Bonemaker

Chapter Three, Part One

3

He came back to the room in the morning, face flushed, tunic filthy. He was grinning ear to ear.

"Morda!" Mors shrieked. He could tell from the coffee by her elbow and the rings under her eyes that she had been up all night.

"Oh, Morda," she said. "Thank the gods. I thought something terrible had happened out there--walking in the woods alone, you know, they tell us it isn't safe--"

"I know," Morda said, hugging her. "They lied. They lied about a lot of things, Mors. You're not going to believe it." He tapped the iron cap of his stick against the stone floor excitedly. "I figured it out, Mors. I solved the problem. And it was so simple--so laughably simple--the things I can do--"

He sat down on his bed, brushing a paper-wrapped package off with little notice. The simple coverlet, exposed to the filth of him, immediately took on a coating of dark dust.

"Look," he whispered. "Mors. Look."

She looked. The three remaining iron caps from his bedposts were twirling, lazily, around her seated brother. He grinned, flicked a finger. Without even getting visibly hot, the three caps strung themselves out like taffy.

"Oh," Mors said, making an effort to close her jaw. "Gods. You didn't--how did you do it? You didn't even say anything. You barely moved."

"It happens in silence," Morda said. His eyes flicked upward--the metal strands spun themselves into an elaborate crown, strand upon strand of silver wire. The crown floated over, settled on her hair. "It happens inside me. And that was the problem, Mors--all the chanting, the gesturing, it was just distracting me from what I could feel was there already. All I had to do was ask it. All I had to do was wish."

Mors touched the crown with two fingers, hesitant. "The Masters would say it was impossible," she whispered. "No one's performed even the higher charms without vocalization in centuries. But to do a True Change--Kolpen, for instance, or Androsinne--"

The crown turned to wood, then to glass. At last it achieved a thin coating of frost and fell to the ground, shattering.
"Kolpen," Morda said. "Androsinne. Maura. Topf. "

The shattered pieces of ice rose up, became fluid, boiled a little, turned once more to metal. Morda joined them with a desultory wave and sent them back to the bedposts.

"Krainer," he finished, eyes shining. "The reversion charm, beginning with Kolpen and Androsinne. The charm that you must complete successfully to gain your Master's robes." He looked at Mors for the first time, sighed. "Come on. Why aren't you smiling?"

"I'm happy for you," she said at last. "Believe me, brother. I know how you've wanted this. It's just--the syllables we chant are safeguards, as well as concentration aids. Aren't you worried you'll slip up? Aren't you worried you'll ruin something?"

"I won't," Morda promised. "I can't."

"How can you know that?"

Morda frowned. "Can't you just be happy for me? You should be. This'll make everything come true. It'll be like we always joked about, Mors. We'll be lords and ladies, maybe even kings and queens. You can have your pink throne. Hell--have it here!"

And her simple wooden chair shuddered, folded outward. It grew silver fretwork, ornate swirls, armrests padded in magenta silk.

"No," Mors said. "Brother, please. Stop."

"Why?" He paused mid-conjure, a diaphanous pink silk gown hovering between his hands. "Why should I? This is what I was born to be. This is what I'm supposed to be doing. I can feel it. It's bred inside me. It speaks to me."

"I'm sure it does. I'm happy for you," she repeated. "Really happy. But Morda. What you're doing is unprecedented and probably very dangerous. You need to talk to the Masters about this. That's what they're there for, to guide you and help you."

"To control me," Morda said. "To control me, and limit me, and judge me. I'm a better mage than Otrang. I always knew it. I knew I could be. I'm not some sheep to be led about on a tether wherever they will me to go! No more of the petty fighting with the Weatherworkers, no more nervously spying on the Clockwork Mage. I'm above it now. I can win any battle with the other Clans--any battle. They wouldn't even have the time it takes to cast."

But when he glanced over at his sister, she was staring at him. Their faces were so alike--thin cheeks, hawked noses, dark bright eyes--that it was almost like seeing his own face watching him, disapproval writ large across it.

"Sheep?" Mors asked softly. "Brother. These are not words I've heard you speak before. Who's put this thought into your head?"

"I met a man," Morda said. "Some Clanless mage, out in the wood. Grier, he called himself." He waved a dismissive hand. Mors, tensing, shrank back a little.

"You saw Grier Golossof," she said. "Grier the Griever, they call him in my magepod. He was cast out from here some years ago, for insurrection and disobedience. Morda, please don't listen to him overmuch. He's the reason we aren't supposed to speak to the Clanless."

"It's bunk, whatever you've heard. He was perfectly nice. He helped me."

"They say he's the reason we have runaways. They say...they say he's good at making people do what he wants them to do."

"Bunk," Morda repeated. He made the stylus on her desk rise up, twirl in the air. "What can he make me do? What could he possibly make me do?"

"There are ways," Mors said, "other than magic. You know this, brother. Please, talk to Master Otrang. He's wise, and he's had faith in you...he'll help you."

Morda was about to reply when First Bell rang. It was time for classes.

"Well," Morda said. "Looks like I'll have my chance." He looked at his sister's frowning face. "I'll do it, Mors. If you want me to. Don't worry." He grabbed his walking stick and left, still wearing the same filthy clothes.

Sighing, Mors gathered up her globeset. Almost as an afterthought, she picked up the fallen paper package and placed it back on her brother's bed.