The Black Mage: Candidate (27 page)

Where is he?
The pellets were nasty little things, but they were hardly the attack I would expect.
It has to be a distraction
.

There. A flash of light across the way. I couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t take much to guess: Darren.

I released my casting—not wanting to waste any more magic now that I knew he was far enough away—and then started toward the stadium wall.

My boot caught on a pellet in the sand and I tripped—

Shhhhlap!

The biting sting of metal slicing through flesh caught the top of my right shoulder in a searing cut. The dagger had only narrowly missed my back because I had stumbled forward at just the right moment.

It was a trap.
I didn’t have a chance to bandage the wound as I threw up my globe, blood streaming down my vest like little rivulets of red.

Darren was behind me. The light had been a trick.

The hailstones vanished and the rain returned, and I spun around just in time to see Darren charging my shield—a mace and chain in hand.

Then he leapt.

The spiked iron ball battered the barrier, and my heart slammed against my ribs.

He did it again.
And again.
Violet veins streaked down the surface of my casting and I stood there, holding my breath. The purple was fading with each subsequent attack.

Darren was going to shatter my defense.

I needed to find a way to counter his attack before it did, or the match would be over before it had truly begun.

An offense was a mistake; I was too close, and I would be the one caught off-guard when the barrier lifted. I needed to put some distance between us.

I hadn’t wanted to expel this much magic right off the start. But I should have realized with Darren I didn’t have a choice. They called him the prodigy for a reason and this wasn’t a game.

This was what I had trained for. All those years of pushing myself to the brink. Neglecting friendships for a glimpse of power. This was
it
.

Holding onto my shield I dug deep into myself. Calling up two powerful castings at once was something I could never have attempted during that first year at the Academy, or even successfully as an apprentice.

Just beyond my shield the ground erupted in a quavering tremor and the earth trembled and heaved. A giant fissure spilled out right under the non-heir’s feet.

Darren’s eyes shot to mine in surprise as he staggered and fell. The mace and chain vanished before it could hit his chest.

Couldn’t do that last year, could I?

I dropped my shield and sent him sprawling back with another raw burst of power. I’d been tempted to use lightning, but the casting was too risky in an arena filled with flying water and sand.

That
bought me just enough time to tear up a quick makeshift bandage and tie it around the pit of my arm to the neck to stop the worst of my shoulder’s cut. Then the prince was recovered, sprinting back with a dexterity that bespoke years of our iron-willed masters’ training.

I cast a broadsword in one hand and waited.

His blade met mine with a resounding smack. I sucked in a breath as my shoulder throbbed from the hit.

Back and forth. Up and down. Cuts every which way were met with a parry of his own. I swiped up and to the right, Darren’s blade swung down at my left.

I spun to the side just in time to avoid a slash to my ribs.

The two of us were circling in the sand, studying the other for a break in defense. His pupils were so wide his eyes were almost black—sweat and rain were stinging as my own locked on his.

Darren brought his sword down on mine—

I pulled away and countered with a sharp cut of my own. He danced to the side, the corner of his lip twitching up, dark locks plastered to his face. Thunder rumbled across the expanse and Darren lunged, bringing his weapon down on mine with all of his weight.

I fought to hold my guard. My whole body wavered viciously with the effort to match his pressure, my shoulder screaming against the weight as he bore down on my blade. I needed to do something as I shook, but it was costing all my magic just to hold on with my casting.

Every second it was getting harder and harder and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could—

And then lightning streaked across the sky.

I shoved and his sword gave tilt, the flat end catching just the right angle… Stark rays of light shot across the blade.

Darren fell back, temporarily blinded.

But not before the edge of my sword caught his side.

And then his magic shot out like a snake. It threw me ten feet back, sprawling in the sand. My sword vanished upon impact.

I scrambled to my feet, one hand outstretched, as another bolt shot across the gap. My magic gave chase and for a moment our powers were matched—a brilliant misty blue ray in the shadows of the arena.

Then he started forward, one hand clutching the wound at his side, and my casting started to flare in and out, slowly receding with each step the non-heir took. I could feel raw power pulsating the air, and from the way my limbs were quivering I had only moments to spare before my magic ran out.

I broke off my casting and dove, my left palm slapping against the ground with a sickening crunch. A tearful cry escaped my lips, and I mourned the awkward way I fell, hating myself for not remembering my training in the heat of the moment.

I pushed off with my right hand, white-hot agony eating my shoulder as I rose.

And then screamed as an arrow lodged deep into my boot, its head digging into the side of my foot. My hasty globe rose just in time as another three arrows hit.
Darren isn’t holding back
. I yanked the shaft out—knowing full well I wouldn’t be able to run with it still in. The next second the arrow and the prince’s crossbow vanished, and an axe appeared in each hand.

His favorite weapon.

Gods, no.

I didn’t have time to bandage my foot; Darren was charging forward and in seconds hacking at my globe, his strong shoulders glinting underneath the fading purple defense.

I couldn’t counter those with a sword. And my left hand was broken—my right shoulder all but aching at the slightest effort.

Time for pain casting.

I still had enough regular magic in reserve to produce a dagger in hand and pressed down against my left palm, blood trickling into the sand—the shoulder injury too far back to manage.

My sphere turned to ice and when his blades came crashing down, it shattered. Thousands of tiny razor-sharp shards shot out against the prince’s exposed skin—tearing bloody trails down his arms, his chest, and his face.

Darren’s axes faltered and my casted polearm came down without hesitation. The sickle blade made a terrible screech as it slid against the non-heir’s globe.

I attacked. Again and again, high and low swoops as hard as my shoulder could manage—I could see Darren’s defense losing color with every slash until it broke—

But as I lunged forward my own casting vanished, and I jerked to a stop, tottering. I needed the knife.

But nothing came.

The beauty of pain casting in real battle? A mage kept a knife on him at all times
for just that purpose
. In the Candidacy? There were no real weapons. We—
I
—had none.

Across the way I saw Darren’s eyes flare up in understanding. His hand raised to cast—

But nothing came.

Like me, the prince had expelled all his regular magic.

Somehow, I had always known it would come to this.

Unlike me, Darren thought of a solution faster. I had just the barest moment to register his decision before the prince’s fingers dug into the wound at his side.

Three daggers came at me at once.

“Surrender, Ryiah!”

They were almost here.

“No!” A nervous sweat broke as I clawed at my palm, sandy nails scraping against skin—the sensation of hot blood along the pads of my fingers almost enough to make me retch.

I was not fast enough.

Rain fell on the arena like sleets. Thunder roiled across an angry belly of shadow while stark flashes of yellow illuminated the arena.

I went down with a dagger square to the chest.

My giant burst of magic—it only swayed the last two.

“Ryiah!”
Darren staggered forward and then stumbled as the sand roared up and caved beneath his boots. The last of my magic.

Two mages. Only one will win.

I was choking on air. Black,
black
air that I could no longer see. Everything was a shape.

Hot iron coated my lips, metallic and bitter. I clutched the blade, disbelief and fear taking hold of my thoughts. There was a strange ache building in the back of my throat, my stomach, my lungs. Like someone was pressing my chest against the flames of a fire. I screamed and I clawed, blood spraying from my mouth as I struggled to free myself from the pain.

Salty tears trailed down my frozen cheeks as strange hands fought to hold the fire in place. Raging, wild tremors took control of my limbs. Something was shredding me out from the inside. An anguish took over and every breath was like a thousand hot knives stabbing into me at once.

Hot air pressed against my ear, a familiar voice that begged for me to stay still. I whimpered and cried, nonsensical pleas as the pressure remained and the terrible darkness took over my world.

“You w-will be…” Someone else was breaking, too. Sobbing as the words became splintered and hoarse. The knives, I realized, they were killing him too. We would die together.

“The healers a-are almost here,” he begged.

Pain ripped away at my flesh, and my scream was the last thing I heard.

Chapter Fourteen

When I woke up his red-rimmed eyes were the first ones I saw. There were heavy shadows under their lids, and his skin was so pale he could have been a ghost. His hands were gripping the rail of my cot, heavy tension radiating off the white of his fists.

Dried blood coated his chest and arms, and there were several bruises mottling his ribs. He looked like death.

I sucked in a sharp breath. We were in the infirmary.

A great ball of fire was climbing up my lungs.

A lump in Darren’s throat rapidly rose and fell when he noticed I was awake. “Ryiah!” he choked out my name, and I swear I heard him break.

I opened my mouth and closed it as hundreds of raging needles stabbed at my ribs. A healer’s palm shot out to cover it anyway.

“You shouldn’t talk,” the woman apologized. “It’s only been a couple of hours since your match. Now that the prince knows you are awake—the both of you need to rest. Especially you, my lady. Your injuries were… grave.” She glanced away quickly. “The Victors’ Ceremony takes place tomorrow and—”

He won.
The words snapped out like a whip.

“I-I’m so sorry.” His voice was hoarse. “I never—I lost control, I—”

The dagger. My chest. The flames eating me alive. They were his.

Darren won the Candidacy.

“—Expected to partake, regardless of your condition—”

“Please forgive me.”

“—The Crown has ordered no visitors to expedite the healings, but it will take all of our staff and a heavy night’s rest just to have you walking around for the event.” The mage leaned down to apply a salve to my skin, motioning for one of the others to come forward.

I lay mutely as the healers set forth to mend my maladies, crying out as bones shifted and scraped deep inside.

Darren’s fingers reached out to brush my cheek, and I shut my eyes. His hand was trembling so violently the bed rattled.

The pain was terrible … but I wasn’t angry at him.

I was angry at myself.

****

A hot wash of envy threw up waves in the pit of my stomach, and I took a deep, rattling breath.

I was good.
But I wasn’t great.

Twelve hours of sleep; it made not the slightest difference. Sure, I felt less pain than before, but physical agony had little to do with the turbulence of emotions inside.

I had beat out every single mage in my rank. By all accounts I should have been happy. I had achieved what most people only dreamed. And if I hadn’t achieved
the
dream, at least it went to the boy I loved. An adversary I could respect.

But I was a terrible person, and jealousy was a bitter seed. None of it mattered. All of those years telling myself one day I would be better… they were for nothing. Darren was the best, and he always would be. His pain casting had over-powered my own. His potential was the greatest.

Stop moping like a pitiful child.

I raised a hand and swiped at the corner of my eye.

“Ryiah?” Darren was still broken. All night long he had refused to leave that chair; I’d woken several times to see a mess of black locks against the side of my mattress. Now he was afraid to touch me—I could see it in the way he would reach out and then pull away, like I was made of glass.

He couldn’t forgive himself.

The both of us were our own worst enemies.

“I’m fine.” I swallowed. “Darren, what happened… it wasn’t your fault.”

“I lost control.” His voice was hoarse and bitter. “I’ve never lost control, Ryiah. I could have killed you.”

“And I could have killed Hadrian during the melee.” It was killing me now just to utter the reassurance. I wanted to hole up in a wall and scream until my lungs were hoarse. “We chose Combat. We knew the risks. You offered me a chance to surrender, and I refused.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

His eyes shot to mine, and the garnet cut at my lungs.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

I made myself breathe. “Please don’t apologize.” It only made me feel worse about myself.

“Would you like me to leave?”

I stayed quiet.

The prince slowly gathered his belongings and motioned for his guard Henry to follow. As he was exiting the infirmary he turned back to look at me. The self-hatred was written across his face.