Page 34 of A Chill in the Flame
It was the acquisition of powers that didn’t belong toyou. Certain practitioners operated beyond the church and its boundaries. These fae, so the rumors went, had found ways to tap into magics that were not theirs to possess. They, like the church and its Reds, believed magic to be a singular unit—often called “groundwater” by magical zealots for the way it flowed and filled the earth—and fae manifestations of magic were merely the freshwater springs for that water. They believed that if all magic was sourced from the same place, then everyone should be able to access all abilities. The death toll grew as those who sought to expand their powers quickly learned a difficult truth: powers that did not belong to you drained you of your life. One could not access strange or unnatural magics without sacrificing themselves. In some ways, the consequence of stolen power was its own method of policing crimes against magic. Attempting magical theft was an errand in assured suicide. Anyone pursuing perversions of magic would perish at the hand of their own greed.
“It’d be a lot easier to read that particular piece of literature if you used a light, boy.”
Tyr jolted, dropping the book. He reached for his sword only to realize how many had crept into the rubble around him while he’d stared at the words.
“Who are you?” He flexed, prepared for battle. He may no longer be a Red, but he was well trained.
The man smiled. “We’re more interested in whoyouare. Perhaps if you let us know why you’ve spent the last several months researching blood magic, we might see if we can help one another.”
“I’m a…” Tyr eyed the group and knew he would not fight his way out of here. They weren’t dressed like thugs—this wasn’t the thieves who mugged or the robbers who loitered along the roads for those weak in guard or spirit. They were lithe, armed, and would have been rather intimidating to a man with any normal sense for fear. They didn’t seem like they had ill intentions. They watched him curiously as he assessed the group. “I was a Red.”
A woman spoke up. “So were half of us.”
He breathed out slowly. “I was a Red because I need access to something. For…personal reasons.”
The leader made an understanding face. “Revenge drives more of us than you’d think, kid.”
As an orange flame illuminated the broken, fallen stones and the people around him, Tyr identified the face that held the torch. He’d seen the face before in the sketches and drawings of wanted men. Anwir had been excommunicated from the church more than six hundred years prior. Tyr recognized him from the bounty on his head and the blasphemies he was said to have spread. He hadn’t known the man still lived, let alone that he’d remained in Sulgrave. This man had spent centuries in the darkest corners building his empire of shadow and ruin.
“Blood magic?” Tyr asked. His voice sounded so hollow as it bounced off of the crumbling rocks. He did his best to count the party before him, but knew he was terribly outnumbered. How many had left the church and fled the law only to have found one another?
Anwir strode toward him. His voice remained cool as he plucked the book from Tyr’s hands. “There’s no use playing coy. We’ve been following you for some time. Besides, this book won’t teach you anything that we can’t tell you firsthand.”
“Mysteries of the Heart?” the woman asked, guessing the title.
Anwir grunted his confirmation. “Reds borrow against their blood,” he said to Tyr. “Half of them die in the process. Legend has it that some fae can use stolen powers without risking their lives for new abilities.”
“They use someone else’s heart,” Tyr finished for him. “That’s about as far as I made it in the book.”
“Then you’ve made it far enough,” Anwir replied. “We’ve spilled enough blood to learn whatnotto do.”
“You’ve done what?” Tyr worked to control his expression.
“He’s saying: a few corpses are missing an organ or two,” the woman said. “We’ve taken them from the dead. We’vecut them out of the guilty and innocent alike. We’ve even stuck our hands into still-beating chests. None of it works.”
“Well, someone’s figured it out,” Tyr muttered.
Anwir’s fingers tightened against the book. “What makes you say that?”
Tyr opted for the truth. He couldn’t explain why, except that some secrets felt better when they weren’t clutched to one’s chest. He offered honesty, or a version of it. He didn’t speak of Svea or her death. Instead, he told them he’d been posted on the western banks when he’d witnessed a fae take a life and then walk into the arctic waters. He’d been pursuing understanding of the incident ever since.
Mutters rippled through the group. Anwir asked, “What did she look like?”
The others muttered among one another briefly, knowing precisely of whom he spoke. That was the night Tyr learned her name.
Dwyn had traveled with the Blood Pact for a time but had quickly set out on her own. She was uncovering terrible truths and unlocking coveted powers more quickly than any of them had ever hoped to achieve. She’d left in the night, evading the Comtes, the church, the law, and the Blood Pact at once. She’d learned how to convert life into power, using the conduits of other souls so that her own blood remained unharmed.
It turned out they did want the same thing, though perhaps not for the same reasons.
Anwir wanted to wield blood magic without hurting himself, unlike the Reds, who sacrificed their lives for the sake of borrowed powers. Dwyn was the answer.
Joining the band of heretics had been more solemn and painful than his dedications to the church.
Tyr was branded with dark, elaborate ink—marked to set himself apart from society. His tattoo bound him to the Blood Pact as he renounced the church and the laws of Sulgrave. He belonged to the shadows. He belonged to strength. Hebelonged to power. They were not the Reds who found themselves guided by the will of the All Mother. They were not the morally pure who had candles lit in their honor or were met with the smiles and gentle blessings of the goddess. They were nothing like the white knights or proud guards.
They were the dark things seeking answers to questions that one shouldn’t ask.
Tyr belonged to the space between things.
