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Another one, Julita murmurs with a shudder.
My stomach churns. The current scourge sorcerers have tried to skirt the prohibition against claiming another’s sacrifice for their own power by keeping their victims alive… but I don’t know how what those poor dupes are put through can be considered a life at all.
Torstem grooms them from childhood, seeking out orphans and maybe other vulnerable boys and girls as well. Telling them stories of the greatness they can help him achieve in the name of the gods.
Persuading them that mutilating themselves to the edge of suicide is the greatest offering they can make to the divinities and their country.
The shrouded woman drops into an awkward kneel and bows her head. From the hazy whispers around the fire, I’m not sure how many of my companions have seen one of the accomplices meant to support their sorcery before, even concealed like this.
Torstem points across the darkened land. “Over there lies a count’s manor house. A despicable man who doesn’t deserve the title. He gathers taxes for himself in the name of the false king and ignores the pleas of the peasants living under him. We can free them to pick their own master. Ginelle’s gift will amplify our own. Let us show the false leaders of this world what the gods think of their arrogance!”
A cheer rises up from the revelers. I lift my voice alongside theirs, restraining a snort at the hypocrisy.
Arrogance? Has Ster. Torstem looked in a mirror lately?
“If you have any kind of talent that would allow you to move or project or send something to a destination, join us now,” the law professor goes on. “Let’s throw some of our fateful fire onto the count and send his manor home up in smoke as an offering to the gods watching over us.”
I’m exempt from this act of sabotage, then. My gift is supposedly for forging replicas, not conjuring anything real, and an illusion of flames isn’t what they’re looking for.
That fact doesn’t stop my gut from plummeting as several of my companions step even closer to the fire.
“Repeat after me,” Torstem orders. “These divine words tell the gods that we want to merge our gifts with Ginelle’s for their benefit. Say them and picture the house of corruption. Use whatever power you have to cast the flames toward it.”
He points in the direction he indicated before and starts speaking the same disjointed syllables I heard from Wendos in the tower. Julita cringes back in my head.
The participating Wildings pick up the chant, some with the confidence of experience, others cautiously as they adjust to the sounds. The fire flares higher, a sharper heat washing over me.
My pulse lurches. Whatever I’m going to do, I’d better do it soon.
I delve my hand into my pocket, flick open my locket, and press my thumb to its inner surface.
The summons has been sent. There’s no going back from this.
I ease toward Torstem, counting on the ritual to distract part of his attention. I want to be near enough that I can spring in with one of my knives if my other plan goes wrong.
Someone breaks from their chant with a triumphant shout. My gaze jerks across the darkness—and catches on a flicker of light that appears to have sparked on a rooftop.
Even as my pulse stutters, the flame fizzles out. But the voices around me intensify with eagerness as the scourge sorcerers see the first proof that their efforts could work.
A pool of icy horror forms in the pit of my stomach, setting my riven power banging at my ribs for release.
I don’t know anything about the count who oversees this domain, but he won’t be the only one in that house. He’ll have a family, maybe children—there’ll be staff and servants. Most of them asleep and oblivious to any threat.
I have to actnow.
I take one more step in Torstem’s direction but fix my gaze on the fire. Through the clamor of my magic, I open myself up to the divine touch that’s come to my aid before.
Kosmel, direct the backlash of my magic away from any who don’t deserve the harm. As I command the fire, steal heat where it won’t be missed. Please.
He doesn’t answer. But like Casimir said, this is about faith, not certainty.
The only thing I’m certain of is that I don’t want to be a true murderer.
I loosen my hold on the power inside me and funnel it toward the flames. With a yank of my will, they shoot higher—and lash out toward the gathered figures around me.
The chanting sorcerers yelp and scatter, dashing backward from the fire that’s turned on them. A tingling pressure forms on my shoulder, like someone has set his hand there, confirming he’s with me.
You’re doing it!Julita crows.Let’s teach these fiends a lesson.
