She looked up at Kietel, the self acclaimed Dread Descendant, through the dark-haired man’s eyes.
Panic raced through her. This was happening in real time. She was seeing him as he was. Rolf looked to their left, where the bodies of a man and woman lay sprawled across a set of chairs. Dead.
Maeve recognized the man.
There were Magical Militia there. Men with Orator’s Office insignia on their cloaks.
Rolf’s attention shot back to Kietel, who was looking at him sternly, with his head cocked to one side.
“Chancellor,” said another voice, addressing Kietel, but he held up a finger to the new voice and remained staring straight at Rolf. Straight at Maeve.
“Sir?’ Asked Rolf.
Then with a terrifying realization she saw across Kietel’s face his own realization that she was there. She exhaled sharply as fear flooded through her. She yanked on the doorway to Rowan’s memory, but it was too late. Kietel flung himself towards her. He slammed both hands around Rolf’s neck.
Maeve screamed as she felt the contact. Air flow through her lungs seized up. His hands constricted around her neck, pressure building up in her face.
“Who are you?” Spat Kietel, his pale blue eyes bore into hers with a dangerous fury.
Maeve gripped at her neck, her fingers desperately clawing at his non existent hands. Water flowed from the corners of her eyes. Her chest tightened.
“Who are you?” He spat each word as his hands grew hot. Magic pooled on his palms.
No no no- she panicked and pushed against Keitl, desperately trying to find her doorway out.
Maeve.
Mal’s voice echoed in her ears. Distant and muddled.
Her head grew fuzzy.
Something cold pressed against her back. She leaned into the familiar magic as Kietel’s face blurred, as she felt her own magic fading.
Let go, Maeve.
Mal’s voice said again.
Icy tendrils wrapped around her from behind.
Let go.
His voice said.
But I’ll fall.
She said back.
Cold pressed into her temple.
Let. Go.
She obeyed.
The ground beneath her feet swallowed her fully as she heard Rolf’s mind snap out of existence. Air, sweet air, flooded her lungs with a shrill scream as she plummeted into nothing, falling endlessly through darkness.