“Rise and heat!”
And then, like the magic itself has surrendered, the mangled tree and its surroundings stop changing on a dime. The complex manipulation promptly shatters like a mirror, and tiny shards of the charred black trunk scatter across the sky like broken black glass. The shards whip into a dizzying dust so blinding that it takes me a near minute to realize that the magic swallowed Mark and Peter, and surrendered them right along with it.
“Oh my Lord,” I utter, before I can stop myself.
I look at Grace, but she’s already searching the crowd for Gunn, for his reaction. The entire crowd of sorcerers shifts, mumbles, gasps—surely this was a mistake—
“Arrogance,” Gunn says simply, quieting us. No shock or surprise, no remorse in his voice. “Arrogance is the root of all downfall. Arrogance prevents us from working together.”
Wait. Gunn was . . . Gunn was expecting this. Hell, Gunn orchestrated this. Let two sorcerers blow each other up, so that he could prove his point? Grace exchanges a loaded glance with me, mouths, “Holy hell,” as Gunn’s words from last night outside our cabin float out of the dark of my mind: I can’t guarantee you’ll come home the same way you left.
Because I might come back in a body bag. Because I might not come back at all.
I look around at the other sorcerers, the crowd of thirteen of us left. If Gunn is looking for seven, what Grace called the key to stronger magic, does that mean that six of us are expendable? That’s little more than a fifty-fifty chance of surviving.
You’re finished, a small voice whispers inside me. I close my eyes, imagine squashing the doubt, just like I’m killing a bug. I don’t have the privilege of being scared. Not with what I’ve done. Not with who’s depending on me—
“Now for the second part of my demonstration.” Gunn shatters my thoughts. He waves forward the sorcerer who had just brewed his shine at the altar moments before. “Billy, if you can come forward again. And I’ll need another volunteer.” When no one moves, hell, no one breathes, Gunn adds, “A volunteer of a different sort.”
It takes a while before another sorcerer’s brave (or suicidal) enough to step forward. A man sidles up to Billy, nods at Gunn. He’s a short, stouter fella, maybe midtwenties I’d guess just by eyeing him up. “Ral Morgan. From Birdseye, Indiana.”
“Thank you Ral, and Billy, for this point of comparison.” Gunn ushers them into the clearing-turned-performance stage, and then takes his place in front of our crowd. “Now, instead of showing me the strongest sorcerer, show me the strongest magic.”
Ral and Billy glance at each other warily. Neither one wants to take a misstep after what we just saw go down.
“It’s hard to fathom that they aren’t the same thing, considering how, over centuries, our country has turned magic into a solo endeavor, into the guarded, singular work of a powerful sorcerer.” Gunn takes his fedora off and wipes his forehead. “But I’m going to free you from all your preconceived notions.”
As if providing incentive, Gunn folds his suit jacket back from his narrow waist. Even from here, I can see the glint of the sun reflect off a long silver pistol poking out from his holster. “Don’t think of your magic as a weapon, but as a tool. Build a world together—how big, how much, up to you. But two craftsmen should be able to accomplish far more together than alone.”
Both Billy and Ral cast their eyes to the grass. I don’t blame them. Never in all my life do I remember Jed and Mama casting spells or attempting to perform together, and they were living under the same roof, tied by fate and family. Two strangers, standing in front of a crowd of competition, can’t be feeling all that connected.
Gunn pulls his pistol out of his holster. “Shall I find two other volunteers?”
And then, like a reflex, Ral puts his hands forward, like he’s pressing against an invisible door. He whispers words of power that I can’t quite hear, and once again a tree begins to take root in front of us, a similar one to the one Mark had manipulated only moments before—a huge oak, with a thick, sturdy trunk erupting from the ground, writhing into strong limbs, branches dotted with robust leaves.