Page 104 of Minor Works of Meda

“Why wasn’t it necessary?”

I could see the sharp, sudden shift in her posture; the straightening as she realized she’d misspoken.

“We saw their ships retreat,” she started to say, turning towards me.

I grabbed her power in fistfuls and slammed her back against the stone wall of the building. She wheezed and twisted her hands.

“Don’t try that,” I snarled. I yanked her towards me, then slammed her back against the wall again. She panted for air, but her trembling fingers didn’t shape sigils.

“Mistress. The Order will be angry—”

I felt her struggling to pull her magic back, but my hands were in it now, and the magic was eager to sink into my blood. I called it towards me, my blood chanting with fury.

“How did you know? How did you know they had what they wanted?” I demanded.

“I told you. We saw—” her lips paled as the magic refused to return to her.

“You’d best start praying. You’re going to need it.”

“It was his life or all of ours.”

“His life? You idiot.”

“We had no choice,” she gasped.

“Sure. Me neither,” I told her. And then I dragged the rest of the heat from her body. Not all of it; I left a thin spark. Enough to keep her alive. She slid down to the ground as her power burned sourly through me. Without the magic wrapped into a sigil-pattern, my blood couldn’t hold it. It burned away like dry grass.

The door was locked. I pounded, and didn’t stop pounding, until I saw the knob turn.

Oraik stood at the other side, glossy eyed and swaying slightly. He crushed me in a hug.

“Meda! Oh. Was that you?” He let go of me, staring at the unconscious witch a few feet away.

“Pack your things. We’re leaving,” I told him.

“Goodness. Well, come in, my little terror.”

I followed him into a sitting room with a hanging lantern. A folded blanket draped over an embroidered divan. In front of it, a low marble table held a small half-consumed glass of liqueur and an upside-down book, spread wide open to hold its reader’s place. Apart from these few small human details the room felt as empty and ornate as a mausoleum.

He stumbled to a bar and yanked the top from a glass bottle, grabbing one of the tiny liqueur cups.

“You’re drunk,” I observed. That had the potential to make things difficult.

“Drunk?” Oraik turned around, eyes wide. His big hand made the liqueur glass look even smaller. “No, I don’t think so. Perhaps a little.”

“You need to get your things.”

“It’s the middle of the night.” When I didn’t take the cup, Oraik set it down on the table and dropped on the divan. It wheezed in protest under his weight.

“We have to go.”

“Why do you look so angry? Why did you attack that poor tiffa?” He held a hand out towards me. I crossed my arms.

“This place is a joke. Are you coming, or not?”

“Mm… yes,” Oraik said. With a groan he hauled himself up, finished his drink, and grabbed the book off the table. Folding it shut, he tucked it under his arm. “Alright, door’s this way.”

“Put some shoes on,” I said. “And you might want a change of clothes.”

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