Small Magics (14 page)

The idea was outrageous, or would have been if Thomas hadn’t felt what happened when the bishop’s voice changed. Thomas shook his head. No one could control a person with their voice. It wasn’t possible.

And Timothy’s ball of light is?

He remembered the way the bishop’s voice had practically pulled Timothy forward, moving him like a marionette. The thought made him shudder. The Church of the High Father had stood solidly against magic for years. For the bishop to use it would go against everything the bishop claimed to believe.

Of course, he might not care.

The woods parted and Thomas found himself at the edge of his yard. The house was dark. All the servants were at the Fire, Thomas realized. They probably wouldn’t be back until the next afternoon. He jumped the low stone wall and made his way across the yard. Exhaustion was taking over, threatening to make him collapse before he even got inside. He promised his body that it could rest if it would just make it to the family prayer room.

He looked to the road and found it empty. There was no sign of anyone arriving, no sound of horses. Relief swept through him. He rounded the corner of the house, heading for the back door.

The fist came out of nowhere, crashing into the center of his face and breaking his nose. Thomas went sprawling to the ground. Strong hands grabbed his arms and hair and pulled him to his feet. The fist came again, and another joined it, crashing into his face again and again. He tried to protect himself, but the hands had pinned his arms behind him. The fists switched targets, coming out of the darkness to strike at ribs, at stomach. Blow after blow landed, taking the wind from his lungs.

Everything stopped. Thomas shook his head, tried to see who it was.

The blurred shape holding his left arm spoke, “Think he’s had enough?”

“Not yet,” said someone in front of him.

A booted foot slammed into Thomas’s groin. He nearly collapsed, retching, but the hands held him upright, and another foot, this one from behind, kicked his legs apart. The boot came a second time, harder than the first. He collapsed again, and this time the hands let him fall.

“Now he’s had enough.”

Hands grabbed his legs and started dragging him, face down. Thomas wished he could pass out, but each bump he hit sent a new shock of pain through him, keeping him awake. He wanted to resist, but he could barely move. The men, whoever they were, dragged him up the back stairs of the house and into the hallway. He got caught on the door-frame and they brutally hauled him loose. That nearly did him in. The rest of the ride was a smooth pull down the hallway and through one more door which he didn’t, thankfully, get caught on. They forced him to a sitting position, and shoved his back against a wall.

“Here he is, your Grace,” the first voice said. “Just as you wanted him.”

“Thank you. I think his father and I will be able to take it from here. Why don’t you attend to that other business that needs resolving?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“I will join you once I have finished here,” said the bishop. “Afterwards, leave the town. We will meet you on the road.”

“As your Grace wishes.”

Heavy boots tramped out of the room.

A hand grasped Thomas’s chin; forced his face upwards. “Well, young man, it seems we beat you home.”

Thomas tried to make his mouth move, but could not.

“In the future, I suggest you remember that horses on roads are generally faster than shortcuts.”

Thomas tried once more to answer but no words came, only blood, drooling from where his teeth had cut his lips.

The hand released his chin. “He seems in need of stimulation.”

A blast of cold water hit him hard in the face. His eyes snapped open with shock and everything came into hard focus. The bishop was standing over him, victory and amusement playing across his face. John Flarety was behind him, dipping a small pot into a large bucket. Thomas tried once more to make his mouth work, but didn’t manage it before a second pot full smashed into his face. The chill of it made Thomas’s head ache. He raised his hand as his father went back for a third pot full. He managed a moan, then words. “Enough. Father, please.”

“Your father is very disappointed in you,” the bishop said. “
Aren’t you, John Flarety?
”

“Disappointed?” John Flarety’s voice raged through the room, making Thomas wince. “Infuriated! Are you aware of the embarrassment you’ve caused me?”

“Father,” Thomas worked hard to find words, to make his aching mouth wrap around them. “I need help, Father.”

“The smith will never talk to me again—”

“Father, they beat me—”

“And only the Four know what sort of lies they’ll be spreading about you and his daughter!”

“Father—”

“Do you know what you’ve done to my reputation?”

“Father!” Every word hurt. Thomas forced them out anyway, making them as clear as he could. “They beat me! Why did you let them beat me?”

“Your father thought you needed a lesson,” said the bishop. “I suggested the means of it.”

“Aye,” John Flarety nodded. “Aye, a lesson.”

The bishop was smiling. There was something cruel and vile and self-righteous in the expression and Thomas would have wiped it off the man’s face, if he could only have stood up.

“Well, boy?” his father demanded. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“Yes,
boy
,” the bishop repeated. “Haven’t you anything?”

Clarity was returning, and with it, a cold anger that didn’t so much dull the pain as direct it. “Aye.” Thomas said, eyes never leaving the bishop. “Get out of this house. Leave my father alone and get out.”

“
THOMAS!
” His father’s hand flashed forward, slapping him hard on the face. Light flashed behind Thomas’s eyes. The world slipped sideways and faded to grey. John Flarety raged, “How dare you speak to him like that?! How dare you?!”

“Father, please.” Thomas shook his head, forcing the grey back. He pushed against the floor with his feet, found the wall with his back and began to stand. “You were proud of me. Proud of what I did at the Academy.”

“This has nothing to do with the Academy!”

“It does!” Half-way up, Thomas’s legs gave out. The collapse hurt more than he thought possible. He kept talking anyway. “Why are you doing this?” He waved a barely-controlled hand in the bishop’s direction. “Why are you listening to him?”

“He is not listening to me,” the bishop intoned piously. “John is listening to the High Father’s law,
aren’t you, John?
”

Even through the haze of his pain Thomas could hear the man’s voice deepen, the sound becoming almost tactile.

“Exactly!” said John Flarety. “I’m following the High Father’s law!”

Thomas swung his head toward the bishop. “You’re making him say that!”

The bishop leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

“I can hear it in your voice! Let him alone!”

The bishop stepped back, considering. John Flarety stood, staring at the bishop like a dog waiting for its master’s voice. The bishop smiled. He held out his ring to John Flarety. “
Go speak to your family. Tell them Thomas will be out in a moment, to apologize for his actions.
”

John kissed the man’s ring and left the room without a look back. The bishop watched him go; watched the door swing closed. With one large hand he reached down, pulled Thomas up to his feet then shoved him hard against the wall. “What do you mean, you can hear it?”

The grey was blotting out Thomas’s world again. He forced it back. “Your voice changes. I can hear your voice change.”

“No one else can, boy.” The bishop let go, and Thomas fell to his hands and knees. He slowly pushed himself upright, kneeling on the hard wood floor. The bishop was at the door, talking to someone just outside. Thomas caught a glimpse of black clothes, heard Randolf say, “Yes, your Grace.”

The bishop closed the door. “I wondered if it would be hereditary.”

Thomas forced himself to focus on the bishop’s face.

“It makes sense, now,” said the bishop. “Why your father sent you away. Why he put you in that Academy.” He paced back and forth across the room. “We have long known that the Academy was a breeding ground for dissent and blasphemy, but this…”

He stopped pacing, and knelt on one knee beside Thomas. “You have a corruption in you. Just as your father did. Just as that juggler does.”

“Timothy?” Thomas’s mouth would have gone dry, save for the blood in it. “What do you want with him?”

“Not me.” The bishop shoved himself back onto his feet. “The High Father.”

There was noise coming from outside the door; voices raised in argument, moving closer.

The bishop was pacing again. His words came out with the same intensity as his sermon on the stage before the Fire. “Just as He delivered your father, just as He will deliver the juggler, the High Father has delivered you to me so that I may take your corruption and turn it to His work.” He stood over Thomas once more. “You seek to embrace the workings of the Banished. You must not. You must give it to me.”

Thomas stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

The bishop grabbed Thomas and once more hauled him to his feet. Thomas flailed out for balance as he was shoved against the wall once, then again, then slapped hard across the face. Thomas’s world spun in place for a while, and when it stopped, the bishop’s hand was on the centre of his chest. “Give it to me.”

Thomas tried to push him away and the bishop leaned closer, his bulk blocking out the light of the candles. The shadows hollowed out his cheeks, turned his fleshy face gaunt. His eyes, sunk deep under their overhanging brow, were glowing deep, blood red.

“It must be given to the High Father’s service.” The bishop’s voice was a sibilant whisper. “
Give it to me! Now!
”

“Give what?” Thomas demanded. “I don’t have anything!”

Madeleine’s voice cut through the air. “I don’t care if the bishop wishes to be alone with him!” she yelled, the sound ringing through the house. “There’s blood on the floor! I want to see my son!”

Randolf made some reply, but Thomas couldn’t make it out. His world had narrowed to the size of the bishop’s face, his awareness locked into the man’s eyes.

A pulling started inside Thomas’s chest.

“
Give it to me,
” the bishop repeated. Thomas looked down. The man’s hand was still pressed against his chest, but it felt as though it was reaching inside.
“Give it to me!”

“Give what?!”

“GIVE IT TO ME!”

The pulling became ripping. Something inside him was being roughly, slowly, torn out. The pain was incredible.

My soul
, Thomas thought, though he had no idea where the idea came from.
He’s taking part of my soul.

His hands rose up to his chest, desperate to hold in whatever it was, but there was nothing to grasp at, only the bishop’s hand, pressed flat against his chest. Bishop Malloy was grinning now, his face twisted into a leer.
“You will give it to me!”
he said,
“NOW!”

Thomas tried pushing against the hand that pinned him to the wall, but couldn’t move it. The ripping grew stronger, agonizing. “
NOW!
”

There was shouting outside the door, and the sound of a scuffle.

“
NOW
!”

Thomas pulled together the last of his strength and attacked.

His fist moved first, arching up in the narrow space between them and catching the bishop on the base of his beaky nose. The man’s head snapped up. Thomas raised his boot and smashed it hard against the bishop’s knee. Something popped and Bishop Malloy screamed. He stumbling back and fell when he tried to put weight on his leg.

Thomas felt his soul snap back into place, the searing pain instantly subsiding to a dull ache. He slid to the ground. The bishop was curled in a ball around his knee, whispering something over and over to himself. Thomas ignored him and started to crawl away.

The door swung open. His mother was standing there, his father and the bishop’s familiar right behind her. Randolf immediately shoved past her and ran to the bishop, kneeling beside his master. Thomas saw his mother’s face go white, then bright, angry red. “What in the name of the Four is going on in here?!”

Madeleine was on her knees before she finished the sentence, drawing Thomas up and cradling him in her arms as best she could. “John! Get bandages! Thomas, can you hear me?”

“Mum?” The word came out broken, like a beaten child pleading for mercy. He was starting to cry, he realized, and could do nothing about it.

“Hurry, John!” She started to rise. “Can you get your feet? We’ll take you to the kitchen.”

“He will be perfectly well here,” the bishop said, the melody of his voice tinged with pain.

“He will not!” There was ice in Madeleine’s voice, cold and hard as the pond in mid-winter. “What did you think you were doing in here?”

“I was redirecting the boy’s education,” The bishop tried to stand and collapsed, crying out. Thomas watched him put his hands on either side of his knee and start whispering again. White light glowed from the bishop’s hands, sinking into his leg.

“Is that what you call it?” Madeleine demanded. She pulled herself to her feet and dragged Thomas up with her. “You beat him near senseless.” She turned on her husband. “How could you let him do this?!”

“You must not allow this, John Flarety.”

As soon as the words left the bishop’s mouth, Thomas knew what was going to happen. For a brief moment, he wished he had the strength to hit his father, hard.

John Flarety’s hands came down on his shoulders and dragged him out of his mother’s grip. “I will not!”

“Your son is tainted,”
said the bishop.
“He must be removed from this house. No matter who wishes it otherwise.”

“And he will be!” John Flarety hauled Thomas out of the room and half-pulled, half-dragged him down the length of hall.

“You let him go!” Madeleine demanded.

“I’ll do no such thing!” John turned on his wife. “I’ll have no one talk so to me in this house, do you hear? I will brain the next one who tries to thwart me!”