“No, Pol.” The hybrid’s thick fingers folded the bread around the spiced dates expertly. “That’s not what I mean. I’m good at reading faces, and yours says you’re hiding things from me. Things beyond pleasure and breeding. It’s fine for now if you want to hide. I’ll eventually figure it out, with or without your help.”
Pol felt an all-too-familiar moment of paranoia, and quickly reviewed their conversation to make sure he had not revealed anything he had not meant to. He opened his mouth, sure of words to come.
“Don’t,” Shav said. “Denying it won’t do any good. I’ve contacted a linealogist at your academy, and he confirmed my suspicions. A drop of blood or semen will answer all of your questions about my heritage. You have access to both. Of course, you would still need a linealogist to perform the spells, and then your study would be public. Somehow, I gather that isn’t part of your plan. The linealogist was quite eager to know your name.”
Pol’s hearts beat harder. To be caught pursuing another guild’s lore could land him in some trouble. The fact that he had no intention of casting linealogical spells would make no difference. If the administration searched deep enough, they might even discover that he had been pursuing his own unregistered research with illegally acquired alchemicals. The academy, which inherited any documents of magical innovation upon a mage’s death, considered such illicit practices acts of sedition against Stol, punishable by death.
The chair creaked under Shav as he sat back. He did not need to smile to show his satisfaction. Not for the first time, Pol wondered what it would be like to fight the quarterstock—what it would be like to straddle his back and wrap fingers around his throat.
“No,” Shav answered the unspoken question. “I didn’t give him your name. Your secret is safe.”
“Scholars and mages are jealous of their lore,” Pol said, shrugging the matter away. “The linealogists are no exception. Nor am I. The tamers themselves, for that matter.”
Shav shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. Sometimes I think you’re simply stalling, waiting for something to announce itself. I’m not... I’m...” Mouth working, he stared through Pol’s chest.
The back of Pol’s neck tingled as the shift occurred.
“The dragon and I,” Shav finally said, voice lower than normal, words slightly slurred with the touch of an accent Pol could not name. “A halfbreed and a quarterbreed at this moment in time. The conjunction of the two is interesting, Pol. Interesting. I’ve seen a dragon crash into the sea, sure the animal had killed itself. Instead it surfaced, twisting its long neck and beating its wings upon the water, a great sea serpent clamped in its jaws—a sea serpent so large that it could’ve swallowed our tiny boat in one bite. Its skin shone like silver in the moonlight, and its thrashing frothed the sea like a child’s hand slapping bathwater.”
Pol did not interrupt, though he knew no mortal man had ever sailed upon the ocean.
Shav leaned forward, eyes liquid and unfocused. “The Needle had only risen halfway, and the moon showed a quarter of her face. I stared at the destruction coming swiftly: a wall of black water that blotted out the stars along the horizon. I waited and told my men to prepare themselves. Some of them prayed to Adrash, some to Orrus, and some to the devil.” He dipped his head and touched his horns almost reverently. “Me, I just waited for the inevitable, almost wanting it. Most likely, I would die along with my men. An odd feeling, being that powerless.”
He blinked. His amber eyes refocused. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he spoke in the voice Pol had become accustomed to.
“Someday soon, I think you’ll know what that feels like.”
‡
To Pol’s astonishment, the statement had haunted him for days. Finally, chagrined that it should take him so long to see the light of reason, he dismissed the possibility that Shav had performed an extraordinary feat of magic. No, the quarterstock had merely read the signs of Pol’s anxiety.
Though he had seen Adrash through the cloudy lens of magnification spells many times, Pol had never ventured within a thousand miles of the god. He had always run from the divine presence as he had been taught—yet if all went according to Ebn’s plan, in less than two weeks he would encounter Adrash in the flesh. The thought made his hearts thunder.
Pol examined his fear, and it disgusted him.
Is this the man Adrash will see? he asked himself. A coward?
Shame drove him forward. A mere day after talking with Shav, he began tattooing himself with alchemical ink of his own design—a foolhardy enterprise, surely. There were precedents, but only a few, and by accounts those men had gone mad.
Gone mad? An understatement, surely. The mage Dor wa Dol, driven to such insanity by his sigils, had single-handedly caused the Cataclysm. He had been captain of the outbound mages at the time, an elderman in the prime of his ability.
Clearly, even the hardiest elderman could not handle that much alchemy coursing through his body for long.
Pol knew the risks, having researched the possibility for years. Aside from the likelihood of overloading one’s body with magic, the execution of each sigil had to be exact. One misstroke, and the consequences would be dire.
Nonetheless, he proceeded.
First, his left shoulder: a rudimentary warding sigil. His hand shook so severely that the character—four simple lines—took nearly an hour to complete. When nothing untoward happened—indeed, when his voice failed to rouse the symbol to life—he painted a second, slightly more complex character on his bicep: a flight sigil. This too remained dormant despite his attempts to activate it. Emboldened and not a little frustrated, he drew a sigil on his right wrist, his left shin, his stomach.
Once started, he could not stop. In numb horror he watched his body become a canvas of inert magical symbols.
The morning sun slanted through his windows. The day progressed, and then the evening. A week passed, during which he added several new sigils. He took to wearing long-sleeved, close-fitting garments. Whatever he had imagined might happen in time, did not. The black characters lay dormant despite his every incantation. He did not grow ill or suffer visions. Disappointed that years of expectation had apparently presaged nothing, he stopped tattooing himself.
It was only on the morning of Ebn’s mission, as he contemplated the prospect of his own death, that he found the exercise had produced something of value.
The act of tattooing—of risking his body for the sake of power—had silenced his fear.
‡
The world flared against Pol’s eyelids. He opened them in time to see the great fireball the wyrm had belched disperse into nothingness: A lightning flash, stamping the afterimage in Pol’s mind—a fluorescing cloud, amorphous and vast, dwarfing the giant serpent that had birthed it. Its long, razor-toothed jaws opening and closing.
The other mages were already moving, fingering their spell-laden bandoliers. Pol would not mirror their anxiousness. He would not fidget. When the occasion called for action, his movements would be fluid and precise.
To his right, Ebn signed with fingers that glowed blue with magefire. One minute. On my signal.
Forty-one mages signed their understanding, and waited. For sixty seconds, Pol thought of Shav, arms and thighs tightly gripping the wyrm’s skull, bonedusted skin hoary with ice crystals. Were his eyes closed behind the heavy goggles? Or was he staring down at the mages even now, thinking his inexplicable thoughts? Perhaps he watched the stars, which seemed close enough now to touch. One last look before returning to earth.