Chapter Text
He supposed he could make a living out of this. A life? The prospect of something so depressing made him nauseous. But a living, he supposed.
By now, Qifrey took it for granted that he could fly. Rather than fill up with the thrill of seeing the world from so lofty a height, he wasted this evening journey mulling over the sort of dull, plodding, circuitous thoughts that belonged in the dirt.
He really didn’t mind the strenuous demands of an itinerant lifestyle. He had no routines to sink back into, no persons to write to save Olly and, very occasionally, Beldaruit. No life to come home to. All that he needed he bore on his back, in his knapsack—and even that could use some thinning out. Indeed, if anyone was suited to the role of a traveling witch, it was him.
That he had taken and passed the Fifth Test five years ago now…well, that was simply an excerpt from a long-expired resume. If he let himself dwell on that, the stench of the hopes that had rotted would overwhelm him with disgust.
Qifrey wrinkled his nose. His neck tingled. Perhaps he was nauseous apart from his thoughts. The humble supper that his grateful patrons had lovingly bestowed upon him was not to blame—cornmeal, roasted meat, an apple tart for dessert. He could scarcely imagine a milder menu.
He had spent the past three days up to his waist in cold, rushing water, repairing the family’s sprawling and dangerously derelict system of mills. He had a somewhat infamous reputation for taking on assignments that were perilous or hazardous in nature. If you could stomach his discomfiting presence, you’d be rewarded with work few other witches were willing to undertake.
He might do everyone a favor and accept a job just dangerous enough—just perilous enough—where accidents happened…where no one could be blamed (or blame oneself).
At last, the cottage rose into view. It was obscured by nightfall, but Qifrey had left an enchanted light in an upstairs window. He struggled to focus on its gentle glimmer.
At the cobweb-mottled threshold he kicked off his cramped sylph boots and staggered to the cold hearth, where a cot and several soiled dishes lay in disarray. He knelt there, dragging his hands down his face. He felt as though he really might vomit. With clammy hands, pausing every handful of seconds to abate another sickening wave, he carved a seal into the bottom of a shallow bowl.
The magic stretched the stoneware into the shape of a wastebasket. He left it by his head, which he pressed against the cold stone floor. What had got into him? He rarely felt so ill. He hugged a cushion to his chest and squeezed his eye shut. Perhaps sleep would visit him, have mercy on him…perhaps he’d feel well enough to carry on come morning.
He managed to doze for just under one clock mark. Then he awoke, screaming, in the worst pain of his life.
Olruggio knew immediately that something was wrong. For one thing, the bakery where he always slowly woke up over breakfast was closed. No warning, no sign, nothing—just drawn curtains and a bolted door. He scratched his as-yet-unwashed hair and frowned, more concerned than annoyed.
For another, the newspapers crammed into the nearest floating stand were printed in bold red ink, hot off the magical press—ink thick and viscous, like blood. Red ink was reserved for a handful of serious events: a dead monarch, a natural disaster. Things like that. He squinted at the headline.
Forbidden Magic Devastates Foothills
He was suddenly wide awake.
He ducked back into his apartment for his cloak and hat and hastened through the barren streets, stomach sinking, heart racing. What had happened? Was it over? Had it come through overnight? He hadn’t slept in. He considered nabbing a newspaper but was too worked up to read any details. He’d go straight to his closest source.
He reached the puzzle door in record time, tugging the doorknob that had been crafted for his particular use. Lord Beldaruit was waiting for him in the sitting room. Before Olruggio could bow, Beldaruit took Olruggio’s hand in both of his.
“What happened?” Olruggio asked the Sage, nerves fraying further at the sight of him. He was still in his nightclothes, too, his matted hair tugged back into a careless bun. His eyes were red; he looked as though he hadn’t slept at all.
“Did you see the news?” he asked, voice low and serious.
“Just the headline. I came right over.” Olruggio pulled his hand away. He trapped his thumbs in fists to keep from picking away at the skin. “The foothills, right? Was it close to—”
Beldaruit’s mouth was a strained, thin line. “Not at all far.”
Olruggio stammered, “S-So—was anyone—”
“A small village called Mildra was found suddenly overgrown with briars, every home and shop trapped beneath the tangle,” Beldaruit explained quickly. “In an effort to free the villagers, the Knights began to cut away the briars. But they were alarmed to find them issuing blood.”
“Blood?!”
Beldaruit nodded. “Human blood. They believe that those living in Mildra were not trapped under vines, after all…” He shuddered. “...rather, that they have been transfigured into them.”
Olruggio felt his own blood drain completely from his face. “Wh…why would—”
“Why do the Brimmed Caps carry out any of their heinous work?!” snapped Beldaruit, practically snarling. “There is nothing to understand, Olruggio, beyond their abject evil!”
He was worried. So was Olruggio.
“The Knights need me here,” Beldaruit went on, “but I am desperate to know—”
Olruggio hummed his understanding, finishing in his urgency: “I’ll use your windowway?”
Beldaruit grasped his hand again, briefly, in gratitude. “Please.”
Olruggio knew the path through the mansion to the windowway by heart. He’d already memorized the newer sigil combination that led to the outskirts of Kalhn, too. Many a time he’d climbed through this custom, inlaid portal in pursuit of the one he loved—never sure of who or what was waiting on the other side. As long as there was something.
The dread that made his slippered feet feel like lead, as he lifted them from gilded warmth and dropped them one after the other onto chilly, dispassionate stone, grew from the singular fear that one day he'd find nothing. That he’d be too late. That he’d fling his heart up these endless, callous stairs and into a void, into the fathomless wake of the blighted sea monster, and it’d sink and sink and never hit the bottom.
But there was a light—and him, thank god.
From within his trance Qifrey perceived a presence…yes, the one he knew would come for him so soon.
“Qifrey?…Are you alright?”
So timid—careful—hesitant. As though he tip-toed toward a wild animal. That was wise. Was he alright? He couldn’t see the value in that question. He could think again—could breathe again—a trance was better than before.
Olruggio stepped over piles of filth and wreckage, plainly upset, blatantly full of pity. He stood over the spot where Qifrey lay flat on his back, parallel to the hearth. Arms folded over his chest. Fully clothed. Surely pale as death.
“Are you okay?” Olruggio repeated. Again, Qifrey struggled to comprehend.
Of course not, Olly. Of course not.
“...I think so.” His voice was hoarse.
Olruggio cast about the pathetic, shambolic room. He fixed his fretful gaze on Qifrey’s knapsack.
“...What’s the luggage for?”
“Leftover.” That was true. “From last week.”
“Do…d’you get the paper out here? Did you see…did you know there’s been an incident of forbidden magic?”
Qifrey knew. Not from a newspaper…oh, no. The solitary candle by his feet sputtered weakly, nearing its end. He felt a smirk that didn’t reach his eye.
“Oh yes,” he said softly.
Olruggio seemed loath to discuss the matter. For innumerable reasons, Qifrey was sure…not least of which, the risk he’d be inciting Qifrey to dangerous action with the subject.
“And you’re…you’re alright?”
Qifrey closed his eye. “Please stop asking me that, Olruggio.”
He heard Olruggio’s heart wither a little. Just a tiny, tiny recoiling.
“...Well, I’m relieved,” Olruggio told Qifrey. “That you’re…alright. I’d say you should lay low at the Great Hall for a while—”
Qifrey stirred to protest. Olruggio held up a hand.
“—but I knew how you’d feel about that,” he finished. “So I just…” He seemed aware of the futility of his next words, rubbing his beard, glaring at the floor. “I want…could you let me know that you’re okay?”
Again with this. “...Okay.”
“I mean—” Olruggio actually laughed a little; perhaps at the end of his wits. “More often than usual. If somethin’ happens—or if you—you need me here…” That endearing way his accent turned ‘something’ into ‘sum’un’...it caught in Qifrey’s chest and almost broke through. Ghastly emotions passed through him, vague and half-formed, memories of themselves. Qifrey bristled.
“Don’t worry,” Qifrey said quietly. “I’ll carry on as I would normally.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t go…go chasin’ after ’em?” Olruggio gained a measure of temerity. “You’ll stay put? Let the Knights handle it? You won’t…” He swallowed. “You’re not lying to me?”
Qifrey paused, letting the dead weight of guilt crush him against the stones, relishing it, sighing, masochistic.
“Of course not, old friend.”
It hung in the air between them like a shroud, a decaying veil. The hopeful Olruggio, peering through the yellowed lace, irrationally searching for a trace of life, of honesty—integrity—promise. Insensible. Corpses kept no vows; they made no promises. They’d already fulfilled them all.
Olruggio waited a long time himself before speaking again.
“D’you need food or anything? Water?”
“No thank you, Olly.” Qifrey turned his face to the hearth, obscuring his good eye, and used the phrase he knew would put paid to it: “I’m alright.”
And at last, Olruggio sighed and turned and shuffled out of Qifrey’s crypt of a living room. The living couldn’t stay long.
Not the dying, either.
Qifrey waited until the candle at his feet expired. Then he rose, slowly, insect-like, unfolding limbs and wings and bones. Slowly, to allay his spinning head. He slung his pack over his shoulder, kicked aside his mess, and followed the lingering scent of the one who loved him through the cottage, down the spiraling stairs to the windowway that yet whirred with residual magic. He wrapped his fingers around the knobs, wrenching them firmly, regretting every wretched thing and absolutely nothing.
His first stop was the Tower of Tomes.