Wizard squared

CHAPTER THREE

It was like throwing himself into a writhing pit of insane vipers, or diving headfirst into a vat of boiling acid, or trying to ride a hundred wild horses bareback, all at once. The hex took him and shook him and tried to tear him apart. Flogged him and crushed him and threatened to splinter his bones.

Every instinct he possessed was screaming get out, run away but grimly he fought that cowardly impulse as hard and as bitterly as he fought Lional’s hex. His heart was drubbing so hard he was afraid it might burst-or that his eyeballs would explode or his jaw crack into pieces. He could feel a howl building in his throat. Prying his teeth apart he let it out and heard it bounce back and forth between the walls of the corridor, a skin-crawling cry of pain and near-insanity.

Lost within Lional’s merciless attack he flailed and thrashed, dimly aware of his battered potentia as it grappled with the onslaught of dark magic. He didn’t know how to help his strange powers, or control them, had no idea how to harness their strength to his need. If there was an elegant, subtle way to dismantle Lional’s incant, well, he had no idea what that was. And he didn’t have the time to work it out, either. Because time was precious and it was fast running out.

Oh, Saint Snodgrass. I could use some help about now…

Howling again, Gerald pulled his potentia back inside himself. Poured every last skerrick of his strength into crushing it small, then smaller, compressing it until it too was howling. He felt like he’d plucked the sun from the sky and was trying to stuff it into an egg cup-and the sun, his potentia, was fighting back. Rivers of sweat poured down his face, down his back. He could feel his spine bowing, his knees bending, could feel his heart trying to batter its way right through his ribs. His unremarkable body couldn’t take much more of this. Punished by Lional and by himself it was threatening to fly apart, to escape this unending torment in death.

No-no-just a little more-a little longer And on the screaming brink of self-destruction he let himself fly free.

Like molten fire his power poured out of him, angry and indiscriminate, to smash the bindings of Lional’s warding hex and obliterate its fabric. The keep-your-distance incant went up in flames and greasy smoke, stinking, unwholesome. Reeking of every foul enchantment Lional had so eagerly embraced.

Sobbing, Gerald fell forward onto his face, unable to save himself. The corridor’s plush carpeting saved him from a broken nose or worse. Gasping he lay there, excoriated, waiting for the flames and agony to subside. When he thought he could feel his bones whole within him, when he thought he could trust himself to sit up in one piece, he pushed himself off the carpet and looked around at the scorch marks on the gilded walls and the expensive carpet. Stared, astonished, at the smoking doors to Lional’s private apartments, drunkenly hanging from their half-melted hinges.

“Gosh,” he said, his voice a thin, surprised croak. “How about that, Reg? I did it.”

And surely Lional would know he’d done it, too. So what little time he had left, he’d be a fool to waste it. Wincing, he staggered back onto his feet, made his way along the unimpeded corridor-and crossed the threshold into Lional’s private domain.

It stank of dark magic.

Standing just inside the open doorway, one hand braced against its almost too hot to touch frame, Gerald fought to keep his stomach from turning itself inside out. Every breath sucked the stench of corrupted power into his lungs, sent it flooding through his veins. Was it his overworked imagination or did even his sweaty skin feel sticky and fouled with it?

I don’t understand. This entire palace reeks of Lional. How did none of the other court wizards not notice what was going on right under their noses? And what about Shugat and his gods? Am I supposed to think Lional just-what? Slipped their minds?

Possibly that was the most terrifying thing of all-that Lional possessed such strength, such mastery, that he could hide himself and his workings from the keen senses of a holy man like Shugat. That he could hide from the world-class First Grade metaphysical experts he’d hired to serve him. To die for him.

But then… who am I to talk? I didn’t notice, did I? If I’m so special, if I can do things that make a man like Monk panic, how come I didn’t realize the truth the moment I stepped out of the portal?

The unpalatable answer stared him rudely in the face. Because Lional was unique-and unthinkable. What Melissande’s brother had done was so heinous, so appalling, that nobody thought it could-or would-be done. Or had realized that not only did Lional have the twisted imagination, and the will, to conceive of this plan, but that he also had the means to make his demented dream come true.

Bloody Pomodoro Uffitzi. This is all his fault. If he hadn’t hoarded those grimoires… There’s always one who thinks the rules don’t apply to him. Why does there always have to be one?

And so now, because Uffitzi had been an arrogant plonker, two nations and countless innocents stood on the brink of destruction.

“Unless that ratty old holy man changes his mind and does something before it’s too late,” he muttered, suddenly needing to hear a friendly voice. No matter he was talking to himself-even that was better than the resounding silence of Lional’s apartments.

Shugat. Mighty and mysterious and downright terrifying. Powerful enough to withstand the worst of Lional’s foul magics-yet unwilling to help the helpless people of New Ottosland.

And why is that? Why won’t he lift a finger? I don’t understand.

Unless…

Chilled with fresh horror, Gerald swiped stinging sweat from his eyes. Could Shugat want this? Could Kallarap’s holy man and its sultan and its gods want Lional to run the length of his madness unchecked? Were silence and inaction their way of ending New Ottosland without a single scimitar drawing blood? Of putting an end to their tariff payment problem without directly getting involved?

Or are they convinced that I can handle Lional without their assistance?

Either way, he was in trouble. New Ottosland was in trouble. Because here he stood, a Third Grade wizard-sort of, technically-with extra powers he didn’t begin to understand or control, who’d never so much as set foot in a proper wizarding academy, who’d received his barely adequate qualifications from a modest correspondence course that important wizards like Errol Haythwaite pretended didn’t even exist.

And somewhere not far enough away was Lional, who’d left mere metaphysics behind some four dead wizards ago and had transformed himself into something the world of thaumaturgy had never seen.

Oh, lord. If I don’t stop him here, today-if he gets past me and leaves New Ottosland-then he’ll just keep killing First Grade wizards and taking their potentias.

The thought of Lional, twinned with his dragon and wielding the power of ten First Grade wizards, or twenty, or more, weakened his knees so he nearly dropped back to the carpet. Squeezing his eyes tight shut he gritted his teeth to keep an unmanly whimper trapped in his throat.

I can’t do this. Dragon or no dragon I’m not good enough. Lional with a mere five potentias is more than I can handle. Come back, Reg. I need you. Tell me what to do.

Except-he already knew what to do. And he’d come here to do it. And if Reg were here she’d only try to stop him, so it was best she wasn’t. Because if anyone could talk him out of this crazy plan it was Reg.

“Stop bloody stalling, Dunnywood, you tosser,” he told himself savagely. “You’ve got no choice. Thousands of lives are depending on you-so get on with it.”

The burning tide of fear receded and a little strength returned to his numbed limbs. Swiping sweat again, he straightened out of his slump, took several deep breaths, ignoring the taint in the air, and for the first time looked at his surroundings properly. Lional’s apartments were dim, their curtains drawn and no lamps lit. The light from the corridor behind him barely washed over the threshold, as though the darkness of Lional’s soul were soaking it up, like a sponge.

Letting go of the door frame he snapped his fingers, hoping to ignite whatever candles or lamps might be usefully lying about the place. Incant accomplished he stared, blinking in the sudden illumination, expecting to see Well. Not this.

“Blimey, Reg,” he said, looking around. “I thought at least there’d be a cauldron or a skull. Something arcane and sinister and suitably repellent. Not to mention a few bucket loads of gilt and an ocean of velvet.”

But no. The room he stood in wasn’t plush or opulent or arcanely sinister. It was the antithesis of plush and opulent, every unadorned surface a stark black and white. No chairs, sofas, fountains or froufrous. One spindle-legged desk with a lone burning lamp on it. And not a single darkly arcane artifact in sight. If he hadn’t known without a doubt that this was Lional’s lair he’d never have believed it.

“Mind you,” he added. “This is only the foyer.”

Like his own royal apartments there were three doors leading out of the suite’s severely restrained entrance hall. So if the similarity of design continued, that meant Lional’s bedroom-and Grummen’s Lexicon and whatever other revolting books he kept handy-lay behind that door there. On a deep breath Gerald took a step towards it, then hesitated. Wait a minute, Dunwoody. Just wait. This was Lional’s private domain. No matter the ferocious keep-your-distance hex guarding the corridor, that didn’t mean the place was safe. If he rushed in willy nilly now like some over-excited First Year student he might well trigger another guarding hex and get himself killed before he could do anybody any good.

Remember Reg’s rule: look before you leap. It prevents a lot of unnecessary bleeding.

Thrusting aside his growing sense of urgency he closed his eyes and pushed his potentia through the curdled ether, seeking danger.

And found it, of course.

All three doors in Lional’s apartment were hexed. And not singly hexed either, no. They were link-hexed, which meant that to get into Lional’s bedroom he’d have to unbarricade all three in the correct sequence or risk-well, something disgusting. Wonderful. Clearly today nothing was going to be simple, or straightforward, or quick.

Heart thudding hard again he approached the doors, step by cautious step, reaching out both hands in the hope that he’d be able to sense something to help him proceed. He could feel his potentia quivering, reacting to the incants sunk into the aged oak. Not dark magic this time, not exactly. Just Lional’s twisted thaumic fingerprints leaving a tainted smear in the ether, the multiplicity of stolen potentias garbled and gross. He felt his belly heave, protesting as again he heard the anguished screams of his predecessors… and felt their agony as they went up in flames…

Stop it, you idiot. Don’t think about that. They’re long dead, past helping. All you can do now is avenge them.

Shuddering, he wiped a clammy hand down his face. This wretched place was getting to him. He couldn’t let it. He had to concentrate.

“Come on, Dunnywood.” Alarmingly, his voice sounded thin and lost. “It’s nearly over.”

At least the door hexes were nowhere near as ferocious as the keep-your-distance hex. Lional felt himself safe here, in his private domain. But his unbearable arrogance was neatly tempered with caution. New Ottosland’s mad king wasn’t leaving anything to chance. The triple-hex was convoluted, tangling itself in complex loops and knots, and tugging on the wrong bit would doubtless unleash disaster.

Daunted, Gerald pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He had such a headache brewing. But he couldn’t afford to dwell on that either. Pain was just another distraction. Besides, if he didn’t make it past those hexes a headache would be the least of his worries. Blinking hard to clear his blurry vision, he stared at the three doors. He could sense nothing, nothing, to suggest the order in which he needed to clear Lional’s wickedly clever incants. He could stand here for hours, days, weeks, and be no closer to the answer. The hexes were clear and slippery like rain-washed glass. His potentia slid over them, unable to get a purchase. Unable to feel anything, sense any order or echo or hint of how to unlock them.

He turned aside, frustrated, feeling that tide of fear rising. There was no time for this nonsense. Lional would be coming. He could be inside the palace even now, snarling his way upwards, ready to rip intruding Gerald Dunwoody to bloody shreds. Without the protection of Grummen’s Lexicon he didn’t stand a chance against New Ottosland’s mad king.

“So bugger this for a boatload of monkeys!” he shouted. Raised clenched fists over his head, summoned his potentia — and unleashed it on the barricaded doors.

They exploded in a storm of splinters.

Without even thinking he whipped his potentia around himself like a cloak, a flexible shield. The released energies from the destroyed hexes billowed harmlessly about him, dirty smoke and spitting sparks. Bits and pieces of ruined doors bounced off his etheretic armor and tumbled to the black-and-white marble floor, some of them burning.

Stunned, he stared at the gaping holes in the wall that used to be three doorways, then carefully eased his tight grip on his potentia. Like a sword gliding back into an oiled scabbard it slid back inside him, out of sight.

“Gosh,” he said. “That was-different.”

And terrifying. Because he’d no idea what he was doing. Not consciously, anyway. Temper and desperation had combined in a single hammering heartbeat and suddenly he was smashing powerful hexes as easily as Reg snapped flies in mid-air.

Lional’s bedroom suite lay beyond the middle doorway. With a single word and a hand wave he banished the lingering smoke then marched through the empty doorway into the private parlor beyond. His earlier incant had lit every lamp and candle in here, too. Again, to his surprise, he found no overwrought opulence. Oh, there was a certain sumptuosity to the sitting room, silk curtains and velvet upholstery and plush carpets underfoot. Beneath the poisonous dark magics the air smelled sweet. There were fresh flowers in crystal vases. Ebony chairs and a low table inlaid with mother of pearl. No gilding. Rich forest green and midnight blue were the dominant colors-and crimson, too, splashed here and there like drops of blood from a wound.

No books of magic in here.

A single door in the back wall led out of the private parlor. Gerald tested it, but at last found no hex. So he took the door by its handle, twisted it, pushed-and walked into the room beyond just like an ordinary, everyday man.

And here was Lional’s bedroom, almost as austere as the rest of his apartments. Dull bronze walls, plush black carpet-and an enormous four-poster bed. Its drapings were bold crimson, as though Lional felt the need to sleep in blood. Tavistock cowered on the red velvet spread, topaz eyes slitted, fangs bared in a terrified snarl.

Gerald sighed. “Bugger.”

He stared at the lion and the lion stared back. On the nightstand on the right-hand side of the bed, a tower of ancient texts. The stench of unwholesome incantations was so oppressive he could practically taste the dark magics contained between their covers. The ether shivered with them, a subliminal note of evil on the very edge of sensation. He could feel his potentia shrivel like a garden slug sprinkled with salt.

And here’s me, come to take that evil into myself. Come to let it devour me alive…

Stranded on the bed, the lion rumbled in its throat.

“Poor old Tavistock,” he said, pity stirring for the cat he’d so carelessly sported with to further his own petty ambitions. “Doesn’t look like you’re having much fun.”

The lion rumbled again-agreement, or a warning of imminent attack?

“I’ve got some bad news for you,” he added, taking a prudent half-step back. “Lional’s found a new pet. I’m afraid you’re going to have to shift for yourself.”

Except-how could it? This was a lion, with an appetite to match. And with the palace deserted… nobody to feed the wretched thing… either it would starve to death or start eating people.

Oh, just what my conscience needs. A man-eating lion on the loose, courtesy of me.

“Tavistock,” he said. “I think it’s time for a change.”

The words of the transmog reversal incant were buried in his memory somewhere, courtesy of Reg. But he knew, without knowing precisely how he knew, that he didn’t need the words. Not any more. His potentia, woken to full life by the accident at Stuttley’s staff factory, bubbled inside him like a hot spring. He could feel it expanding within the confines of its mortal prison, his body, shimmering his blood and vibrating his bones. Every time he’d used it since arriving in New Ottosland, whether he meant to or not, in the strangest way it felt like he’d been feeding that power. Giving it what it needed to grow.

So that all he needed to do now was look at Tavistock and see the cat held captive within the lion. See Tavistock as he’d been before, on the audience chamber dais, in Lional’s lap, just a cat, just a fluffy cat, no more dangerous or disturbing than that…

“Tavistock,” he whispered, and held out his hand. “Go back now. Go back. Be a cat again.”

The thaumically-charged ether crackled. On Lional’s enormous bed Tavistock twitched, tail lashing, and lumbered to his feet. Threw back his vast, maned head and roared, saliva-slicked fangs dripping. Around him the air curdled, tinting bluish orange. Then a crack of sound and a flash of light. A thunderstorm roaring through the ether. Gerald grunted, an echoing tempest raging through his unquiet blood as his potentia obeyed his command.

“Reversato!”

Another flash of light and crack of sound and the lion was gone. Instead, a bemused cat sat blinking in the middle of Lional’s bed. Long marmalade coat wildly ruffled, whiskers bristling, eyes like saucers, Lional’s abandoned pet took one look around the room, let out a loud, indignant wail and bolted.

One word, that’s all it took, one word and a thought and I reversed a Level Twelve transmog. Who am I? What am I?

“Good luck, Tavistock,” he murmured. “And good riddance.”

Staring after the cat, he wondered if he could undo the dragon the same way. But no. Not with Lional linked to it by the Tantigliani sympathetico. His strength fed their bond beyond any easy breaking.

More’s the pity.

Now that it felt safe to move about Lional’s bedchamber he crossed to the nearest window and tugged its bronze silk curtain aside. Stared through the glittering glass at the palace gardens beyond, then up at the sky. Both were empty. No sign of Lional or his dragon. No sign of life at all. There were two more curtained windows and he looked through both of them, just to make sure. The third window afforded him a glimpse of the palace forecourt, where he’d left Shugat and Zazoor and the Kallarapi army.

They were gone. Holy man, sultan and every last camel. Vanished as though they’d never existed.

“And good riddance to you too,” he added, feeling bitter. Feeling betrayed. Idiot. “You’d only have ended up getting in my way.”

So. Lional and his dragon. If they weren’t hanging around the palace, where could they be? Off terrorizing the countryside some more? Probably. Lional did enjoy his little amusements. And he believed himself invulnerable, facing no kind of danger from the likes of Gerald Dunwoody. Which was bad luck for the countryside-but a stroke of good luck for him. It was a reprieve, of sorts. A mistake on Lional’s part. Perhaps the only one the mad king was likely to make.

Letting the curtain fall back across the window, he turned to stare again at the vast crimson bed. Towering on the nightstand, Lional’s stolen grimoires beckoned. Five-no, six ancient volumes. So many. So much evil. Palms sweaty, breathing uneven, his throat suddenly hot and tight, Gerald pushed through the bedroom’s still-thickened etheretic atmosphere until he was standing so close to those terrible books that all he had to do was uncrook his elbow and he’d be touching them.

Or they’d be touching him.

“I’d rather see you dead here and now-I’d rather kill you myself than see you-”

“Oh, Reg,” he whispered, the memory of her terror for him like acid in his veins. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice. You saw what Lional’s turned into. Whatever’s inside me won’t be enough.”

He cried out as his fingers closed on the first grimoire. Such a shock of latent power searing through him. A dark voice whispering, full of malice and glee. His knees had gone weak again, threatening to buckle. Still clutching the grimoire he sank to the edge of Lional’s bed. The feather mattress gave way beneath him with an almost-silent sigh. With a heart-thumping effort he forced his eyes open, made himself look down and read the title of the book in his sweaty, trembling hands. The damn thing was so heavy he had to rest it on his thighs.

Grummen’s Lexicon.

Of course. Start with the best.

The Lexicon was bound in brass and black leather, its title embossed on cover and spine in faded gold lettering. The rich binding was scarred with age. Wrinkled here and there. On the top right-hand corner, a single fingerprint, scorched scarlet. Holding his breath Gerald touched his own finger lightly to it, and heard in his mind the lingering echoes of a scream.

He snatched his hand back. Then, though he wasn’t what anyone would call a religious man, church being one of those things he almost never bothered with, even though it meant disappointing his mother, he looked up. Who knew? Maybe the gods of Kallarap were listening.

“I’m doing this because I have to, all right? Just-please. Please, whatever happens to me, whatever happens once I’m done-if Reg is right-don’t let them send Monk to hunt me down. I couldn’t bear that. Send anyone else-Errol Haythwaite, for example. But please, not Monk.”

Silence. Not so much as the smallest hint that a deity of any kind was listening, or in the mood to grant his despairing request.

Oh well. I can’t say I really expected a reply.

Mouth dry, rivulets of sweat burning his ribs and spine, he stared at the Lexicon. Once he opened the wretched thing, once he exposed himself to the first of its foul incants, there’d be no going back. This new Gerald Dunwoody would cease to exist, almost before the old one’s corpse had grown cold.

And who-or what-would take his place was anyone’s guess.

Before he could change his mind, before he let the gibbering fear take over his body, make it throw down the Lexicon and run him screaming from Lional’s chamber Just do it, Dunnywood. Do it. Do it.

— he opened the book. Recited the handy little incant Reg had taught him, way back in the early days of his wizarding correspondence course, the learn-it-fast hex that made the dullest man a speed-reading, incant-absorbing machine.

With a spark and a sizzle, the incant ignited. Dimly he felt himself turning page after page with fingers that belonged to someone else. He didn’t understand how, but his unnatural potentia was enhancing Reg’s quick-learn hex. Like a thirsty flower his mind absorbed Grummen’s collection of fetid magics faster than he could make sense of the words. He heard himself breathing like a runner in a race. Felt his heart crashing from rib to rib. Tasted the foulness of Grummen’s hexes and incants, coating his throat and the inside of his mouth with bile. His fingertips burned, and his bleary eyes. His vision was smearing, blurring as crimson as Lional’s vast bed. He was roasting, he was freezing, he was losing himself. Someone had turned his bones to lead. They were so heavy in his flesh now he thought any moment they’d tear free.

And then he turned the Lexicon ’s last page. Read the incant inscribed upon it- Regarding the Extraction of Knowledge from the Recently Dead- and felt the necrothaumic compulsion incant’s power sink inexorably into his grossly overfed mind.

With a strangled groan Gerald lost his grip on the heavy grimoire. Heard it thud to the plush black carpet and a heartbeat later thudded beside it. A windstorm was howling inside his skull, scouring the confines of its bony bowl like a banshee trapped in a bubble. Little trickles of its fury dribbled between his parted lips. For one terrible moment he thought he was back in the cave, at the mercy of Lional’s merciless curses. With a louder groan he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling of Lional’s self-restrained chamber. Painted black, it was daubed with eye-searing sigils that in another lifetime he’d never have understood.

But he understood them now, and what they meant made him weep. Or perhaps he wept because they were no longer a mystery. Because the howling in his head wasn’t a banshee at all, but the last raging cries of a dying Gerald. Because rising from the ashes of that Gerald was this one.

A Gerald with the power to make the dead speak. To kill with a thought. To fashion mud into a man. A copy of a man. A wicked shambling pretense of a man. Who could boil a woman’s blood in her veins without fire, blind a disobedient child, reduce a village to cinders and a cow to blood and hide… all with a small and simple word.

His heart was beating sluggishly now, his blood thick and dark with Grummen’s terrible knowledge. With a struggling effort he pushed to his feet. He was a newborn necromancer, learning how to walk.

With a sigh of relief he collapsed onto Lional’s bed. Pressed the heels of his hands against his hot eyes, willing his red, smeared vision to clear. When he let his hands drop his gaze shifted to the other books on the nightstand, tugged there as though by some thaumaturgic force. He tried to resist-he didn’t need to know any more. He was burdened enough with the contents of Grummen’s Lexicon. But he couldn’t fight the compulsion to reach out to that tower of books and take the next one into his hands.

Pygram’s Pestilences.

A slim little volume, this. Clothbound in eggshell blue. So harmless looking, like a nice lady’s diary. Before he could stop himself-try to stop himself-the book was open in his lap and he was devouring each hex. Even though he knew firsthand how evil, how despicable, these magics were. Even though he’d unspeakably suffered through each and every one during his time of torment in Lional’s cave. The notion of learning them, of perhaps using them on another living being-he should be revolted, repulsed, he should destroy the text with a look-and yet he couldn’t. He didn’t. Instead he opened himself to Pygram’s curses and let the words and the sigils engrave themselves on his bones.

I’ll be all right. I’m a good man. I won’t use them. This is just a precaution. It’s like I told Reg: I have to know how to fight fire with fire.

With the last curse absorbed, the book joined Grummen’s Lexicon on the carpet.

So. That was two down and four to go. There was no point in turning back now, no point at all in trying to resist. Whatever Lional knew he had to know, or he’d have done this for nothing. Killed the other Gerald for nothing. And he’d stand no chance of killing Lional in revenge.

One by one, dear Reg’s learn-it-fast hex sped up to the point where he’d stopped seeing the actual words, he read the rest of Lional’s forbidden library. A Compendium of Curses. Charming. Foyle’s Foilers. Wittily barbaric, that one. Who’d have thought a mass murderer would have such a sense of humor? Madam Bartholomew’s Little Surprise. A hex in forty-six parts, each one more horrible than the last. And finally, sickeningly, a grimoire almost as appalling as the Lexicon: Jonker Trinauld’s Guide to the Unnatural.

Bloated beyond bearing with the filthiest incants ever devised by witch or wizard, Gerald tossed Trinauld’s dreadful leatherbound observations aside and slid from Lional’s bed onto the floor. He had a headache like a railway spike driving into each temple, pain so powerful and purposeful he couldn’t see straight. Exploding behind his closed eyelids bright starbursts of agony, exquisitely timed with the hammer beats of his heart.

And beneath the pain, beneath the starbursts, his potentia seethed and bubbled.

No wonder Lional had gone mad. No man was meant to contain these kinds of magics. Not all at once. He was coming apart at the seams himself, all those dark magics prisoned inside him, boiling and bubbling and yearning to be free. If he opened his eyes would he see his skin, fissuring? Would he see cracks appearing and glimpse the evil within? His potentia had been force-fed full to vomiting, was crammed to its limits with incants and hexes that should never have been born. And now it seethed and surged the hot blood in his veins, demanding expression. Screaming to be heard.

On his hands and knees, fingers tangled in the black carpet’s deep pile, Gerald opened his eyes. Felt the pain behind them. Heard the roaring in his skull. A storm was building inside him, strong enough to smash his bones and spill his blood. Strong enough to kill him if he didn’t let it out.

The carpet beneath his hands was starting to smoke.

Lurching to his feet he threw back his head and let out a howling shriek. The ether erupted-and he erupted with it. In a burst of blue flames, the curtains caught fire. The carpet caught fire. Lional’s vast crimson bed went up in smoke and sparks. Behind the burning curtains the windows exploded.

He watched as the blue flames fed greedily on Lional’s private chamber. Smiled, and snapped his fingers, and turned the flying shards of glass to ice. The ice melted, steaming. The fire continued to burn. In his veins, in his arteries, his newly blackened blood burned wildly with it. Now he stood at the heart of a thaumaturgical conflagration-sublimely untouched and untouchable as the blue flames roared his delight.

“Good,” he said, nodding. “That’s good. That feels right.”

Smiling, he went in search of Lional.