15. DEVIN, YEAR 495

Devin rose with the sun the next morning, stretching to test his freedom of movement. He grunted with satisfaction. The muscles were sore, but healed. It had been a long, torturous night as Cornelius worked to patch the youth's skin, knit all the broken bones, and set the ribs. Finally the old wizard reversed the spell dampening the youth's magic and his power once more flowed like a geyser building just beneath the surface. Devin could hardly contain himself. The old wizard was still sleeping after the strain, but the old man did good work when he had a mind.

Cornelius had kept apologizing as he healed each of Devin's injuries. He ran a finger along the youth's skin, closing the wounds. The scars were rough and fibrous. “This is easier with trees,” the old wizard had sighed. “I am so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't think the empire would attack so soon.”

Devin sat on the stoop between the rose seedlings, tracing a finger along the scar on his arm and watching people walk down the street. He waited until all the colorful townsfolk had opened their shops. Only dark, somber imps roamed the streets. He crooked his finger. One of the cobblestones wobbled.

My magic is everything or nothing, eh? Time to show them everything. Where was that bald patch in the trees Cornelius mentioned? Devin scanned the mountain. And how did that confounded wizard dissolve the mortar when he was showing off with the cobblestones? He could lift three or four. Devin clenched his gut. How many can I lift?

You can do anything. You could make the mountains dance and you're counting rocks? the mage whispered in his head as the artificer gibbered. The power is yours to command and you have an obligation to use it.

Responsibly, the artificer mumbled. Use it responsibly, lest the power command you. This power uses and discards you. It is reckless to ignore that.

And who is responsible for your grief? Who has used and discarded you? Who is to blame for your lost life, cut off and discarded . . . like a foot? Why blame yourself when they are here, happy and free, flinging their wealth and their status in your face: those feckless citizens of the empire. Oh wait, you lost that, too.

Because he used his magic, the artificer growled. Lashed out with his magic and now he's repeating the same mistake. . .

Devin reached forth his hand and his wobbling stone teetered into the air. He held his breath as four more cobbles thrust weakly to join the first and then exhaled in a violent gush of air as all the stones dropped to the ground. He glanced at the silk and satin swathed pedestrians, but nobody paid any attention to a young man tossing rocks.

They're all looking down their noses at you, the mage said. Spying on you. How do you think the Butcher found you so quickly? Rich, noble snobs. They are all the emperor's spies. Give them a reason to respect you.

Respect is earned through worthwhile labors, not trickery, the artificer argued. Magic only instills fear.

You talk of fear, the mage scoffed. Haven't we been hiding in this backwater long enough, waiting for the sword to fall?

We were supposed to be learning magic. How to be a proper mage? the artificer prompted. Finding some balance in a torn life?

This partnership with Cornelius is a joke. We are naught but his experimental plaything. And what have we learned in exchange? the mage sneered. How to play with rocks? That mages on the eastern or western sides of the mountains can live in poverty or live in fear, respectively. Is this all it means to be a mage? Hiding until the Black Guards come for you? Getting lashed every day by the thought of Captain Vice appearing over the horizon to finish what he started and butcher us properly? Cornelius will never give up his secrets. He will never teach you anything worth knowing.

These are ordinary imperial citizens, the artificer said. Hardly Black Guards. Are we to cast all imps in the same mold as guards in disguise like they cast all mages as violent dragon spawn?

Bah! Spies never look dangerous on the outside, the mage said. Besides, don't these snobbish imps deserve a taste of that mental lash? Did they not send their sons and nephews to attack a helpless, young mage?

I fail to see the logic in harming innocent imperials to defend against bullies. How will turning him into a bully himself solve anything . . .

When has your logic brought anything but misery? the mage scoffed. He must strike with his heart. Why defend when we can attack. They only thought they feared mages before. Let's give them a reason to fear us. Cleanse the imperial scum from this town.

Devin flexed his fingers, but the magic taunted him, lingering just beyond his grasp. He still couldn't reach his powers frothing at the bottom of the well. Something was missing and the youth had a good idea what. Devin pressed his trigger finger to the cold cobbles, took one of the loose stones, raised it over his head, and smashed the finger. He curled his hand into a fist, feeling the pain pulse against his flesh as the wounded finger throbbed in protest. He glared at the pedestrians. Blood trickled through his fingers and splattered onto the cobblestones. Agony and anger siphoned the water up the well.

Ignore me, will they? How long can they ignore the dragon in their midst? They need something impressive. Something to remind them of their true place. They look too clean, too wholesome. Those imps need to look as dirty on the outside as they are vile on the inside.

A few people on the street turned to stare, but as one stares at a street performer. There wasn't enough fear and hardly any awe. This was a magic town. They expected to see tricks.

I'll show these imps a trick they'll never forget, Devin thought.

Devin raised his fist, wincing. Where the youth once had to strain to pull his power up through the well, now his power gushed and spurted. Instead of dipping into that font of power, he had to cap it with his hands lest the rush of magic and pain overwhelm him and sweep him away.

The youth strode into the middle of the street letting the black-clad people flow around him. He raised both his arms, envisioning a tornado a rubble. His fingers twitched as he remembered the curving pebble burying itself in Cornelius's wall.

Curves. Always with the damn curves. Devin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Solve the problem like an artificer, not a mage. Think it through. In his mind, he superimposed a square within his circle of cobbles. Can't make a circle. He gestured between the four cardinal points. But I can move the rocks here to here to here to here. I can make a square. Four sides. Overlay a second square. Rotate ninety degrees. Eight sides. Make a cascading tower of interlocking squares. Sixteen . . . sixty-four. A vortex of polygons. A tornado of angles. I can reduce the magic to its base mathematical components. If magic rules truly mirror those of the natural world as Cornelius claims, I can use that. Apply my artificer training to enhance rather than hinder my magic.

The ground erupted. Cobbles danced into the air. Mortar and pebbles rained from the sky. The flowing cobbles surrounded him with a hollow, spinning vortex of rubble. As the tornado grew, Devin could feel it straining and fighting him. More cobbles flew across town, converging over the youth in a large, loose spiral like grit suspended in shallow water slowly circling the drain. Devin stood in the center, soaking up the fear and the awe and the surprise. He clenched his fingers and blood dripped from his fist as the cobbles spun faster and control began slipping through his fingers.

All that trouble making one rock spin around his head and now this. Devin smiled and looked at what he had created. It was so deceptively easy now with all this power flowing through his system.

You may have created that monstrosity, the artificer sniffed, but don't deceive yourself.

Imperials squawked and screamed and dove into the shops. Devin watched them flee through his screen of dust and rubble. His feet tingled as the ground vibrated under the weight of the pounding vortex. He walked slowly through town collecting cobbles. As the tornado of debris grew bigger and angrier, Devon's control grew weaker.

“Please stop,” a woman screamed, crawling through the muck and clenching at Devin's trousers as the world spun around them. Her elaborate coiffed hair had fallen around her ears. Her black silk garments were stained. “Why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you?”

“Wretched imp. You are getting everything you deserve.” But something about that scream, the haunted look in her eyes, and the black silk triggered a memory. This was the woman who Vice accosted in the bakery. Who he was accosting now. The power faltered as his gut clenched. He stepped back and the tornado stepped with him.

A loose cobble swung low towards the woman's head and for a moment, Devin flicked the rock aside. No! She doesn't deserve death. Instead of moving one rock as he had intended, Devin's motion made the face of the tornado flicker.

The woman watched as the undulating wall of rocks shuddered around her. She fell to the ground and wept.

“This might be getting beyond my control,” Devin muttered, more to himself than to the woman.

What do you mean, beyond? the artificer asked. It was never in your control. The real magic here is your illusion that you ever controlled this wicked, wild power. Cornelius was right to liken magic to a ferocious beast. The old man just takes his own allegory too literally.

“Get inside,” Devin said, giving the woman a gentle push. “Better yet, run back to the Iron Empire. You don't belong here. None of you belong here.”

The have as much right to be here as you do . . . the artificer sighed.

But they have no magic. The sacred dragon power does not flow through their veins, the mage screeched as though this was the sole criterion of judging one worthy.

Devin pondered his world turning upside down as the woman stared, her face blank. She gathered the tattered remains of her garments, but did not move a muscle as the rocks pulsed around her.

The artificer gestured to the swirling maelstrom of chaos above Devin. Because most mages do awful things like this. The artificer shook his head, sounding like old Master Huron. Power is just a tool, the artificer said. What matters is how you use it.

“This is a land of dragons and magic. You don't belong here.” Devin gestured to the swirling vortex over their heads as he widened the quiet center of the tornado to include his . . . ahem, guest. “You've been lulled by funny-shaped breads and glowing, toy swords. Those things are safe. They're fake. This is real magic. Can't you see the difference? Can't you sense the danger?” In his mind, he saw Vice treating the woman like a hat rack. What was meant to be a ringing condemnation of the people who embodied the place which mutilated and exiled him was starting to sounded petty and hollow.

Real magic. Real magic, the mage exulted. Real magic is not controlled. Real magic is unleashed. You tore up the streets and made a tornado from the rubble. They would be blind and deaf not to acknowledge your awesome power. Let go! Let the magic run wild.

You're no better than the Butcher, the artificer spat. I expected better of you, lad. Stop brutalizing that poor woman. Uncontrolled power is just chaos. Remember the consequences the first time you lost control?

The youth stood transfixed as mental images of fire and screaming apprentices flashed through his head. Then the walls began to crumble.

And the time after that? the artificer sighed.

The sound of crumbling walls carried over from one vision to the next as a dark cloud of bricks descended over Devin's head. A pitiful, little arm reached out from the pile of bricks and the youth repressed the image. The memory was too raw. Devin screamed.

You've already put a face to your alleged tormentors, the artificer said. Here lies the cream of the empire quivering before you in a ravaged, silk dress. Ask for her name.

“You wanted to know why I'm doing this? Because you punished me. You attacked me,” he said. “The imperial you, not you the individual. I guess you're just my scapegoat for the whole damn country. Does the weight of the Iron Empire ruffle that pretty, silk dress? But I'm being rude.” Devin reached down and extended his arm. After a brief hesitation, the woman stood without taking his hand. “What is your name?”

“Linda,” the woman murmured, “of House Felis. There wasn't supposed to be real magic here. It was just a fairytale kingdom. It wasn't supposed to be real.”

Of course, the magic is real. The danger is real. But you know all about dangerous magic: you grew up in the empire. And you thought this magic fairytale kingdom was safe? All the wizards kindly old men? All the dragons cute, little lizards? Did Captain Vice shake your world, too? Did you think all Black Guards were thief catchers and protectors of the innocent? You are too naïve, as I once was, and now I've pulled you into a tornado.

“I'm sorry if I hurt you,” Devin said, reaching towards the woman's bruised face. She flinched and pulled away and he dropped his hand. “I promise that I'm not the violent, psychotic mage with little horns and dragon scales from all the propaganda posters. I mean, I've never met another mage from the empire. Ha! I don't think they have horns. But I have met a psychotic who isn't a mage and who didn't have horns and I know I'm nothing like him. So I'm a powerful mage, but I'm the safe kind of powerful mage. I know we don't have the best reputation in the empire.”

“No, you don't,” she whispered. Her eyes widened as Devin waved his arms and the tornado grew.

“We're not all like that. Magic is accepted here. Mages are respected here. They have important roles in society. I once met a Corelian mage who dedicated his life growing crops for the poor and healing sick children.”

The woman's face had a wary, carefully blank expression. It was the face of someone afraid to express any disagreement while trapped with a maniac.

“And that sounds like just another fantasy to you, doesn't it?” Devin sighed. His shoulders slumped and the tornado started to ebb. I'm not the person she thinks I am. Every mage isn't a monster. We're not all monsters.

The woman, Linda, bit her lip and nodded. Devin opened a breach in the stone vortex and gently pushed the her towards one of the adjacent buildings. “Go home. Run away from the fantasy. Go back to the Iron Empire and huddle in fear of the real mages until the Black Guards exterminate them all.”

See? the mage whispered. You couldn't sway her. She will never believe you nor believe in you. She would report every last wizard in Corel to the Black Guards if she could. She's a spy for the enemy. Don't waste your pity on a spy.

The woman sobbed and fled. Devin ran through the town, pushing the tornado blindly ahead of him. Buildings and fleeing people were replaced by grass and bushes and squeaking animals racing through the fields. One mouse, more curious, stupid, or lame than the others lingered behind. The rodent perched on its furry hind legs and wriggled its nose at the vortex and the curious human running behind it.

Nobody else approached him and soon Devin reached the edge of the forest outside town. The youth strained to bring the tornado to heel, but the storm exploded and heaved from his grasp, expanding and growing wilder.

This needs to end, Devin thought, grappling with the elemental force he had unleashed, but the storm refused to be tamed. It felt like trying to tighten the world's largest screw from inside the hole. Devin had envisioned slicing a tight, narrow trail through the forest. What he got was a scything, horizontal rain of spiraling stones pummeling through the trees.

The storm chewed through the forest in a ravenous blizzard of destruction as Devin stood horrified in its wake, coating him with a flurry of charred dust and twigs. The air smelled of toasted oak shavings. It made the youth think of Magnus's ale barrels until he smelled the blood and intestines coating the wood dust. A hail of dead animal pieces dropped from the trees and splattered.

Devin stared into the forest. The storm had created a tangled maze of uprooted trees, splintered trunks, shredded animal carcasses, and scattered cobbles winding up the mountain. The youth checked the storm's wandering path by watching the cloud of debris and shrieking birds rising above the trees. He kept watching for the glint of golden leather wings among the birds. After all his searching, not a single dragon.

Were there no baby Golden Dragons in these woods after all? Was Cornelius wrong again? Devin thought, raising his arms as he felt the storm weaken. Halfway up the mountain, the tornado had spent much of its mass and fury and the youth wrestled and nudged the remaining debris towards Cornelius's forest bald spot with his last drop of magic. He relaxed his arms. A distant rumble sounded as the rocks descended and settled on the ground.

Devin brushed some of the red-tinged sawdust off his shoulder. What just happened? The youth asked himself.

Glorious vengeance, the mage gloated. Respect is yours.

Wanton destruction, the artificer said. They will merely fear you, not respect you, and then what have you gained? Fear is common. Respect is a different animal and rare . . . as a dragon.

A piteous cry came from the edge of the woods. Devin hefted the cobble, but dropped it when he saw a small, golden shape crawl from the forest into the light. At last, a baby dragon. A tear formed even as he made plans to hide the baby from Cornelius and old man's tea fetish. The perfect, tiny scales shimmered like a living rainbow as the delicate skin over its shoulders rippled and its long neck strained, front claws pulling the creature forward.

Devin made a blind grab for the stone even has he reached for the baby with his magic, eyes never leaving his precious, little dragon. He could sense his powers recharging, feel the well slowly filling, but he was drained and could only watch. The dragon's magnificent, translucent wings fluttered in the wind like crumpled papers. The tear traced along Devin's cheeks. The baby dragged its body through the mud, one halting moment at a time, hind legs crushed and useless. Its tail twitched.

Devin swore to never let Dragon Blend touch his lips again, swore to never touch magic again as the creature squinted in the sunlight, raised its tiny, golden head, and cried to the heavens. A circling hawk answered the prayer, the bird's screeching shadow passing overhead. The tear fell. The raptor dove. All that remained of the delicate, baby dragon was a red smear and a wingtip.

The stone landed on Devin's toes.