Page 222 of The Discount Damsel

“No, I, uh”—Bradley swallowed, realizing he had either made an egregious error or had earned his master’s respect for all time, and he really didn’t know which—“I did that.”

“I know we call him a crazy ol’ coot all the time behind his back,” Dirk whispered frantically, “but never to his face. Are you crazy?”

“Yes. He. Is.” Master Excelsior clapped between each word, approaching them with a smile that could only be described as unhinged.

Bradley was about to receive the ass-whooping of his life or a hug. It was impossible to tell. He released the dragon so he could defend himself, physically or magically, but against a grand master sorcerer—no, an archmaster—what chance did he have?

His master stopped uncomfortably close. Bradley flinched when Master Excelsior’s arms shot out, but his hands only gripped Bradley’s shoulders. “My kind of crazy, I do believe, isn’t that right, dear boy? Tell me true now. What you did just then—did you know what you were doing?”

Yes. Bradley understood it now, through and through. Slowly, he lifted a finger to tap his forehead.

Master Excelsior’s expression changed from wary hope to incandescent glee.

“‘This is only the beginning,’” Bradley quoted. His hand moved down to his heart, and Master Excelsior quickly covered it with his own, eyes sparkling. “‘The true power lies within.’”

Master Excelsior yanked Bradley’s head down to plant a hard kiss on his forehead. “It does, my boy. It really does.”

Something between a shudder and a sob wracked through him. “I thought you meant the tower. Not willpower. Magic born into humans doesn’t depend on High Aetherial and crystal staffs, does it? Those are just conduits that make it easier to harness and use.”

“Well I wouldn’t be me if I just handed you the answer to Gladstone’s curse, would I?”

“But Gladstone was—is—a corner-cutting bottom feeder,” Dirk protested. “How could he curse Bradley like that?”

“By sneaking into the restricted section of the College library and stealing a spell from War Mage Hemlock’s personal grimoire.” Master Excelsior’s expression darkened. “Ripped the page right out of the book, the heathen. Since there were worse spells to be had, the Board assumes he chose this one as a matter of convenience. During his exit interview, he gave no indication that he knew his curse had affected Bradley with more than a stutter. And given his recent life choices, it is easy to assume the boy has a habit of casting magic he knows very little about.”

“I don’t care about Gladstone,” Bradley shouted. “Why in the hells would you keep the truth from me? From the rest of the students? How was I ever supposed to figure that out?” He gestured to the tower with a fling of his arms. “Why would you put me through this hell?”

“It’s called The Crucible for a reason. And I put you here to test your mettle. This truth about magic is a secret kept by the dragons and the archmasters because not everyone is worthy to know it. Not everyone treats their magic as the gift that it is. When Caelus cast down his beloved stars from the sky to make the dragons, one star was given a different purpose. To seed the world of men with magic.

“But that gift, as so many things are, was taken for granted by many. Spoiled. What would the Gladstones of this world do if they knew they only needed to sharpen their will to accomplish fantastic magical feats, even if they were only born with a thimbleful of magic? He wouldn’t be stuck in the sand by a crystal containment field, I can assure you of that.”

“And was this a test, too?” Bradley snatched the cherrywood box off the folding table and yanked it open.

The licorice smell of dark magic rose into the air, and Dirk snarled.

“Yes,” came Master Excelsior’s mild reply. “I had to test everything about you, Bradley Donmarin, fisherman of the Cut. If your heart would turn bitter in your darkest hour or if you would remain worthy. Could you, who had been born with so little and then given so much, remain good if it was all taken away?”

Bradley had endured, but only just. “Then what is this? Is this magic you forgot to destroy, or is it, is it⁠—”

Master Excelsior chuckled once. “You think my soul corrupted? Look into my eyes, boy, you will find no rot. What say you, Lung Shang? Your species has the purest hearts of all dragons. Am I dark to your senses?”

Dirk gave him a sniff from where he hovered behind Bradley. “You smell fine. But . . . you are an archmaster, aren’t you? Your kind is rare and tricky.”

“I am, and I would consider it a personal favor if you two never divulged that information. Once people find out you’re the equivalent of a demi-god, it’s never-ending work, work, work. I have a right to live my life as leisurely or adventurously as the next person. But I digress. I understand your reservations, your suspicions. This tower can be a bit unkind to one’s mind.”

“You think?” Bradley snapped.

“Perhaps a demonstration?”

Master Excelsior snatched the parchment from the box and tossed it into the air in front of him. There it hovered like a piece of sheet music waiting for a violinist to settle his instrument upon his shoulder and begin. Excelsior’s twig-like arms snapped out a series of jerky movements as guttural words grated past his lips.

A muted blast slid the sorcerer back a foot across the polished hardwood, and then a howl rose from the desert.

Master Excelsior smoothed down his hair, linked his hands behind his back, and maintained that serene, unbothered posture when a djinn swept into the workroom. It was all heat and fury, half man and half smoke.

The djinn’s fearsome sneer evaporated upon catching sight of the sorcerer.

“Celsy!” the djinn cried.