“Sorry,” he said, scrambling to his knees, panting, scared to look up at them, especially his mother. He bent to gather the scrolls, reaching over to set each one on the table. Once they were all on the table, Timo slowly stood up, keeping his eyes on the scrolls in front of him. He heard a snicker, then his mother’s voice.
“Faron,” she snapped.
“Arabella is quite right,” Inigo said. “We shouldn’t laugh at another’s misfortune. No doubt the boy will grow out of this clumsy stage.” He paused. “In time.”
“I do apologise,” a smooth male voice said.
Timo lifted his eyes a fraction. The blond Mage didn’t look even a little bit sorry.
“Poor Arabella,” the man, Faron, continued. “I completely forgot that this . . . Apprentice of Rorik’s is your son.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “How very motherly of you to come to his defense.”
Timo heard his mother’s indrawn breath from where he stood. Why was it an insult to want to protect her child? And why wouldn’t she even look his way? He risked a glance at the rest of the council and met Inigo’s piercing gaze. Timo quickly looked at his feet, trying with all his might to supress a shudder.
He knew that Hestor loathed him but the depth of hatred in Inigo’s eyes scared him. He quickly created a spell of protection and relaxed slightly when mauve mage mist enveloped him. He had his answer though. Inigo
would
dare to kill him here, in front of his mother. He thought Inigo would dare anything.
“He looks very much like his father, doesn’t he?” another of the council members said, the bored one. “But with Arabella’s colouring. Too bad his power isn’t as strong.”
“Yes, and much unexpected,” Faron said. “It’s almost unheard of for two such powerful Mages to produce a child with so little power.”
“It does happen,” Arabella said.
“So you keep telling us,” Inigo replied. “No matter. You’ve carried out your Master’s request, you may leave, Timo Valendi, Apprentice to Mage Guild Primus Rorik.”
Timo nodded and backed away, all the way to the door. He didn’t care if they all laughed at him, he didn’t care if they knew he was terrified. The way Inigo had intoned his name and title had sounded far too much like the Founders Day Call to remember those who had died in the past year. As he hurried to Rorik’s house, all Timo could do was pray to Gyda that Mole came for him soon. One man in that council chamber didn’t believe that he was weak, didn’t believe that he wasn’t a threat. And he didn’t believe he should let Timo live.
Once in his room, Timo spent a few hours reinforcing the safeguards he’d placed around it. When he’d done everything he could think of magically, he spent a few moments setting non-magical traps. Mole had told him that no Assassin would take the contract, but that didn’t mean someone else wouldn’t. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. How long could he barricade himself inside his room, inside this house?
He should have gone with Mole when he’d had the chance. It wouldn’t matter to Inigo if Timo left as a runaway or as a Guildsman—he wanted Arabella Fonti’s son dead.
Timo had never been off Mage Guild Island. Rorik and his mother had never even allowed him to step into one of the many small boats that dotted the underside of the island.
He got up and stood in front of his book shelf. There it was. Rorik had given it to him when he was young, before he’d found his magic. He’d learned how to read using this book, but it also had drawings—maps—of Rillidi. It wasn’t accurate but it had the basics—which islands were connected by bridges and where the ferry docks were. Things he’d need to know in order to get safely to Old Rillidi.
He sat down at his desk and opened the book. He had no idea if Inigo knew Warrior Guild wasn’t going to send an Assassin. Mole might not return in time. Timo wasn’t about to die waiting for him.
TIMO WASN’T GOING
to pretend anymore. He couldn’t afford to. On his visit to the council chambers and his encounter with Faron’s spell, he could have walked right into his own death. He could not,
would not
, let that happen. From now on his goal was to stay alive long enough for either Mole to return for him or for him to leave on his own. And that meant he had to use every skill and talent he had available. It also meant he had to tell Rorik. His Master could not send him out into danger again.
“Master Rorik?” Timo tentatively stuck his head into Rorik’s workroom. There was no sign of the Primus, but the work room was a mess. Scrolls and papers and books were scattered over every surface. Shelves lined every wall, leaving only tiny rectangles of light where the windows weren’t fully covered by books stacked on the ledges. Mage mist swirled across everything. Mostly it was Rorik’s tan colour but there were smatterings of purple and some of the dustiest stacks had a dark, grey-black tint to them. Timo had always kept well clear of those. Although the spells were old and almost faded they still felt threatening.
He sighed. He really should try to create some order in his Master’s workroom. It was one of his duties as an Apprentice, after all, but he’d never been comfortable in this room. Generations of Mages had committed spells to the paper and books in this room, and to Timo it felt as though all that magic had saturated the air until he could hardly breathe. He shook his head and squared his shoulders. A deep breath told him that he was imagining things—the air was dusty but perfectly fine—so he set to work.
Two hours later and the work room was presentable. All except for two stacks of books on the top shelf of the book case that was the furthest from the door. He peered up at the shelf. Grey-black mage mist covered the books, almost obscuring the thick layer of dust. He dragged a chair over and climbed up, stretching to reach the books with the dusting cloth. The threat he felt emanating from the mage mist made him hesitate for a few moments, his hand hovering just out of range of the sluggish mage mist. He heard the door to the work room open.
“What in Gyda’s name are you doing?” Rorik said from the doorway. “Get down from there!”
Timo almost tumbled as he stepped off the chair. “Sorry, Primus,” he said. “I was just trying to dust the top shelf.”
Rorik peered at him, and Timo took a step back, horrified to see a new spell swirling around the Mage Primus’ head. A new
golden
spell.
“Do you feel all right?” Timo asked. “I mean . . .” He stopped, eyeing the open door.
“What do you see?” Rorik whispered. He flicked a hand, and tan mage mist flew to the door, closing it tight. “Come here, lad. I need to know what you see.”
“So you do know,” Timo said. “You and Mother, you both know.” He stepped up to Rorik and studied the new curse.
“No,” Rorik said. “It’s too dangerous. We don’t talk about it even between ourselves, but we suspect.
I
suspect. But I haven’t felt well at all today, not since meeting with key members of the council.” He sat down heavily behind his work table. “And now I suspect something else.” He lifted tired eyes to Timo. “I’ve been cursed again, haven’t I?”
Timo nodded.
“Do you know by whom?”
Timo nodded again, and Rorik rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed. “Inigo?”
“Yes,” Timo replied. He grabbed the chair he’d been standing on, dragged it in front of the table, and sat down. “He set the other curse on you—the one that Kara said was nasty when she removed it.”
“Do you think you could remove this one?” Rorik asked. “It feels like it means me real harm.”
Timo leaned over the table top and stared at the gold mage mist that circled Rorik’s head. He reached out a hand and tentatively poked at the mist. It recoiled from his touch slightly and then it started to circle faster.
“I don’t know,” Timo said. “I don’t have any experience doing this.” Because no one would even acknowledge that he had unmagic, he wanted to shout, so of course he didn’t know how to properly use it. “But it feels like a malicious spell.”
“Yes.” Rorik gave him a half smile. “It feels like a malicious spell from this side as well.” He sat back in his chair. “Perhaps I’ll see how I feel in a few days. Maybe I’ll recover.” Rorik didn’t seem very hopeful, and Timo couldn’t blame him.
Rorik pulled his journal over to him and picked up a pencil. “Was there anything else?” he asked.
Timo looked down at his hands and then met his teacher’s gaze. “Yes. Please don’t send me on any errands for a while. It’s not safe for me outside of your quarters.”
Rorik stared at him for a few seconds. “No, I suppose it isn’t,” he said quietly. “Not when they’re brazen enough to curse me. You’re to stay inside my walls until Founders Day. As your Master, I order you.”
Timo nodded and stood to leave. He was two steps from the door when he turned around to face Rorik. “Those books up on the top shelf, the ones I was going to dust. Whose were they?”
Rorik looked up towards the shelf in question. “I think you already know, lad. They belonged to your father.”
Timo nodded and left the room. He had known, of course, but he’d wanted it not to be true. Sixteen years after his death, Valerio Valendi’s mage mist still felt so menacing that his son didn’t even want to touch it. What did that say about the man who had fathered him? What did it say about
him
? He’d inherited his magical abilities from his parents—had he inherited their ruthlessness and cruelty?
No. He would not become like his mother—or worse—his father. He would escape to Old Rillidi and live with Kara and his half-brother Giona and Santos Nimali. But Santos had mentored Valerio Valendi. Had his father been taught to be so cruel by his master?
Timo shook his head. Santos had been cursed by his own Journeyman. If he’d taught Valerio Valendi to be evil, he would have expected that, been prepared for it. Santos had trusted his student, too much as it turned out, but he had trusted him.
“I’M TELLING YOU
that it’s not natural.”
“So you keep saying,” Arabella said. She poured more tea into Rorik’s cup and frowned when he closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his temple.
“The Healer could not help,” Rorik said. He opened his eyes and stared down at his cup.
“Then try another Healer,” Arabella said. “Surely there’s at least one who is an expert at getting rid of headaches.”
“Yes, the one I went to.” Rorik looked up and met her eyes, and Arabella shrank from the pain she saw there. “She couldn’t help because it’s not natural.”
“There’s no proof.”
“Not that
you
would believe,” Rorik said. “But Timo is my Apprentice.”
“Stop it!” Arabella said. “Don’t you dare involve my son.”
“He saw it,” Rorik mumbled, as though he was talking to himself. “I didn’t have to ask—he saw it, and it startled him. Scared him, even. Inigo cursed me.”
“Shhh, quiet,” Arabella said. “You don’t know that. And you can’t say things like that here. This room isn’t shielded.”
“Who else could it be?” Rorik asked. “Inigo has always wanted more than the council—it seems he’s tired of waiting.”
Arabella shook her head and sipped her tea. If Inigo wanted to be elevated from council he would target her—not Rorik. She set her cup into its saucer. Rorik was weak; Inigo knew that. With the right incentive, Rorik could be persuaded to select Inigo as Secundus if her position were to become . . . vacant. She, on the other hand, would never choose Inigo for anything. He knew that too.
“I fail to see how targeting you would benefit Inigo,” she said.
“Make sure you are shielded,” Rorik said. “And Timo . . .”
“What about my son?”
“We should warn him,” Rorik said. “Or better yet send him away. He’s in danger.”
“Send him where?” She met Rorik’s gaze.
“There’s one place where he’d be safe,” Rorik said. “One place we’ve never been able to attack successfully.”
“What? No! I will not send him there,” Arabella said. She couldn’t believe Rorik was even suggesting it—not after all these years of trying to destroy them. “I forbid you to say anything to him. The boy belongs here—as my Journeyman—not on some pile of rocks with his witch of a sister and the mad mage.”
“They can keep him safe,” Rorik said. “They may be the only ones who can.”
Arabella followed his gaze to his hands. To her horror they were trembling. She looked up and studied Rorik’s face. She’d always thought of him as a Mage in his prime but now he looked broken and old. Perhaps he
was
seriously ill, too far gone for the Healers to help.
She leaned back in her chair, worried. She’d assumed Rorik would live for many years yet, that there was plenty of time for Timo to be her Journeyman and then become a full Mage. It would only make sense that she would appoint him as Secundus when she became Primus, even though he was her son.
But if Rorik died now . . . Who could she trust? She closed her eyes and breathed out. There was no one. Inigo controlled the council. There may be a few Mages who weren’t as loyal to Inigo as they professed, but that didn’t mean she could trust them.
She’d always thought she’d manipulated Rorik into choosing her as Secundus, but she’d be grateful if she had someone as trustworthy as she’d been. Rorik had wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake by not having a Journeyman and perhaps another Apprentice. Now she wondered if she hadn’t made an even bigger one. Inigo hated Timo almost as much as he hated her. She’d been counting on his unmagic to protect them both, but who knew how strong and reliable that was?