Magic makes a person both potter and clay.
- Motto of the House of Healing in Arcas Capitol
The room they put Raziel in this time wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the first. It was cramped with nothing but a bed and a single chair beside the small window that let in what little light there was. The window opened, which let Raziel get some fresh air and, while it was probably possible to wiggle through, the fifty foot drop was more than enough to discourage him.
He didn’t know how long he’d be there. He didn’t even know if anyone knew where he was. He was hungry and tired, but he couldn’t make himself sleep. Thoughts of what he had done to Lucas kept him awake. The sound of Lucas’ failing attempts to breath kept playing through Raziel’s head. He couldn’t stand Lucas, had never known him to be anything other than a bully, and he’d tried to hurt Raziel just as badly if not worse than Raziel had ended up hurting him.
But Raziel didn’t want to be that kind of person. When he thought about how angry he’d been, how far out of control he’d been, he felt sick. He’d gotten into a lot of fights over the years. He knew he had something of a reputation for it, that some of the other students at Dominic’s avoided him because of it. He’d never minded. He’d never minded being punished for his actions either. He’d never started a fight without what he believed to be a good reason. But something whispered that he’d never hurt anyone like that either.
This was different. He hadn’t been fighting for anyone else. He hadn’t wanted to stop Lucas. He’d just wanted him to hurt. The part that bothered him the most was how good it had felt to give in to his rage. The power, the righteous fury, the magic flowing through him, all of it together had made him feel like a hero. But now he knew the truth. Lucas had probably felt something very similar as he’d hurt Miles.
Outside the window he could hear the bustling sounds of the town going about its business, unknowing and untroubled. The window let in a sighing breeze and the smells of the city, some pleasant, others less so, but all comfortingly familiar. He wanted to be out there, to be free. He knew that he could get out if he tried. A little voice whispered in his head that the same magic that got him in here could get him out. He could smash down that door.
His body felt sore and tired, aching bruises leftover from Lucas’ attacks, but the worst of it was the hunger. As he sank deeper into his concentration, those pains faded. He was surprised by how easy it was to sink into the well of focus he needed for magic. The magic was closer at hand every time he reached for it. Raziel wondered briefly if that was normal, but he felt his mind quickly return to his purpose.
He dredged up the magic from inside himself, saw the brooding, darkly glowing ball hovering above his palm. He wanted so badly to be out. To escape. To run into the forest and find his father’s book. Maybe to just stay out there. Disappear and hide from what he’d done. He knew the magic he held was more than enough to tear the door from its hinges. He stood in a daze and felt his arm draw back to throw. Raziel saw through the small slit in the door someone with curly white hair pass by, and he suddenly realized what he was about to do.
Had he thrown the ball a second earlier, he could have hurt that person like he’d hurt Lucas. If he didn’t kill them. Raziel turned and grabbed the arm that held the ball of magic. He closed his eyes and focused on it, trying to draw it back into himself. It hurt, his arm going cold, pins and needles settling in as he absorbed the energy. It felt ugly, born of anger and fear.
He sat shaking on the bed, the full depth of what he’d nearly done sinking into him. He wrapped his arms around his chest as though that might contain the urge to batter down the door that still slithered within him. That’s not who I am, he told himself, though another voice argued that it was. No one else had hurt Lucas. No one had made him try to blow down the door.
He remembered that Duriel had told him that the way a person uses magic changes them. Had he already gone too far? But Duriel’s words also gave Raziel a way out, as he realized he had another choice he could make.
Carefully he drew in the magic of the breeze drifting in through the window. There was more in the room but the breeze was all he needed. He remembered Miles lying on the ground holding his bleeding nose. He let the anger that bubbled up with the memory gather into his right hand. He mixed it with the magic of the breeze. Sweat that he did not feel began to stand out on his head as he held the magic there, willing the two streams of energy to become one.
Little motes of cold blue light appeared around his fingers and above his palm, drifting in the air like fireflies. As they appeared, the anger he felt seemed to loosen. He let the motes go, and the rage inside him went with them. It came again a few minutes later as the smug joy that had been on Lucas’s face came unbidden to Raziel’s mind. He gathered up his concentration, inhaled, and began again. When that was gone Lucas on the floor crying helplessly wormed its way into his head. Self-pity and regret made for a duller magic but it came all the same and he let it go with the wind.
It was exhausting but he made himself continue. Waves of rage and fury for himself and for Lucas swept over him, threatening to drown him and each time, he drew it up and let it go. The sunlight had faded by the time he stopped. The spot where he sat in the bed was soaked with sweat as were his clothes. He could barely keep his eyes open. But the swirling maelstrom in his head had calmed. It wasn't gone, but its distant rumblings were within his control.
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Night came a minor eternity later. At some point a guard had taken him to use the restroom. Raziel had needed the opportunity but felt like he barely had the energy to walk down the hall. Still, he dreaded every step that took him back to his room. There was nothing for him there but his own thoughts. Raziel had laid on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep hovered nearby, never quite coming over Raziel. Again and again he opened his eyes praying for sunlight, only to find that it was still night.
He had hoped that night would somehow bring a reprieve. But it didn’t. The boredom was still there. The exhaustion couldn’t be cured by laying sleepless on the bed. All that had really changed with the coming of the night was the temperature and the color of the light coming in from the window.
He pushed himself up to a sitting position. He wondered if Duriel or Dominic was trying to get him out. He wondered if his friends had heard what had happened and what version of the story was going around. He wondered what Miles would be telling people. He wondered what Keira had heard.
He shoved that thought away hard and tried to just listen to the noises coming through the window. He lay there pushing back the questions that were pounding their way into his head. They slipped through one by one, and Raziel knew he’d have to fill his mind with something else if he wanted to keep them out.
He sat up and wearily began to concentrate, readying himself for the touch of magic. He sent his mind into the night, trying to feel more than just the breeze and the night air. There were people out there, and at this hour he knew they’d be laughing and singing down in the bars or watching plays. Maybe he could touch that magic and feel a bit of it himself.
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Raziel reached out and something else reached back. The touch of that other mind had felt decidedly alien, and he had no idea what to do. He could pound on the door and try to get someone to help him. But they were probably convinced he was corrupted as it was. How would it look if he started raving about other minds reaching out for him in the night?
And then Raziel felt it. It was coming closer.
He got to his feet and stared at the window. He’d meant to close it, but something had stopped him. He was curious. A part of him was not afraid and wanted to know what it was. It felt alien, yes, but not hostile or cruel. It was strong, though. Raziel could tell that much for sure.
He took another step forward, that strangely small fear in his head telling him to shut the window, to shut it out. That fear’s voice whispered to him about things that got into people’s heads, made them do things. Was this how that started?
Three more steps forward and the window was within arm’s reach. He could shut it and somehow he knew that would keep it out. So why wasn’t he shutting the window? That voice whispered again, faster, full of terror.
And that was when it clicked. That voice didn’t sound to Raziel at all like his own. Real fear came then, but only for a moment. Anger boiled it away before it could even begin to take hold. The voice went still, and Raziel felt it slink away to disappear from him. Raziel didn’t know who, but in that moment he was certain that someone had done something to his mind.
The lethargy he’d felt all day vanished. Once again he wanted to kick down the door, to escape into the hall, and he suddenly knew that something had been pushing him towards it that morning. That only sent more boiling rage coursing through his veins.
He felt the magic coming then, strong and inexorable as the tide. He wanted to be swept away, awash in the power of his anger. He’d known that emotion could fuel magic, but he hadn’t realized how good it would feel. Worst of all, he knew instinctively that the anger was all his own, that none came from that strange place in his head. He felt his right hand ball into a fist and heard in his mind that if he willed it, the magic would find a way to his enemy and crush him. The thought made Raziel smile.
That was when he hit himself. He didn’t hold back. His knuckles hit his nose and his mouth, and he instantly tasted blood. He staggered back and didn’t quite manage to get enough of his butt on the bed to keep himself from sliding off.
“Ow. Ow. Ow.” The sound of his own voice was good to hear. His mouth hurt, but the magic and the rage were gone. That made Raziel smile again, and, though it hurt, it felt like his own smile rather than the rage’s.
“Kusa?”
Raziel jumped, caught off guard by the other voice. He looked up and saw Kusa’s grass-haired head at the window. The spirit was giving him a quizzical look, its delicate three-fingered hands gripping the window ledge tight. Raziel quickly got to his feet.
“Kusa? What are you doing here? Come in,” Raziel said, thinking that it couldn’t be comfortable to hang there like that. Kusa stuck its head forward a little and sniffed the air. It looked around the room and something in the careful, measured way its eyes moved told Raziel that it saw things he couldn’t.
“Kusa,” it said, apprehensively shaking its head. Raziel moved closer, trying to keep quiet in case a guard was nearby.
“Well, you can’t just stay there. Someone might see you.”
Kusa nodded solemnly. It shifted its grip so that it could hold on with only one hand. With its newly free hand, it reached out to Raziel though it was careful not to reach past the edge of the window into the room itself.
“What are you going to do?” Raziel asked.
“Kusa Kusa,” it said.
“Well duh. Why didn’t I think of that?” Raziel said with a shake of his head.
Could it have been Kusa that had done something to him? Clearly the answer was yes, it could have. But what purpose could the little creature have in doing something to his mind? Raziel didn’t know. But that didn’t mean that there couldn’t be some purpose the alien entity had. If it had tampered with his mind, why had the voice wanted him to shut the window? But if not Kusa, who else could have done it?
Alban.
That fit better in Raziel’s mind. He didn’t have a clear idea why the wizard might have tampered with his brain though. Raziel thought it over and quickly came to the conclusion that he had to gamble on one of them. Either he stayed there and trusted in Alban or he took Kusa’s hand and trusted the spirit. Trust his instincts or ignore them.
Raziel reached out and took Kusa’s hand. Kusa hauled him through the window. The world blurred, and Raziel was sure that his arm should’ve come out of its socket from the force involved but he felt no pain, only the jarring speed.
He blinked, and they were standing on top of the roof of the building. Well, Kusa was standing. Raziel found that he had fallen on his butt again and was looking up at Kusa with wonder. The little spirit returned his gaze, deep concern on its face.
“What just happened?” Raziel asked, even though it was clear exactly what had happened.
“Kusa,” was the only reply the spirit gave as it began to make a slow circuit around Raziel, never losing eye contact with him. It was only after it had walked fully around him that Raziel noticed that Kusa had drawn a circle around him with its toe.
“What are you do—” Raziel’s head exploded with pain. He fell but didn’t realize it until his face touched the ground. He tried to scream but it hurt too much.
“Kusa.” The spirit’s voice was harsh, sharp. Raziel felt his right ear pop and something warm and sticky ran down the side of his face. The pain drained away along with whatever was coming out of his head. Raziel opened his eyes and shakily pushed himself up. He expected to see blood on the ground, but it was worse. There was a puddle of thick black slime on the ground. It was moving, questing about with withered hands. The smell was awful, something like the dusty, decayed smell of an attic where animals came to die.
“What the rotting hell is that?” Raziel gasped. “That was inside me? In my head?”
Kusa pulled Raziel back with surprising strength. It moved with liquid grace to draw yet another circle around the black sludge, then it spoke its name again, strong and commanding with an undercurrent of anger beneath. The puddle writhed and bubbled with a sound like a kettle starting to boil. It steamed and bubbled, seeming to devour itself until the only remnant was a dark stain.
Kusa spat contemptuously on the spot before turning to Raziel. The anger was gone from its face, replaced once again by concern. It moved close and took Raziel’s head in its hands. Raziel didn’t know what it was doing but it rested its forehead against his, its cool dry skin somehow comforting. It planted a gentle, almost parental kiss on his head.
“Kusa,” it said gently, and the ache in his ear faded.
Raziel’s brain was racing. Had Alban put that thing in his head? Could he have done it without Dietrich noticing? Why would he have done it? Raziel felt sick, but his head felt clear like the moment when he could finally breathe again after blowing the last bit of snot out when he had a cold.
“Thank you,” he said from the depths of his being.
Kusa gave him a sober nod.
“What can I do in return?” Raziel asked, the question popping into his mind suddenly, out of his mouth before he realized he wanted to ask it.
Kusa shook its head and gave the black spot on the roof a look of such thorough hatred that, had the spot spontaneously burst into flame or been struck by lightning, Raziel wouldn’t have been surprised. Still, Raziel felt some need to repay the spirit. He wondered if he could sneak away with another book from Dominic’s library or if he had enough money saved up to simply buy one and, either way, what book would be best?
As he was contemplating, Kusa’s head turned towards the door to the stairs that lead up to the roof. The spirit held a finger to its lips and gestured for Raziel to follow it. There were a few chairs and a table nearby and the spirit crouched down behind it. As soon as Raziel was crouched nearby, it moved again and drew another swift circle around them. Raziel asked what it was doing, but no sound came from his mouth.
Before he could ask what was going on, someone pushed opened the door and strode out. Raziel understood as soon as he saw who it was. Alban stood in the moonlight with an unpleasant, impatient sneer on his face as he surveyed the rooftop. His eyes fell on the furniture they hid behind and rolled past without stopping. Satisfied, Alban began walking again and Lucas came through the door after him, seated in a wheelchair that floated weightlessly through the air behind his father.