“You need to slow down, kid. Especially with the slim chance of getting a Vessel. The more you burn through the crystals, the more you’ll need. I don’t think I need to tell you what happens when you can’t get the crystals you need, eh?” Holt lectured. Ben shook his head in silence. No one needed a clarification of what happened when you couldn’t pull enough power. Eventually, no matter what type of Mage you were, or which god claimed your power, if you couldn’t draw enough from the crystals, your power ate you from the inside out. Any person’s blood, Mage or Vessel, contained wisps of magic, it was how we were able to sense power and channel it. There were even extensive theories and papers written about it, scholars speculating that we were all born with wisps ofeverytype of magic within our blood, a person’s affinity simply depended on which was more dominate at the time of our Awakening. Genetics obviously played a factor in that—if you had Elemental parents, the likelihood that a person had any power other than an Elemental power was slim to none—but I always enjoyed reading different interpretations on the origins of magic.
Mage Sickness, as we started to call it, found those wisps of power and attacked, not caring that the power was attached to vital organs. Everyone’s symptoms were similar: chest pain, rapid heart rate, and a feeling like their blood was on fire, which eventually progressed to blood, and magic, leaking from every orifice before they inevitably died. Death was slow and painful. It wasn’t the way any Mage wanted to go.
Just last spring, Ent, a Pleasure Mage, succumbed to Mage Sickness. She worked in a pleasure house in one of the larger villages a few miles away and was used relentlessly for her gifts. She was forced to channel continuously, pushing her gifts into clients, which apparently made them finish faster and tip larger. But she burned through her crystals faster each week, until, one week, there were no crystals for her in the weekly rations. She tried desperately to get back here, to her home, but she collapsed somewhere between the two towns. The sickness took her, and by the time travelers came across her body, she had already bled out. Her family was still grief stricken, moving about in a catatonic state, barely surviving the loss of their only daughter.
Mages, especially ones in rural villages like ours, tried to reduce the amount of magic they used, to not need crystals or only use a few of them each week. The effects of not using power were just as devastating—the magic went into survival mode, again attacking the wisps of power found in our blood and often killing the person in the same manner as if they had used too much.
Balance in all things.
I shuddered a bit at the thought. There was no known cure for Mage Sickness and my herbs and tonics could only do so much to ease the pain and allow the patient to sleep as much as possible.
“I have your crystals for this coming week, Ben, but there’s a caveat,” Holt said on a released breath. I had never heard him sound so sad before, so resigned.
“What?” Ben was twisting his hands through his hair and lightly tugging on the ends.
“There’s less than usual. Three less, to be exact.”
“Fuck,” Ben cursed and closed his eyes, his hands still in his hair and his head tilted back. “So, I’ve only got two for this week, then?”
“Seems that way,” Holt said. Ben said nothing in return, just removedhis hands from his hair and opened his eyes, the usual mirth absent. In its stead was a resignation, a defeat that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“Thanks, Holt,” Ben finally said as he crossed the room and took the bag of crystals from Holt’s hand, stuffing them in his pocket. He turned to look at me but his gaze wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I’ll see you around, Faylinn. I’ve got . . . well, I’ve just got to go clear some things up.” He gave me a wan smile and abruptly left the store, the door slamming slightly on his way out.
Holt and I stood in tense silence for a few minutes after Ben’s exit.
He’d complained of chest pain recently, but we attributed it to his work in the fields. I suddenly felt a sharp stab of guilt, first for not recognizing the symptoms, and then for using his magic this morning in my garden.
What kind of lover, what kind ofHealer, was I?
“I’d tell you he’ll be okay, little Fay, but I’m not one to lie,” Holt said softly. “I wish it were true, I know how much you . . . care for him. But I just don’t know.”
I turned from the door to regard Holt. “I care for him just as much as anyone in this town.”
A smile tried to tug at the corners of Holt’s mouth, but it fell quickly. “Just . . . be prepared, lass.”
I wrung my hands together and mused over Holt’s words as I heard him move from behind the counter to sort through the bottles of tonic that I brought. Holt knew me well enough to not try and offer any type of physical comfort or words of reassurance, I needed logic in times of fear, not emotion.
There has to be a way to reverse it. There is balance in all things . . .Maybe one of my books would hold the answer, or maybe it was time to visit the Librarian again while I was here.
I did promise Cotton a new book today.
“I see that mind of yours whirring over there,” Holt said as he unpacked the box and shelved the tonics near the window. He had enough that the villagers should be set for the next few weeks, which was good because I knew I’d be otherwise indisposed with a book for the foreseeable future.
“Hmm,” was my only answer as I moved to help him unpack.
We worked in silence for a few moments until my box was empty, the bread I purchased earlier placed back inside so I could carry it home withme. Holt placed one of his large hands on my shoulder and squeezed softly before directing me back to the strange plants I saw earlier.
“These, girl, are called cacti, or at least that’s what the merchant told me yesterday. Not sure what they do, but they seem like a prickly bunch.” I laughed despite my mood, and I was pleased that warmth and mirth replaced the look of resignation in Holt’s deep-chocolate eyes. They matched his skin and I always pretended growing up that he actuallywasmy father, even though my skin was much fairer than his own. Holt untied one of the cacti and placed it delicately in a pot before setting it in my box for me, knowing as usual what I wanted without me even having to ask.
“I wonder what they’re used for?” I mused as I stroked the spines, careful not to let them prick me again.
“You and your plants. I’m sure one of your books would be able to tell you,” Holt said, his voice warm and full of humor again.
I perked up at that. “You’re probably right, Holt. I need some new books, especially with a few new . . . developments.” I shrugged at the piercing look Holt gave me at that admission. “What? You seriously cannot expect me tonotresearch it or try and find something to help him now that I know?”
“No, lass. I don’t. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
I scoffed slightly, “I know better than that, Holt.”
