If there was one thing that Maziar hated more than the way that rumors could fly, it was being the center of attention—and his status as the infamous caster who couldn’t even cast a summoning spell right was lasting far longer than he’d anticipated.
He should have known how bad it would be from the very day after he summoned her when he opened his door to see his classmates sitting in the South Cradle common room with broad smirks across their faces. Half of them didn’t even live in the South Cradle. They were there for one reason, and one reason only: Maziar and his new ‘familiar.’
And over the following week, the crowd they’d gathered hoping to witness his ‘familiar’ had only grown thanks to Cardin Zyers. It was amazing how much trouble one idiot could cause—and the irony of that thought was not lost on Maziar.
“That’s him,” he heard someone snicker from the side. Maziar didn’t even recognize that person.
“Did he really?” someone else said as the crowd began to gasp and gossip about Maziar's appearance in the room.
“I heard that…”
“That can’t be!”
“What an idiot.”
Cardin, of course, was lounging in the middle of them all with his legs up on the table and his hands behind his head.
Prick, Maziar thought with a light growl—but he was careful not to show emotion. These people fed off emotions, and he wasn’t about to give them what they wanted.
“Tell us, Maziar,” Cardin said, a grin spreading wide across his teeth. “Where’s that pretty familiar of yours? You can’t keep her all to yourself, you know.”
“Can’t you read?” Maziar asked. “The Tower put out an announcement that—”
“That she isn’t your familiar?” Cardin interrupted. “Why, yes, I do recall your mother trying to bail you out of your latest screw-up. But you didn’t think we were stupid enough to buy that, did you? You said it yourself. You didn’t even know what your contract was.”
Maziar crossed his arms. “And how does not knowing it in one moment prevent me from figuring it out later?”
“Because you aren’t that smart,” Cardin said, twitching. “But sure. Let’s say that you did. Prove it.”
“Sorry?”
“Prove it. Go ahead and tell us what the contract was,” Cardin said as if it was a perfectly normal thing to ask.
And it was, but Maziar hadn’t thought that far ahead, and his stomach lurched as he made up something on the spot.
“It was a material contract,” he lied. “We figured it out after the Grand Wizard did a mana trace.”
Cardin wouldn’t buy it. He wanted Maziar to be the biggest screw-up in the room—but Maziar had hope that the others in the room would think it was reasonable enough to lose interest.
Predictably, Cardin scoffed at his answer. “So, what? You gave her a few gold coins and let her stay at the Tower out of some twisted sense of goodwill? I doubt it. Why don’t you call her out and let her answer herself?”
Maziar glanced at Ennette’s door behind him. The truth was that even he hadn’t so much as seen a hair of the strange girl’s head since Marlen made the apartment for her. He wanted to knock on her door to check on her, but drawing attention to her door would probably make matters worse—and the consequences they’d face if their answers didn’t match up would be horrendous.
“I really don’t think either she or I need to do anything you say,” said Maziar. “And I have better things to do than argue with you.”
Hoping that she wouldn’t even think about leaving the room that day, Maziar leaned back inside his room and grabbed his coat. Trying to avoid their eyes and sharp tongues, he headed toward the stairs—but Cardin stood and held out an arm to block him.
Too close, the rat-like boy said, “You really are a cocky little bastard.”
“Get out of my face, Zyers,” Maziar said.
“Or what? You’ll get Mommy and her minions to help you? Maybe beg Ollie to help you when he gets back? ‘Boo hoo, they bullied me!’” Cardin mocked, eliciting snorts of laughter from the onlookers.
Or I’ll make sure my real familiar pays you a visit tonight, Maziar wanted to say, but that would only cause more problems so he kept his mouth shut.
Not getting the rise out of Maziar he was looking for, Cardin scoffed and hit Maziar’s head lightly, trying to push him down.
“Look at you,” he said, hitting him again. “Can’t even fight back! You really are the most worthless piece of shit.”
Maziar grit his teeth and stood his ground. He knew the limits—so did Cardin. Fighting back would only make things worse.
“Are you done?” Maziar asked, glancing down at Cardin.
Lip curling, the other boy recognized that he wasn’t going to be able to make Maziar embarrass himself further, so he turned back to his crowd with spread arms.
“See that, everyone?” Cardin said. “He’s useless as it is, but he’s even too much of a coward to defend himself! I’ll bet you anything the next thing he does is go running to his mommy and tell her all about what a bad person I am—but you saw it all, right? I didn’t do anything, did I?”
Maziar watched him speak his nonsense as if it was supposed to mean something. How stupid were the people who bought anything that Cardin Zyers said? How could anyone have followed anything he said? It was a mystery.
Fed up with the circus, Maziar hopped down the stairs two steps at a time and headed to the stables to find War.
War generally made his way to the stables during the night to avoid the stable hands from becoming too suspicious—though Maziar always suspected that he treated them as just another treat dispensary and went for the sweets instead. The stable master always came armed with carrots and sugar cubes, and while they weren’t apples, he wasn’t about to miss out on them, either.
The stable master waved when he saw him and helped him get War saddled up. He was a pleasant man, and on a normal day, Maziar would take the time to enjoy chatting with him, but after everything that had happened and the suffocating stares he got in the Southern Cradle’s common room, all he wanted was to escape. He knew War could feel it, too, cooperating as he was instead of demanding tribute.
“You seem troubled, boy,” the stable master said, watching as Maziar struggled to strap his sword to War’s saddle, his hands shaking from anger. Tapping Maziar’s hand, he gently pushed Maziar away and did it for him.
“I’m fine,” Maziar said. “Just…tired.”
“I heard about what’s going on,” the stable master said, and before Maziar could snap out an angry reply, he added, “All I want is for you and War here to come back safe and sound. It’s not this old man’s place to stop you, but riding angry isn’t safe to start, and word on the road is that people are getting desperate. It’s best not to go far; it’s best to stay out of trouble.”
Ashamed, Maziar cast his head down. “Thank you,” he said.
The stable master gave him a warm smile and looked over the tack once more before giving him a nod of approval.
With everything in place and the stable master’s blessing, Maziar hopped up on War’s back and trotted off to the entrance of the Tower. Clear of the gate, they took off in whatever direction War wanted to run.
Galloping at full speed down the road, they ran, the wind ripping through Maziar’s hair and clothing, drowning out the hateful thoughts in his head.
If he had his magic, they wouldn’t treat him like that. If he had his magic, he wouldn’t need to think twice about putting them in their place.
If he had his magic.
If he had his magic.
"Shit!" Maziar cursed, letting the wind whip away the tears of frustration bubbling in his eyes.
If he had his magic, none of this would have happened in the first place.
It wasn’t regret. He didn’t regret giving up his magic—if fact, being at the Tower had solidified his opinions about that much. Just watching the pressure that some of them were going through because of the expectations about their power and strength told him he’d made the right choice. Even the ones he’d grown up with and knew weren’t the kind of people they made themselves out to be as they climbed up the power ladder.
But how much easier would it be for him if he could turn them all to ashes with a snap of his fingers?
Gritting his teeth, he pushed War harder down the road with nothing in mind but running.
Something whizzed past War’s head, causing him to balk, duck out of the way, and then rear. War's hooves pawed the air wildly as he turned on his hindlegs.
Maziar threw himself forward, shifting as much of his weight forward to try and keep his balance, panic sending a rush of adrenaline streaking through his body.
War calmed almost immediately, but his head whipped around back to the direction the object had come from while Maziar traced the trajectory to a goose-feather arrow lodged into the trunk of a sugar maple.
“You can’t be serious,” Maziar muttered as he turned toward the rustling bushes on the side of the road. He should have known. Forget my magic, Maziar grumbled to himself. Apparently, I gave away all my luck, too.
“‘Ey, now,” a man said as he stepped out of the shadows. He was stout with graying brown hair and one arm, in which he held a fine steel blade. “That was some mighty fine riding there, laddy. I expected that horse to throw you right down the road at that speed.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Maziar said, taking a tighter hold on War's reins. He doubted the man was alone, but scanning the forest line, he couldn't determine how many people were hiding. Even if they were surrounding him, he and War would probably have no issues running.
But what were bandits doing this close to the Tower, anyway?
"Not so much a disappointment as it is...unlucky circumstance," the man said, sticking the point of his blade into the ground and leaning on it. "Don't much like killin' kids, you see."
Maziar looked at the man doubtfully. "Then don't?" he said.
"Offerin' to cooperate, are you?" the man said. "How nice of ye', offerin' to walk back to wherever it is you came from—but I can't just have you leave now, seein' my face an' all!"
"It wasn't an offer," Maziar told him. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought it was. War’s feelings of excitement and bloodthirst emanated through to him as several other men came out and surrounded him and War. "It was a suggestion."
"Suggestion?"
"This road is owned by the Tower," Maziar told him, dismounting and drawing his sword from the sheath on War’s saddle. The man exchanged a glance with one of the other men. “Which means that any member of the Tower has the legal right and obligation to deal with any threat posed to travelers using it. It's a nuisance, honestly—but I suppose I should actually thank you. You appeared at just the right time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, now?” the one who’d approached them first asked.
“I was having a bad day,” said Maziar, swinging his sword around to warm up. “And it’s finally about to get better.”
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