To Catch A Sorcerer

'I'll just clear out the survivors here,' said Gray, edging forward, and forcing Conor to step back. Back. Back, back. 'And take the princess. OK? This place is about to collapse.'

Conor backed against a fallen support beam. He tilted his head back, his eyes half lidded. His breath was ragged - just like Branbright's had been, back in the tavern - and Gray knew Conor had pushed himself hard. Gray realised Conor was probably going into a ryece just as their eyes met, and Gray could see the realisation hitting Conor at the same time.

Conor's eyebrows shifted. He let out a muttered, foreign curse. There was the slightest tic again, as he blinked.

'I'll clear them out and go.' Gray kept his voice low.

'No,' said Conor.

'Fuck that,' said Sorena. 'I'm going to fucking kill him.'

Gods.

'No one's going to kill anyone,' said Gray. He glanced back at Sorena. She was deadly pale. Her eyes narrowed, bloodshot. Unfocused. She was closer to passing out than being any use in a fight.

'Your morals,' snarled Sorena, her hand on the small of Gray's back, 'are a problem. Look around you. Look at what he's done. Move aside.'

Behind Sorena, Jessica was slumped against the far wall, her hand on Killian's thigh. Still. Pale. Her eyes open a slit. There was movement behind them. Alive. Maybe waiting for the chance to attack. Maybe in need of help.

The walls of the palace groaned.

'Let me clear them out. Then I'll leave.' Gray hesitated. 'I'll hide. OK? It's what you want?'

Conor's chest was heaving.

'Only you go,' said Conor. 'It's all I can give you.'

'Move aside, Gray,' snarled Sorena.

Gray glanced back at Sorena again. She didn't have a wand. Only a fallen soldier's bloodied sword. Her voice was hoarse and low.

'I.' Gray didn't take in the room. The wreck of people. Who was fallen. He was blind, his mind whirring. He couldn't believe what he was going to say. Going to do. If he had to.

'It's the only way I'm going to leave,' said Gray, looking Conor straight in the eye. 'Let me clear everyone out.'

Sorena's hand was on the small of Gray's back again. The pressure was increasing. Sorena was using Gray as a shield, to edge closer.

And Conor clocked it. 'Stop.'

Gray dug his heels in, refusing to let Sorena edge him further forward.

Frustration flickered over Conor's pale face. 'My master is coming. He's not going to be pleased I'm delaying this long. Go.'

Silence settled over the room.

'You,' said Gray, carefully, so carefully, 'you've already done a lot of what Wilde's asked, and you've done it really skillfully.'

Conor watched him through narrowed eyes. Sweat ran down his trembling jaw.

'I think,' said Gray, lowering his voice. Wishing they were alone. That Sorena would lift her hand off his back and damn well run. They needed to be in Krydon. 'I think now it's time to do what you want. And I don't think you want to hurt anyone. I think you don't care about any vault.'

Conor frowned at him. Muttered another foreign curse. 'Go. I'll answer for it.'

Gray remained rigid.

'Go. Last chance.'

'I,' said Gray.

Carefully, Gray extended a hand, palm up.

'I'll go,' said Gray. 'But you go with me.'

Conor's exhausted face was rigid. The air surrounding him was getting brittle.

'Let's go,' said Gray.

Conor pressed his lips together as he fought to keep his face controlled. Shook his head. And raised his fingers.

—

Conor was fast.

But, Gray was faster.

He flung himself and Sorena out of the way as Conor's white-hot streak of magic flew past them.

He'd seen the sort of magic Conor was capable of, and this little white-hot burst through the air was a warning shot, a clapped hand to scare off a fox from a garden.

Gray shoved Sorena, back, away. Hard. Hard enough for her to stumble back through the ruined office. Gray'd expected a fight from her. He'd expected her to throw attempted wandless curses. Or her to throw the sword, as Baldwin had done at Lunn.

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She staggered and landed hard, dropping the sword with a clatter, right near Killian, near Jessica, bowing low over her knees.

Gray wasn't aware of making the decision to pull out his wand from his pocket, and he glanced down, surprised, to see Ryan Griffin's wand clasped neatly in his fingers.

His feral, surging magic jolted for it, a wild horse bolting immediately for an open gate. Stinging hot magic whipped down the wand, and sliced the air. It was a dart of light, almost too fast to track.

Conor jerked to the side, but not quite quickly enough. It nicked the edge of his shoulder.

Conor stood for one eternal, silent second. He examined the nick on his shoulder. Raised his eyebrows at Gray. Blood bloomed, soaking into his sleeve.

Time stood still.

'That,' said Gray, 'that was an accident. I'm sorry.'

Gray lowered the wand slightly, away from Conor's upper body, though he maintained a tight grip.

Conor heaved himself upright. Steeled his shoulders. 'I see why you're wearing a dragon's vest. You have zero mastery-'

Gray's magic jolted for the wand again. This time it hit Conor squarely on his right foot. It singed through the fur and leather of his boot.

There was a hissed foreign word, and then, with a rapid sweep of Conor's hand, Gray was slammed back against the far wall. Gray fell, crumpled against the floor, amongst the debris, his vision tunnelling. His magic surged for the wand a third time, and Gray could feel it was going to be big.

What had previously been a jolt of white energy flying out of the wand, a spark, now was closer to something like a bolt of lightning.

Deafeningly loud.

It was so strong that Gray was blasted back against the wall again, his breath punched out of his lungs. His ears rang.

Conor had deflected the attack with a shouted word, and he was standing with his hand outstretched, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat dripping down his temple. His hand shook.

A soldier was shifting beside Gray. Trying to heave himself up.

Conor's teeth were gritted. 'You put that damn thing down.'

Staggering to his feet, there was another wild surge of magic through the wand. Gray'd been pointing - somewhat - cautiously at the floor, but it still split apart the carpet, the floor, the beams and support underneath, the ceiling to the room below.

It didn't hit anyone, but it did send Gray skidding painfully over a fallen table.

'Prepare,' a woman yelled - Jessica, Jessica was yelling, she was alive - hoarse, alarmed, voice breaking, 'Prepare to evacuate. Every man for himself.'

Trembling ran up the fibres of Gray's nerves. He was on the verge of flinging the damn wand away, just as Conor muttered a string of words and turned both hands towards Jessica.

It didn't matter that Gray was still stumbling to right himself, that his blood was pounding, his ears were ringing. Nor did it matter that his magic was rolling, roiling, a storm of out-of-control waves pounding against the barrier of the dragon-scale vest, and bursting to get out of the one avenue available - the wand.

Gray knew the word he needed to say.

He'd take away Wilde's best weapon. He'd take Conor away, away from Wilde, away from the Augustes, damn away. He was so close. Conor was running on empty. Spent. On the verge of a ryece. Reluctant to properly fight Gray.

'Sgild,' Gray yelled.

Shield.

The strength of magic rushing through the wand was enough to knock Gray back again.

He didn't get to see if it worked. If Jessica and Conor were OK. He was blinded, buried, under a crashing ceiling. Plaster and debris rained down. Gray covered his head, he was in a protected pocket. The runes were protecting him. He kicked aside a sheet of plaster. Thrust away a heavy support beam.

Conor sat, thrown, stunned, legs splayed, against the shambles of what had once been the alchemy bench. He glared at Gray, through dark, sweat-damp strands of hair. He moved his fingers.

Gray reacted. He wanted to reach for the powders on his belt. He had a plan, a mad plan, but he couldn't get to his belt fast enough, he only had time to say, 'Sgild.'

Again, Gray was thrown back with the force of the recoil. He hit the far wall hard. Splinters dragged through his clothes. He must've blacked out, just for a second, because, the next thing he was getting hauled up by a trembling, furiously pale Conor.

'Give me that.' Conor yanked at the wand. 'I had no idea you were such a little idiot.'

But, Conor had no strength, and Gray's hand was clasped around the wand like it was a lifeline, and suddenly, for one wild beat, they were in a furious tug-o-war.

Jessica threw a dagger at Conor's back. With deadly acuracy.

'Sgild,' shouted Gray, because gods, they weren't going to kill Conor, they needed to damn well help him, and he was going to get a protective shield inbetween Conor and that dagger-

Except the wand was pointing at the floor.

Gray and Conor launched up, hard. Against the ruined remains of the ceiling. The dagger whistled harmlessly past below them, and they landed back down with brutal force against the floor. They landed hard, and the floor was so damaged. It was splitting open.

They fell through. The crash was deafening. Ruins rained down around them.

There was no time for Gray's vision to clear.

No time to check if he was still falling, if the ceiling was still caving in, if Conor was OK.

He was pulling pouches from his belt. Fast. The powders. The potions.

Powdered star pebble, thrown glittering, into the air, and hanging there, floating. Gray threw the fierilion weed essence, and turned away, covering his eyes as they collided mid-air with the star pebble. He screwed his eyes shut, so tight, before the oncoming cataclysmic burst of light wouldn't - hopefully - blind him.

Light hit like a physical force.

With the power of an exploding star.

Air was sucked away. The world was burning white.

Gray blindly crawled, groping, feeling his way to Conor, his eyes screwed shut, his eyes streaming, his skin, his lungs on fire. Because he was going to get Conor, and he was going to hold tight, then he was going to activate the fahrenning amulet around his neck, he was going to get them damn well out of there. He'd get some distance, try to get Conor to see, while everyone was still blinded by the burst of light. Then he'd figure out how to go north, fast. It wouldn't last long, he had to do this quick-

He crashed into Conor.

Conor was damp, shaking, and fever-hot. There was a hardness to his form that told Gray he was curled in on himself, hunched.

Before Gray could grab his amulet and mutter the words, Conor was in his head-

Aunt Cori, dearest Aunt Cori, beautiful, funny, kind Aunt Cori, Aunt Cori who would swing Gray up onto her hip and turn him around, dancing, dancing, dancing, to uncles' horns and flutes-

There was no slippery skill as Conor dragged this memory up in Gray, no frustrated slamming. This was a shuddering accident, a clasping for control, and failing.

Aunt Cori finding Gray's lost teddy. 'Let me teach you the spell to find lost loved ones, sweet nephew, because your teddy is very much loved, and should never be lost again.'

Conor playing with Alistair and Finnley, thick as thieves, and they would let Gray join sometimes, they would let him win the footraces, telling Gray he must've had such fast shoes, and Gray would trail behind them everywhere, everywhere, tugging at their sleeves, trying to get a look in edge-wise, wanting to be just like them-

Conor shoved Gray.

Again. Shoved him away hard.

Clumsily. Urgently.

Blindly.

'My master is coming,' Conor hissed. 'He - he will use you and kill you. Hide, little brother.'

Gray grabbed Conor's hand, not listening, not listening at all, because he needed to speak. He just needed to hold the fahrenning amulet and say the words ic fahren ta seo.