Of Caverns and Casters ✓ [TLRQ #1]

Chapter 50 - Aster

The warm wood floor beneath me almost feels flimsy in comparison to the solid stone of the castle. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the gaudy orange bedroom, I can't help but be homesick. The decor itself screams that I don't belong here: I ought to be in the crisp, cream living room Agraund chose for me; I ought to be in the chandelier-lit dining hall among bickering nobles; I ought to be in a stone practice room with blood smeared on the floor. I belong under the weight of responsibilities to come, not under the levity of frilled pillows and bright walls.

I belong under the watchful eye of my uncle.

I shiver, thinking of Amarris in her manor, with only the storms and thin lies to hide me from her. These wooden walls feel flimsy indeed. But part of me is glad this isn't the castle. This whole excursion has been a waste of time, resources, and energy— a complete mistake. I cringe. Fleeing my country like a traitor might have been excusable if I had been able to return home a hero. I take out my casting knife and sit it on the floor beside me. If I had managed to get more schooling, if I had managed to improve or accomplish something, perhaps I might have been able to find their forgiveness. But I have nothing to stand for my absence, and there will be consequences. Trying to banish images of Agraund from my mind, I set my wooden ball a few feet in front of me.

I took a risk, and it won't pay off.

But just because I didn't find what I was looking for here does not mean I cannot still study while I wait for the snow to clear. I must get better; I must have something to show for all of this. It's not good enough that I have been re-casting the spell to keep people from scrying us—I need to improve, not keep doing what I already can.

The words to the spell Agraund was trying to teach me enter my mind, the spell to keep an item immovable in space. The holding spell.

A spell you should have learned long ago! he said.

I tap the ball, and it rolls slowly away. Taking out some powder, I sprinkle it at the ball and begin the incantation. The knife slips deep into the pad of my thumb, and I sling the blood toward the ball. The pull rises inside me. I can still let go of the spell, end it before I am too far in. No, I rebuke myself. No.

The pull increases, a pressure deep inside me, yearning to escape. It flits across my mind that the spell might be too strong, just like every time before, just like every time I tried to cast this with Agraund. But it's too late.

Now—I let go, let the spell take its course, let it take control. No longer making my own movements, I watch my blood-stained thumb smear the red liquid onto my other digits. My arms gesture at the ball, and the incantation crescendos.

Faintly, I feel blood drip off my lip. Something deep inside me drains, and tendrils of fear wrap themselves around my muscles. I can't keep this up. I need this spell to end. Soon. But as the pull rises like a cresting wave, I know I don't have the strength to complete it this time either

I remember what I told Leavi: Sometimes, it's a good idea to force the spell to backlash. And Agraund's not here to save me this time.

Come on, come on. I need to muster the strength, the will to take my body back, to control my movements.

I'm numb and distant from myself, though. The magic has filled me, banishing me from my own frame. My body is the world outside a well. My consciousness is the water draining down a hole that the magic tore in the bottom, while the sky fades into a pinpoint I can hardly see. The magic is everything—it has me, is me, and everything I am is the magic.

And I'm numb.

Another flash of resistance darts through my mind. I die if I don't end this.

My fingernails scrape at the stones of my mind's well, grabbing and clutching at the wall, dragging myself up. The magic pushes at me, but I push back, shoving, fighting, clawing. I must get out.

An inkling of feeling twinges in my arm, and I jump on the opportunity.

I make a sharp motion that doesn't belong in the ritual, and the power of the magic snaps back into me, away from the almost-spell. As if the magic's force is a physical blow, I fall back into the wall behind me, blood dripping from my nose, eyes fluttering closed.

My chest aches where the life sucked away by casting leaves me hollow. My head aches from the backlash. My nose aches from the blood trickling out. But I'm alive. I'm alive.

I want to curl up, sleep this pain off, revive, not worry about magic anymore. But I cannot just give up. I cannot allow myself to become any weaker than I already am.

"If you can't cast properly, the least you can do is not crumple when you fail," I mutter.

Forcing my leaden arm up with a handkerchief, I clean my face. I must continue; I have to try this spell again. Maybe not immediately, maybe I need to build up more strength first, but soon. I need to be stronger than this.

For Morineaux.

I take a deep breath, clearing away the black dots dancing around my vision. For Morineaux.

I keep practicing.