Page 16 of Muddled Magic

Blood.

Groaning, I forced my eyes open. They saw nothing, of course, so my other senses immediately roused to make up for the deficiency. My head—my nose—was throbbing. My neck was aching, and I realized the ricochet had snapped my head back, cracking it against the smooth wood of my prison.

I had just enough room in my prison to lift my hands and tenderly touch my nose. It wasn’t just my nose that had fractured, but my cheekbones too. Forget the bruising, I could get a horrible infection if I didn’t heal my face as soon as possible. My magic had started the process while I’d been unconscious, but it was only a stopgap measure. I needed to direct its energy for an injury of this magnitude.

Sucking in one ragged and shuddering breath after another, I slowly calmed, Dad’s voice echoing in my mind, Only prey panics. Hawthornes are never prey. You might be in pain, you might be in danger, but you will not panic. You will think, and then you will fight your way out.

Emerald green magic bloomed and twined around my fingers, absent its golden sparks, for I wasn’t happy at all, and I focused on what I could do. I would heal myself, I would find a way out of this cage, and I would stop Marten from making the biggest mistake of his life.

I healed the fractures to my cheekbones first, mewling and whimpering like a distressed kitten the entire time, but there was no one there to be embarrassed in front of. So I cried and shrieked and blubbered, whatever it took, and then focused on my nose. There was no mirror to see if I was setting it straight, so I had to rely on touch alone, which was the very thing I didn’t want to do—probe ruined flesh.

When it was done, I twisted my head to the side and spat out the blood that had pooled inside my mouth, painting the lefthand side of my round prison red. Then I brushed all of the dried blood from my face so I could actually concentrate and not get grossed out feeling it inevitably flaking off my skin. I did not want to vomit in here.

The magic wreathing my hands provided just enough light to see by, which proved less comforting than I wished. My cage didn’t allow me any room to sit down, though I could turn a full circle without bumping into anything if I didn’t flare my elbows. I’d have to stand the entire time until Marten’s spell wore off—unacceptable. I couldn’t chase after him if I was jelly-legged.

Cautiously, I inspected the trees—sealed seamlessly—and the spell that confined me. I didn’t have any Caer powder to reveal the threads of the spell, so I needed to proceed slowly so I didn’t activate some embedded countermeasure that would break my face again. It would be the same procedure as examining a crystal to see if it had any stored magic within… and if it was boobytrapped.

Each probing tendril of magic I extended into the wood was repelled. The spell seemed to know I was trying to find a weakness and didn’t like that one bit. The wood sparked everywhere my magic touched… until I changed my intent.

I’m not trying to escape, my magic crooned to the spell. It was a tough sell, so I focused on something I truly did want. I just want some air. Can I have more air, please?

Well, Marten might be vindictive, but he wasn’t heartless. His spell was designed to contain, not kill. So if its prisoner was suffering as a result of the spell, but not actively trying to escape, it would react accordingly. Magic was precise like that.

There was a muffled groaning, and the trees that imprisoned me relaxed. Tiny gaps formed like those of a lattice, allowing in shafts of evening sunlight and the whistling northern wind. My whole body sighed with relief.

Maybe a little more space too?

The trees groaned again, keeping their lattice tight but slouching until they no longer resembled a pillar but a bulbous vase, and I rolled my shoulders with another relieved sigh.

Thanks.

There was no reply, but I didn’t truly expect one. Then, crouching down, for I could do that now, I pawed at the ground at my feet.

Thistle thorns! He’s even bespelled the ground with a barrier!

I rocked out of my crouch and onto my backside, a tremor shuddering up the latticework prison as my back slammed into the smooth wall of woven saplings. From the slant of the sunlight, twilight would be upon the manor soon. Then true darkness, and my panic at confinement would rise again until the moon shone through the tiny gaps.

Gaps so small I couldn’t even fit my index finger through them.

But a pinky finger…

I scrambled onto my hands and knees then, ever so carefully attempting to slide my pinky finger through the gap closest to the stony floor.

I’m not escaping, I’m not escaping, my magic convinced the spell. Just getting more air. It’s dreadfully claustrophobic in here. Just a touch of the outdoors will calm me right down. Just a little touch…

Relief made me go momentarily boneless as the spell and the saplings let my pinky finger wiggle through the gap. It’s not like I had superhuman strength which I could use to grip the newly made fingerholes and tear myself free. Not even with the aid of battle magic. The spell knew that, because Marten knew that, and there was no life up in this barren section of the northern hills, save the seeds my brother had scattered before my arrival, for me to call upon, so what did it matter?

Well, good thing I had no intention of calling upon the wizened trees of the lower altitudes.

Bending a knuckle, my fingertip lowered until it just barely touched the rocky ground. It was enough.

Without hesitating, I sent out a Scouting Spell for Boar.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Scouting Spell could be as broad or specific as the witch desired, and I focused it specifically on the magical signature of my older cousin. He was one of the only thirty-something-year-olds who wasn’t a robed elder, nor the spouse of one, and we’d always been one of each other’s favorites. Boar was also less than impressed with Marten on a daily basis, mostly due to Marten’s attitude, not his aptitude, and that made him my best bet for a sympathetic ear.

The sonar-like ping of my spell homed in on him and continued to nudge him, almost like the poke of an invisible finger. This type of precision needed constant concentration, lest I “poke” anyone else I didn’t want to, and I began to tremble from the prolonged exertion. I was already sweating buckets—summers were hot here at Hawthorne Manor, more so in confined spaces like my tree-lattice cage—and the loss of water without replenishing it was starting to take a toll too.

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